Long Kinfolk Poems
Long Kinfolk Poems. Below are the most popular long Kinfolk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kinfolk poems by poem length and keyword.
12/3/20
I opened and jumped out my window
I saw the bigger picture not just life through a window
Went to help out kinfolk
At times had to do the limbo
Wasn't always simple
Jack be nimble
The real thing, not no ditto
Never really got into disco
Or listened to Cisco
I don't need no intro
Too many minnows
Bimbos
And nymphos
It don't mean s*** though
Drinking, while smoke billows inside a limo
Still learning and obtaining info
Got lit with a few Zippos
Off that drank and indo
Harder shell than an armadillo
She tried to kill me, like a black widow
Near the town of Amarillo
But I got the better of that sicko
Too many people softer than a pillow
Got to grow up, can't keep being a kiddo
Close and far from Pismo
Took care of business with or without a gizmo
In life did no good being a Schizo
Didn't always need to tiptoe
Took a ride on a Pinto
Got off and stood Akimbo
Nearby waters filled with Hippo
Girl told me her name was Calypso
That she was originally from Jalisco
And use to work for Nabisco
She thought I was sweet like Peanut Brittle
And a bag of Skittles
Nah, it wasn't like that, not even a little
Little by little
Was able to chisel
And whittle
Music made with or without a fiddle
Life was much more than a complicated riddle
Had to think outside the box, not remain stuck in the middle
Even though what I did was abysmal
Hit myself with a missile
And woke up in the hospital
There is a sunken valley in my heart
that draws me in to think of my demise.
A valley that appears mid-senior years;
a time when deaths demand final goodbyes.
The valley of my loss of treasured friends
is filling up much faster than I guessed.
Sad wakes and funerals, I now attend
to say goodbye and pray they are at rest.
My dearest kinfolk, in this valley too,
depart from me at such a daunting rate.
Both elders and my peers- I see them fade
as they leave life to enter Heaven's gate.
And I will join them in this valley too-
tho know my time to leave is not yet clear.
But years fly fast, and when that time arrives
know I will sink the hearts that held me near.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Empty Your Soul With Words
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Judged: 11/25/2017
Believe it or not, they will stick it to you first.
For them, it's light work 'cause they don't have to rehearse.
With so much favorable DNA and proximity,
There is always a classroom nearby for a quick study.
Close! Closer than you think and closer than most
A slow demise can commence at a holiday toast.
Pencils and pads are always handy for the collection of intel.
So be careful about what you reveal or what you tell.
It's sad. Yes, I know. It's very sad, but your challenges or stumbles make them so glad.
The face of schadenfreude, they welcome
A big smile adorns their face whenever there is bedlam.
Glad and happy to see you're not fulfilling your destiny.
This is why they're constantly playing with your energy.
So, words to the wise. Please beware of some kinfolk.
They may look and talk like you, but it is your failure they want to coax.
Night falls and the mirror moon illumes the
heavenly starry skies with gleaming ivory beams.
Shiny and mellow, a splendrous silver orb,
the delight of the night sky!
It is the evening of the 15th, and the cool air is fair,
filled with chirping crickets and reason for revelry.
Kinfolk gather to rejoice within the warmth of their hearth,
toasting with mulled wine ; munching moon cakes!
But today is also sacred and solemn, and offerings
must be made to Heaven and Earth. Thus, scented
sandalwood incense are lit ; apricots and pomelos are placed
upon lacquer plates before the plaques of divine gods,
and dear ancestors.
Away from laughter and lanterns, besides a quiet lake,
and under a lofty peak, sits a sagacious couple. She smiles
and plays the guqin, sending with each skillful stroke,
soft and serene sounds that grace the ethereal night's air.
As for him, he stands pleased under the pavilion, inhaling
the sweet scents of blooming peach blossoms, and admiring
the moon as it rose and the beauty of his wife before the
bright shimmer of moonlight.
Content, he recites a poem:
“The moon is luminous,
Heaven is harmonious,
Autumn has come,
And Summer is gone,
I toast my cassia wine,
To a harvest most fine!”
All rights released into Public Domain
Long, Long ago in a hut made of bark
Children awoke to a loud raptors hark,
Where misty moonlight filled the night sky
And shimmering stars twinkled up high.
They never did flinch from what they did hear
As birds were more vocal that time of year,
Day time like nighttime the animals spoke
To tell of their stories to all the kinfolk.
Plus not faraway a corroboree grew
Where they could peer out to get a vast view,
And what they did see had widened their eyes
They thought they were dreaming from such a surprise!
Aunties combined all clapping their sticks
A shadow was cast to lunar eclipse,
Didgeridoo loudened and looped
A traditional song for all who had grouped.
Singing had echoed and how it was grand
Whilst dancers kicked dust and golden white sand,
Though this was real common in such an event
Where music evoked all that was dreamt.
There through the flames and embers that flew
The children were puzzled if anyone knew...
As never before within their lifespan
Was sighted a dancing goanna-man.
Alas ample alliteration available?!
True (terrific) title: Trump's truckling tutored troopers...;
wily word wizard worried,
where world wide web wickedly wends.
Triumphantly tenaciously (try to) trample treacly
traffickers target timid testifiers traducing,
their traitorous tractable toxic troglodyte:
today transition toward
totalitarianism tidily trends.
