Long Kinsman Poems
Long Kinsman Poems. Below are the most popular long Kinsman by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kinsman poems by poem length and keyword.
Anyone in pain , kinsman will accompany him
they will compensate his loss
no one will cry in the storm of sorrow and pain
the society will wake up in gross.
Mom don't cry further more, daddy is there
in the sky in star in night and in the dawn
I can see him there mom listen to him
saying establish the seed of love khokon.
Today I promise in this dawn in morning
I will write the song of destruction in the form of a hero
to break the trap of the religion
and will fill the world with the luster of love, mom; will not be a zero.
I will not be afraid of war in the land of slaughter
give me the sword to do the war mom
it's my dream dreams of hope, dreams of you
glitters of which will wake up the society
will remove the darkness the pain and the storm.
It only seems like yesterday
That i met this beautiful lady
Up there
In that city
Between the dessert and the sea
She'd given up
On thoughts of love
Busy providing
For the one's she loved
On that broken heart
Between the
Dessert and the sea
It only seems like yesterday
That i held
That broken heart
Between
Clean sheets and heaven
I set about mending that heart
With my love and all my loving
In that city
Between
The dessert and the sea
It only seems like yesterday
They came and stole her away
As Kinsman do
They locked her away
In a black dress an apron
As the one's she loved
Couldn't bear the thought
She may love
And be loved more
By this stranger
By the door
Who else
But her love
Will provide for us
And look after our kids
In this city between
The dessert and the sea
It only seems like yesterday
That love was born
And love was buried
That Txt's were send
And left unanswered
In that city
Between the dessert
And the sea
*Image of Paul Simon SNL by Giphy.
Simple Simon
Simple Simon the blessed pieman,
Woke up fresh as the day began,
Busy cooking, his wife named Anne,
Made his breakfast in a saucepan,
Enjoyed eating his plate of flan,
Simple Simon the blessed pieman,
Filled with it and a bit more than,
Kissed his wife as the best he can,
Came a knock was cousin Tristan,
Kissed her again before he ran,
Simple Simon the blessed pieman,
Walking with his fellow kinsman,
Who was a bit like a Tarzan,
He says, "We'll do as we did plan",
Simon says, "Yes, buy us a van",
Simple Simon the blessed pieman,
Simple Simon the blessed pieman,
His cousin be an anchorman,
Does things like some sort of game plan,
Says he will talk to the salesman,
Interviews him like a newsman,
Simple Simon the blessed pieman,
Let him run the show as one-man,
Naught be a common businessman,
Just glad to be a middleman,
As Tristan drew the masterplan
Simple Simon the blessed pieman,
Waiting ate a bowl of pecan,
Tossed all the shells in a trash can,
Tristan smiled, "Got the minivan",
"And at a price that cost less than",
Simple Simon the blessed pieman,
Simple Simon the blessed pieman,
Twas showroom new, in black and tan,
Best terms on the installment plan,
Signed, gift his full attention span,
While at the station, thanked Tristan,
Simple Simon the blessed pieman,
Drove on home to show his wife Anne,
Who had a guest her friend, Roxanne,
Amused they were with the new van,
The cost, the look, in black and tan,
Simple Simon the blessed pieman,
Took wife Anne and her friend Roxanne,
Proud just been a little more than,
Wide-eyed no call by the sandman,
Off from work with Anne and their van,
Simple Simon the blessed pieman.
2020 March 03
*HM*
STRAND CHOICE C,any form,any theme
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2020 March 11
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 ...
ARISA K
There lived a great king
in the coastal region
the name Arisa K..
A good leader was he....
But beneath the smiles
Oh.. my what a character
Arisa K the slaver of your young sons
ARISA K the sponsor of bandits...
ARISA K the very enemy of his people..
a great leader he was considered...
for few knew the excesses of his atrocities..
Villages burnt down..
villagers retaliating
to their surprise... their lost sons
the very ones raiding them...
Oracles consulted for its taboo -
to shed a kinsman blood...
Oracles spoke..twas night
then fell great arisa k.. three arrows..
Sent from the gods themselves... justice?..
Lewis k Nyaga
vituko pwani..
Dear Jesus,
You are my kinsman Redeemer,
without you, I'd be alone, separated from God,
But now I'm atoned, for you fulfilled the law!
On the cross, just before you died…
You cried, “Tet-el-estai! You cried, “Tet-el-estai”!
You said, “It is finished” Redeeming your kin,
“it is finished”, you paid the debt for my sin!
You marked it all paid in full,
Sin's scarlet is cleaned whiter than wool…oh oh oh Thank you…, thank you Jesus!
Dear Jesus
My hope and advocate
Oh ill never forget the sacrifice you've made
You defend me against the accuser
And you always prevail cause he's a loser
You made this perfectly clear when on the cross you cried, ““Tet-el-estai!
Oh yes, You cried, “Tet-el-estai!
You said, “It is finished” proclaiming that I can go free! “it is finished”, There's no judgement on me!
The enemy is just wasting his breath…For you defeated him and the penalty of death…oh oh oh Thank you…, thank you Jesus!
Dear Jesus,
King of Kings and Lord of Lords!
Oh you are coming with fire in your eyes, and a two edged sword…the battle has already been won…Jesus you are the victorious King, and on the cross your work was done.
And you proclaimed this with your final cry,
“Tet-el-estai! Oh yes, You cried, “Tet-el-estai!
Yes you cried, “it is finished, the battle is over!”
“ It is finished, the enemy is no more!”
Death and hell, Satan, sin and the grave,
are defeated forevermore,My children are saved!
And we cry, with our hands lifted high, “Tet-el-estai!
“Tet-el-estai! , “Tet-el-estai!
Yess we cry, with hands lifted high....“Tet-el-estai!
Dear Papa,
Sad, my siblings and I,
Never got to meet with you;
You left us too soon,
Out in this cold, dark and unjust climate;
Out in the deep ghettos and jungles;
In the hands of conmen and wolves
In sheep's clothing;
In the hands of those
Who have turned a house of refuge
Into A den of thieves
With no proof of roof
Over our bruised heads
The fence you mended
Has caved in
Your old, durable coat
Of many colors
Has frayed at the edges
Refusing to be mended
Father,
If we had known
When the thief
Would stealthily saunter in,
We would have guided our loins
Now,
Men have lost their fate
A good name is no more precious
Than gold and silver
Even when there is a way
There is no more will
Men have rolled up their
Goat skin mats,
Tucked away in rafters
To be fanned by smoke
And feasted on by rats
Men have hidden their drink horns
Refusing to tap wine or commune
Feigning to be temporary
Rather than contemporary
The glories of yesterday
Have been washed away
By memories too battered and faint
To remember your charge
Staten Island is being renovated
But they feign ignorance
A grave yard is more presentable, appealing and serene
Than our back country
Dogs now feast on fellow dogs...
Father, please don't look back in anger...
A child's hand is not scaled
By the hot piece of yam bequeathed by his mother;
Only a man who has not been
To his kinsman' s farm assumes
His father's farm is bigger
Mandiba,
Tomorrow is pregnant
We do not know what it will bring forth....
Today is here, alive with us
Our hope lies in the fidelity
That one day,
Perhaps one day, we Will get it right;
Smile and call you Mandiba
For six days, the sky has opened its palms
over Awka, over Nnobi, over the red earth
that drinks and drinks and never says enough.
Today, the rain began in the dark,
while the moon hid her face and the rooster slept,
and now the sun has risen, bold and bright,
yet the rain refuses to go.
It pours like a promise kept,
like the voice of the ancestors
speaking from the clouds,
not in anger, but in abundance.
The sky is a calabash,
and it is not yet empty.
This is the season of the yam,
the first fruit lifted from the ground,
offered to the gods who remember
the taste of sweat and the smell of new soil.
Even in Nnobi, where my people dance
with white chalk on their foreheads,
the rain joins the celebration—
not as a stranger, but as a kinsman.
Let it fall.
Let it soak the thatch and the roads,
let it fill the streams and the song of the frogs.
The yam is fat beneath the ground,
and the rain is its midwife.
This is not a flood; it is a blessing.
This is not a delay; it is a rhythm.
July has passed its baton to August,
and the rain has not forgotten its duty.
It falls on the market women
who spread their wares under zinc,
on the children who splash through puddles,
on the elders who nod and say,
"This is how it was in our time."
So let the sky be bright and the rain be heavy.
Let the new yam be eaten with joy.
For even the sun knows when to bow
to the water that gives life.
And we, the children of the earth,
know when to raise our hands
and say thank you.
For Awka, for Nnobi, for the rain that knows its season.
Chukwuemeka Ezeulukpu
"desire today"
(Poems dedicated to my mother on my happy birthday today)
Born into this world this day, I cried on the lap of my mom
from that day onward, days after days ,year after year has gone
I spent my childhood happily in the lap of the mother
In those old days, she thought me nothing
but a petal of flower together.
She was the entrance of heaven for me to walk on this earth
I was under her fringe of love and affection after birth
she was as holy as the stream of the holy Ganges
I was warped with her in that sacred stream thus.
I sail the boat of life with the lessons which she teaches me divine
I always keep that lessons in the front of my heart line.
I spent my youth in the shadow of her generous sky
lively in my youth on the day I walk recklessly on thy.
I did not have the ability to understand
the contribution of dad on such hilarious day
today, my heart ached when I understood how great was he to say.
Now-a-days I am tired of carrying my life in conflict various
on the days of my grief all the kinsman they ignore and bypass
now pain and sorrow always touch my heart and soul
in tears, all it makes me tarnished in its role.
The fire engulf me and hit me again and again
I want your affection, mom, to sail life in pain.
Shudder not, for it’s the language of Death.
Who’s next? —it asks
Going from house to house,
Both of marble and mud
It cares not
Nor fears man, rich or poor,
Warrior or coward,
Whose nest it visits,
His cold arms ready for embrace,
Ready to snatch
Life is just but one lugubrious journey
On sea or on land or on air,
Which must end with the sound of
A school bell signalling the end of a recess.
So rejoice not when one, friend or foe, drops from the line,
For you could be next
And your kinsman next after you.
One after the other,
We drop
Like one old, battered leaf after another, in the
Spell of autumn.