Best Kinsman Poems
The hour matters none ... for the energies have exhausted.
In the year of our Lord ... nineteen hundred and twelve, April fifteenth.
Writes a future living star ... wish their joys so he may shine.
'Tis to be a deliberate endeavor ... they call life.
An unaccountable ledger of sums ... know he the worth of it.
For in that great beyond is an opened book ... ere his youth.
There'd be certain measures that wretched body ... once unmasked.
Natures of a retired validity ... that aloof vainglory.
Tarries an elusive shell ... the semblance of human sorts.
A cub sponged in denizens hound ... the spoils of settled earth.
Masques of the poor scores yon ... and indifference spared them from their kind.
Their pain slices him whole ... in this grand finale of truth.
The role he crawl from under ... frees a den's claimed orphaned cub.
He conformed to their ways ... indulgence begets an awakening.
De-sands a timepiece from Giza ... transforms the silent lamb.
Qualities of Osiris ... no longer foxes kinsman.
Without manipulative truth ... mainly defines reality.
Loss crept e'er so close ... as circumstances affront him now.
The iniquities ... recorded in that hallowed ledger,
He lay claim to its authenticity ... 'twas him who'd inflicted;
upon those who were of wickedness ... and the righteous few.
He included self ... in self-afflictions of great numbers,
wherever the blame may lie ... be it concerning his existence,
thereupon points those sharpened fingers ... deserving of it.
Repentance for his sins ... subjugated through crying eyes.
His life for another ... sans a name or a face in lieu of tears.
They shared the deafening silence ... two muted distinct smiles.
One in tears looked onward ... to a face of blessed assurance.
The last boat edges off into the dark ... desperation arose.
A great clamoring ascends ... into the bitter abyss.
The hymn, "Nearer My God to Thee," ... the chaos stops to song.
Ships officer calls out, ... "Abandon ship, every man for themselves."
Lost lamb hopes his roll's called up yonder ... as his last words read ...
Who cares?
Those were days past
When Africans used to be brothers
When everyone shared when something bothers
When we all united against immorality
When a child belonged to the community
Now everyone on his own
Because none cares
Gone are days of blood brotherhood
When all norms had meaning
When a kinsman never would sleep hungry
When we shared a pot of soup
When we talked openly but gently
Now everyone on his own
Because none cares
I
Esther and Ruth
In God's Truth
The Bibles 66
Women author lacks
But these two
Esther and Ruth
But what Truth
About Savior-Redeemer
II
Boaz, Kinsman-Redeemer
Honored Great Provider
Hebrews left corners
Part harvest behind
As reapers wind
Their way, labor
No one beggar
Bible provided this
Ruth came: blessed
Boaz wed Ruth
Lineage: Obed, Jesse,
David through Jesus
Began with grain
Communion yet again!
Scripture, RUTH 2: 10
"Ruth fell at Boaz feet and thanked him warmly. 'What have I done to deserve such kindness?' she asked. 'I am only a foreigner.'"
Commentary/ Application: in Old Testament the kinsman can redeem a slave by paying if he has a family connection, per Hebrew law & custom. Jesus is the ultimate Kinsman-Redeemer, hallelujah. In USA, the kind acts of so many citizens to foreigners have blessed America again & again. I found kindness in Greece & UK, but USA excels in aiding 'aliens'. God bless America & all of us. Amen & amein
The lights of Bethlehem still burn,
For Ruth’s mother-in-law to return.
Since her unfettered faith, so strong,
Convinced Ruth, with her, to come along.
Facing bravely the consequences of God’s plan,
Ruth, with Naomi, went to the Promised Land.
To live on in Bethlehem was their decision,
Both seeking to receive God’s provision.
God doesn’t stop being God in adversity
Is what Naomi taught Ruth to believe.
So there in Bethlehem, Ruth sought for a man
To help her with the consequences of God’s plan.
And Boaz of Bethlehem, Naomi’s rich kinsman,
Found Ruth to be both charming and winsome.
So he shared with Ruth the bounty of his field,
When he learned her faith, though foreign, was real.
Thus they became one with the grace of God’s will
And with a prophecy of God their duty to fulfill.
Ruth’s faith in Naomi’s God found reinforcement
While lovelorn Naomi was freed of her resentment.
God’s will it was to give Ruth and Boaz a boy,
And for Naomi to restore her spiritual joy.
Awesome is what I heard.
a Kung fu master poet spoken word martial artist nunchuckering his words.
kaRate kicking, chopping, spit splitting nouns, adjectives and verbs.
yo vOice defines its comfort zone, spitting dictionary through the microphone.
a traNsformation of mr dictionary to a vivid pictionary.
a voicEprint crobratically erected ventriloquilizing from the ink.
causes Me to feel and think
the mans Salivary glands spit spoken word poetically totally in super sync.
they have sWollen and begun to secrete
epileptic By like products foaming spoken word with a poetic convulsing beat.
this is realLy forming a mouthful of hot poetic word heat.
wisdom bluetOoth biting, fighting, writing through his pen
presses and kiCkstarts his tongue to send
spoken word the Kinsman of poetry makes an epipoeticplectic wireless connection blend.