Quasimoto (querulously) queries, quivers, quakes:
queasiness quotient quarantine quelled qualm;
qua quacking quaffing quota quips:
quicksand quits quagmire quashing:
quintessential quarrelsome;
quintillionth queued questioner.
Numbskull noodles notorious nonsense:
nincompoop netizen nimbly navigates;
nowadays nauseating news necessitates
nameless nervous negativistic nattering nabob;
Nome nomad nudges, numerates,
nurtures... narcolepsy.
Knowledgeable knave; kindhearted
keen, kooky kvetching king kibitzer;
kindles kickass kinskip (kaffeeklatsch);
kneading Keats kinfolk karma.
His highness, herewith hooligan;
helpmate hermit hamstrung Harmit Harms;
humiliating, harried, ho hum humorous hokum;
habitual half hearted hookers happily hollow;
hallelujah!
Exceptional exertion earnest endeavor exercising
especial expending energy excluding essential/
exact entities even everyday eminent eccentric
experienced exhaustion - epilogue.
Her Wedding Day
The spiral staircase made her high heels sing,
while from afar, she heard the church bells ring.
Today, they'd pledge their marriage vows so true;
before their friends and kinfolk, say I do.
She reached the terrace off of the third floor;
their chosen chapel, there behind the door.
Alone, she viewed the beauty of the day
and took a moment to thank God and pray.
From here, the City churches pierced the mist;
tall steeples now, below the clouds, sun-kissed.
With a deep breath, she turned to enter now
the place where she and her true love would vow...
He was not there...her heart began to pound!
The seats were filled...to terrace, she turned 'round.
Below, she saw him leave the front door there...
he closed it, and, now smiling, crossed the square.
May 11, 2018
Contest: One Nine and Sixteen Upgrade Version
Sponsor: Viv Wigley
Required Lines To Use:
Line one: 'The spiral staircase made her high heels sing'
Line nine: 'From here the City churches pierced the mist'
Line sixteen: 'He closed it, and, now smiling, crossed the square'
Flowers blossomed as times travel through low level hums. Time turned water into ice and my lovely daughter into earth; naturally so grateful for such time.
Busy bees, pollinators of the year; eighty-five billion consecutive times in a row; both honey and bumble bees celebrate, together... No kind of man has discovered a better way to pollinate crops than the reigning pollinators of the year.
Deep inside what limited jungle remains, some kind of man ties a white feather to hornet, so to seek. A long, dark, skinny finger points at the nest as the hives form a defense; the hornets quickly break the feather free, just moments too late—the hive has been made.
A bamboo shoot is rigged with a clothe, bathed in ignition agent; true organic pesticide. Set ablaze, once steadily smoldering, a bamboo catapult is raised into perfect position to kill the queen and run off; the swarm—remnants left behind this tactical slaughter—tasty larvae delicacy for these kind of people.
But these kind of people are rare; honorable kinfolk, kinds of people that civilized kind of people degradingly refer to as wild, third world beings.
As man continues his rampage against time and earth—third world civilization would appear the more civilized life for all kinds of people; bees too.
tercets
Braxton H. Gardner of north Kentucky,
progenitor of our family tree.
His marriage date was 1833.
Braxton Charles S. Gardner from our archive,
was his youngest son, born in ’45.
He barely recalled his father alive.
Barney Braxton Gardner, uncle of mine;
his sister, my grandma, mother of nine.
My father was namesake of his blood line.
Barney Braxton Jolly born in ‘11,
married his sweetheart in ’37.
These four have died and look down from heaven.
Ruth Braxton Jolly, that’s me, data fount;
only female in this list tantamount
of Braxtons quite an accomplished head count.
Darren Braxton Poteet, my younger son,
Braxton Lee Poteet, age 14, grandson
complete my list of six kinfolk Braxton.
November 18, 2020
Thanksgiving fast approaches
and the bustling has begun
in an enchanting house,
the House of Cinnamon.
With children home for holiday,
the voices that you hear
are sunny as the curtains hung
inside this home of cheer.
As words elatedly resound
through rooms and down the hall,
a glow of kinship grows to warm
each nook of every wall.
Two little ones on father’s knee
now listen to him read
while mother in the kitchen
mixes dough and starts to knead.
The daughters don their aprons,
glad to help their mother bake
while older sons outside leap into
heaps of leaves they rake.
And then the kitchen fills with song
as mother hums a tune.
Her daughters sing the lyrics
as the wee one licks a spoon.
Now the dough with sugar, nuts
and raisins all is rolled
and cut into as many pieces
as each pan will hold.
Inside the oven, butter-drizzled
rolls now ooze and swell,
and soon the habitat absorbs
a most delightful smell.
Outside in chill of autumn’s wind
the boys having fun
can smell sweet scent of cinnamon.
Into the house they run!
Now day has turned to evening.
From a chimney curls grey smoke
as round the hearth inside there sit
the first-arrived of kinfolk.
The children of the house are sleeping,
but when they awake,
they’ll greet the ones they’re thankful for.
Of love will all partake.
For in the House of Cinnamon
a way of life remains
untouched by what the world’s forgot.
Here harmony still reigns.
for The Enchanted House Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron