Brother Poems: A Tribute To A Brother - Poem by Kathryn Thomas
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A Tribute To A Brother - Poem by Kathryn Thomas
To tribute to your kindness
In words is not enough
To tell of your caring
For me and others is wasting time
To a dear brother of mine
To bridge a gap so wide
As to let me into your heart
When I don’t even know mine
This tribute to you
In love you conquer hate
And within these ugly times
You conquer them with beauty
This tribute to my brother ends
But always will remain true
Comments about A Tribute To A Brother by Kathryn Thomas
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Epistle To My Brother George
Full many a dreary hour have I past, My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays; Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely, Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely: That I should never hear Apollo's song, Though feathery clouds were floating all along The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, The golden lyre itself were dimly seen: That the still murmur of the honey bee Would never teach a rural song to me: That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold Some tale of love and arms in time of old. But there are times, when those that love the bay, Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see In water, earth, or air, but poesy. It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, (For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,) That when a Poet is in such a trance, In air her sees white coursers paw, and prance, Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel, Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel, And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call, Is the swift opening of their wide portal, When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear, Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear. When these enchanted portals open wide, And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide, The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, And view the glory of their festivals: Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream; Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run Like the bright spots that move about the sun; And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar Pours with the lustre of a falling star. Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers, Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers; And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose. All that's revealed from that far seat of blisses Is the clear fountains' interchanging kisses, As gracefully descending, light and thin, Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, When he upswimmeth from the coral caves, And sports with half his tail above the waves. These wonders strange he sees, and many more, Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore. Should he upon an evening ramble fare With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue With all its diamonds trembling through and through? Or the coy moon, when in the waviness Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, And staidly paces higher up, and higher, Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire? Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight— The revelries and mysteries of night: And should I ever see them, I will tell you Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you. These are the living pleasures of the bard: But richer far posterity's reward. What does he murmur with his latest breath, While his proud eye looks though the film of death? "What though I leave this dull and earthly mould, Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold With after times.—The patriot shall feel My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel; Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers To startle princes from their easy slumbers. The sage will mingle with each moral theme My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem With lofty periods when my verses fire him, And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him. Lays have I left of such a dear delight That maids will sing them on their bridal night. Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, When they have tired their gentle limbs with play And formed a snowy circle on the grass, And placed in midst of all that lovely lass Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red: For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying: Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, A bunch of violets full blown, and double, Serenely sleep:—she from a casket takes A little book,—and then a joy awakes About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries, And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes: For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears; One that I fostered in my youthful years: The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep, Must ever and anon with silent creep, Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast, Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu! Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view: Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions, Far from the narrow bound of thy dominions. Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother, Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, For tasting joys like these, sure I should be Happier, and dearer to society. At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain When some bright thought has darted through my brain: Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure. As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them, I feel delighted, still, that you should read them. Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught. E'en now I'm pillowed on a bed of flowers That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers Above the ocean-waves, The stalks, and blades, Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. On one side is a field of drooping oats, Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats; So pert and useless, that they bring to mind The scarlet coats that pester human-kind. And on the other side, outspread, is seen Ocean's blue mantle streaked with purple, and green. Now 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now Mark the bright silver curling round her prow. I see the lark dowm-dropping to his nest, And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest; For when no more he spreads his feathers free, His breast is dancing on the restless sea. Now I direct my eyes into the west, Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest: Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu! 'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!
Brother And Sister
"SISTER, sister, go to bed! Go and rest your weary head." Thus the prudent brother said. "Do you want a battered hide, Or scratches to your face applied?" Thus his sister calm replied. "Sister, do not raise my wrath. I'd make you into mutton broth As easily as kill a moth" The sister raised her beaming eye And looked on him indignantly And sternly answered, "Only try!" Off to the cook he quickly ran. "Dear Cook, please lend a frying-pan To me as quickly as you can." And wherefore should I lend it you?" "The reason, Cook, is plain to view. I wish to make an Irish stew." "What meat is in that stew to go?" "My sister'll be the contents!" "Oh" "You'll lend the pan to me, Cook?" "No!" Moral: Never stew your sister.
To My Brother Miguel In Memoriam
Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house, where you make a bottomless emptiness. I remember we used to play at this hour, and mama caressed us: "But, sons..." Now I go hide as before, from all evening lectures, and I trust you not to give me away. Through the parlor, the vestibule, the corridors. Later, you hide, and I do not give you away. I remember we made ourselves cry, brother, from so much laughing. Miguel, you went into hiding one night in August, toward dawn, but, instead of chuckling, you were sad. And the twin heart of those dead evenings grew annoyed at not finding you. And now a shadow falls on my soul. Listen, brother, don't be late coming out. All right? Mama might worry.
Who was the villain When it all began Some fair-haired stranger From a faraway land Or the African brother Selling his neighbor away In exchange of whatever The fair-haired stranger would pay For the brutal betrayal Of his own damned kin Has anything changed Since the original sin Who was the villain ........When it all...began
He lies near to death Dying in the dust Broken and forgot. Now his children Once mighty tribes Fall before the setting sun. His women - - young and old Dead and dying Host the killer AIDS. He calls for help To rich brothers in the West But his cries fall upon stone-deaf ears. For they find no profit Supplying HIV drugs To those who cannot pay.