Wherefore gazest thee from yon balcony,
O fairest Juliet? Searchest thou for one
that loveth thee 'neath heaven's brazen sun,
that son of Montague—'tis felony!?
Thou lovest him? Ah! but loveth he thee?
'Ere long thy love for him wilt be undone
by poison and—alas!—thou wilt be gone
and we shalt grieve—both Houses!—yea, all we
and Montague! I beg of thee—instead
be mine? For I'm thy kinsman, Capulet!
Be mine! And like that Romeo fore-said,
I'll worship thee as divine; and forget
that thy wayward heart near left me for dead
whilst thou eloped with him, mine Juliet.
I WISH I WEREN’T A SPIDER
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
I wish I weren’t a spider, not even my relatives are a friend
Getting close to another kinsman could bring a lethal end
We're not a glamorous group, we are hairy and scary
We set up snares and spin webs snagging the naive n unwary
If you visit my web I’ll spin you into a tailored silky cocoon
In time I’ll drain you, you’ll end up resembling a sun dried prune
Now I ask you, is that a hygienic way to earn a living
I hide in nooks n crannies, my bites totally unforgiving
Most of the time you’ll get a little fever maybe some pain
But the fright that I cause is so impossible to contain
Now, I’ve got kin in a place called the land down under
Being not aware of their presence is a fatal blunder
In South America we are big, hairy and lightning quick
We hide in holes, when prey ambles by, our pounce is slick
In the jungles we can spin webs several meters across
Snagging creatures n eyeing them as they struggle n toss
No escape: some will become a gourmet’s month long meal
Spun silks are sturdy, flexible, elastic, yet stronger than steel
The mating process is a venturous trip with fatal chances
We’ve got to lure and subdue her into hypnotic trances
Being lucky enough to catch her, turns into a dangerous ordeal
After impregnating, I got to be quick or I’ll be her next meal
She’ll get her comeuppance from babies carried underside
They’ll rapidly devour her; how she lived is how she died
Now I ask you is that a commendable way to exist
We will never be included in any preferred list
But if I were a butterfly so fragile n brightly colored
I’d flit from flower to flower, sweet nectar easily devoured
I’d be regaled, loved and showered with daily praise
I’d be included in children’s books on the front page
My ancient Arabs know exactly how to tell a tale,
Of hardship, kinsman, outcasts, how to be so strong,
Withstanding weather, find your way, what it does entail
To fight a world alone, with nowhere to belong.
I like to think it is a metaphor, not an exact rendition.
A simile of sorts, no different from Bible or Qur’an.
A handbook, of how life can cast you out as clansman.
If preprogrammed molds don’t fit woman or man,
Shanfara found his way by choosing a direction,
Completely opposite of where his brothers rode.
He found his new kin amongst beings, all not human.
To him man does ascribe this still illustrious ode.
For you, my brigand poet, I write this loving poem,
You mean so much to me, like you I do not fit so well,
And am forever searching, But I am not seen as scum.
My su’luk, my traveler, I stay and have your tale to tell.
***
January 17, 2016
© Darren White
Where The Buckeye Grows
Down where the tender buckeye grows
And soft green leaves exposed
The creek babbles over the rocks
Indians long disposed
I can hear the laughter of the child
Smiling faces all the while
The leaders making arrows sharp
Not knowing of coming trial
Turkeys and deer free for their food
Water nearby for thirst
Also free for wash day and baths
Cool a fever if needing nursed
Now tucked away in a strange land
The mighty Indian clan
In all fairness is their fate right
They really are our kinsman
I listened as Ms. Azalea Lee spoke to me
This is what she had to say…
I sat with the door opened catching the noon day breeze
As a package was delivered by the postman
That stood there requesting my signature.
I hope its something good the postman said with a grin
Oh he may have been good to others, I said much to my chagrin
This package I had no desire to receive
Today or any day but somehow I knew it was the remains of him
This was supposed to be a joyous day
Expecting a newborn kinsman this eve and it being
The day of my daughter's birth -- I must state
How ironic this day has come in to play
As I received his backward ashes today
I never wanted to hold him in my arms again
Never thought I'd behold his form this way
My once tormentor, feigned lover, never true friend -- hey
No one could say I did not try
Held out the olive branch time after time…
He would just keep trying to burn that branch and my arm
right along with it. Even had my mama fooled
By his falsified charms so bad that it seemed
She did not care that it was I -- which he continually tried to harm...
Darn, that certainly should come to me as no surprise
As she often did much the same too me as a child
She, picking and pinching with her trying words
To get a grief stricken tear from this numbed heart of mine
How absurd! Then Ms. Azalea Lee revealed some things to me that
I dare not write for indeed they were enough to horrify...
During that time, I whispered not a peep, for I thought to my self
How could she ever sleep, with all of those emotions balled up inside...
How strange it was that after the age of 15 she had not truly cried…
At least until the day her father died and then she went numb again…
feeling nothing yet still managed to smile
My, how I wished I could share with her, this joy of mine….
How is it that she takes all in stride?
Without a drop of hate inside… As I bid her goodbye,
The answer came, she is mine and
She possesses a strong will to survive.
I now look back through time at Ms. Azalea Lee
Keeping her stories as they sure had an effect on me…
6978 is not but a date, I once visited a place, and it was not the Pearly Gates!
There were no blue seas, or boats about! There were no palm trees, or heavenly dreams! There was an old swinging bridge, that was boarded all up, We use to run across to the DANDEE'S Truck!
There were no surf boards or skiing sloops, we slide down a hill in a cardboard boat. There were big wheels, and mini bikes, monkey bars and neighbor fights!
There were tot lots, and parking lots, Mr. Sykes on 69th, Ms. Cox's the candy stop! Savmors and Poppa Grant's store, the Garden Valley Hawks and so much more!
We had baseball diamonds in a dump, Rainbow Terrace looking down on us. Railroad tracks underneath a bridge, there was a dividing fence, where the other kids lived!!!
The Garden Valley Neighborhood House, what a wonderful place, it's where all our family gathered, and is still in place!!! Basketball, and dancing back in the day!
You could shoot a game of pool, and visit the library too! We were called Brick city, Kinsman kitty and Valley girls too! We held our heads high and was proud too!!
6978 is not but a date, it is where my journey began on a cold winter day. So now when I see Garden Valley I think of this place, were it all began, the families, the friends, the memories within, I thank God each day, for growing up in the place, I met most of you! "6978".
Sending Love to My Papa
Underneath his multiple dark layers,
He was desperately seeking the light.
Wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing his betrayers,
Kinsman who disregarded his cruel plight.
Memories of guilt, loneliness, and shame,
Ruined and fragmented his tortured soul.
Years of misdeeds and their utter disdain,
He spiraled down an abysmal hellhole.
Tragic mother’s attempt at suicide.
Philandering father bedding hussies.
Abandoned precious children mortified.
Devastating hearts of blameless babies.
Ignored was the beauty of innocence,
Unearthed by kind love and strong resilience.
How loving was Ruth. With her husband dead,
she stayed with his mother most willingly.
“Entreat me not to leave,” she said.
Better than seven sons was she
to her mother-in-law, Naomi.
Wither thou goest, I shall go,”
said Ruth as she left her homeland behind.
Great joy were Ruth and Naomi to know.
A kinsman for Ruth to wed they would find,
and a baby would bless them - for Ruth had been kind!
Who am I?
I am a lion who comes out as a goat
I am an ocean with waves big enough to drown
I am a child of Mesopotamia
A descendant of Shaka Zulu
Baptized in the Nile
I depict the sword of Mansa Musa
I am the backbone of civilization
An icon of emancipation
I represent the pyramid of Giza
And the lighthouse of Alexandria
A symbol of hope
And an emblem of freedom
I am a depiction of Chinua Achebe ink
An illustration of the hieroglyphic
I am the carapace of Hannibal
And the shield of Tunka Manin
I am a player of the djembe
And the author of Sundiata Epic
I am an inheritor of Timbuktu
A citizen of Kumbi-Saleh
A compadre to Askia Muhammed
And a son of Mansa Musa
A follower of Kwame Nkrumah
And a kinsman of Ahmet Sekou Toure
I am the native son of Gao
A fisherman of Lake Victoria
A Tuareg from the Sahara
I hailed from the cradle of life
I am the black in Panther
And this is really who I am, A black man.
My friend, my love
A King, forged from the red earth of Africa.
Skin blessed by a kiss from the sun,
A vision of God’s own reflection.
Towering high above the masses,
A mountain of your own.
Shoulders wide enough to carry the world,
A back with the strength to bare that burden.
Endowed as a bullock should be
Your insatiable lust for flesh engorges you.
Your digits; tasked with walking this earth,
Serve to show that even in perfection imperfection exists.
A mind with flaws reminding you are a mortal being.
Your culture entwined, a joint entity, breathing as one,
To separate you from it would be akin to separating the moon from the stars.
Crowned by your ancestors,
The strongest of leaders to guide your kinsman.
Quite masculinity defined in your forefathers.
A son who is his mother’s own,
Never a loyaler child created.
A provider, stoic in his resolve.
A partner, a friend, all consuming.
You engulf with your love,
Restless in your motivation for her success.
Your Achilles heel, your creations,
Your life, your death resides in them.
My friend, my love,
A good man.
Alunamda 23/01/19