Best Turban Poems
A is for Aster dancing in the wind
B is for Begonia as many as you can find
C is for Cornflower adorning a maiden’s hair
D is for Dandelion waving in the air
E is for English Daisy shining silver along the brook
F is for Fairy Wings kept in granny’s book
G is for Geranium in our pretty garden
H is for Hollyhock atop the Afghan’s turban
I is for Impatiens a carpet beneath the tree
J is for Jewelweed visited by the bee
K is for Kalimeris white as the snow
L is for Lily that in the church glow
M is for Marigold all over the hills
N is for Naranjilla without any frills
O is for Orchids that the pretty lady got
P is for Pansy drawn on the riverside yacht
Q is for Quail bush bright in the summer sun
R is for red rose in the senora’s bun
S is for Sunflower thousands in the field
T is for Tailflower out of its shield
U is for Uncarina deep in Madagascar
V is for Verbascum shaped like a star
W is for Wisteria soft as satin dress
X is for Xyris which grows without a fuss
Y is for yew fresh as spring dew
Z is for Zinnia that once in the yard grew
These flashes of colours in our everyday life
Gives meaning to that endless strife
1/03/13
By- Tahera Mannan
I’m struck by the stark contrast
of her image
which leaps out
against a black background
Meeting the gaze
of her piercing blue eyes
I find her so beautiful
much more alluring than the Mona Lisa
A colourful teal and gold turban
hides her tresses
perhaps giving emphasis
to a solitary pearl earring
which skims the collar of her gown
Her enigmatic expression
hides a secret
Parted ruby red lips
are poised
as if to speak
yet,
they will never reveal her identity
lyRical safe
i don't think sO
why the bus there is
as danGers as the sitting in my own homE
i am a Coward
i do shake with fear
for i am sure of my death
i am a citizens of the United States
a Land that Is loved by me
but give me No rights
gives me no protection under The law
how else cOuld someone rob my safe despot box
in broad day light
i the coward dare Not speak up
i the coward was shaking in my boots
when i saw the man in the red turban
standing there in the bank
as i came from the should be safety deposit box
the box that was fill with my lyrics
the lyrics the famous keep stealing
the lyrics that where under lock and key?
i do hate the coward in me
what do you think (Wikileaks)
I've worked with children all my days,
The things they say sure do amaze.
"How did the baby get in you?
Will it come out with your poo?"
"You'll need much more loo paper than me,
Your bottom is so big you see."
"Why's that man got a towel* on his head,
Has he just got out the shower?" she said.
"Granny's got a prickly chin,
When she kisses it hurts my skin."
"When I'm grown up how will I know
To talk like you." she said in woe.
In the garden she did appear,
A sanitary towel to her head adhered.
"You said they're for headaches." she said with pride.
Oh my goodness how I cried.
On a visit to the beach,
"Not that sandpit." she did beseech.
"Oh no the bridge has got a leak."
When she saw a puddle underneath.
"I banged my head." she did shout,
"All my little thoughts will come out."
Oh children, children I do decree,
That life is fun when you are three.
* turban
For Three Year Old Thoughts Contest
Sponsored by Brenda Chiri
In Jerusalem's Holy Temple
the High Priest entered
the Holy-of-Holies once a year
on that Holiest of Days, Yom Kippur
From the top of his exotic, oriental turban
dressed for the occasion was he
Dazzling gems on a breastplate of gold
bells ringing from his cloak for you and me...
...to know when he'd entered to beseech of the Lord
forgiveness and pardon for every Jew's sins
Uttering the Name of the Ineffable One ~
a most solemn proposition
And though dressed for the occasion was he
how humbling to stand, as if naked, in front of God Who
had custom-stitched every inch of his garments ~
commanded him on Yom Kippur what he should do
(Jodhpur is a beautiful, cultural, historical city in Rajasthan, India. This poem is all
about Jodhpur from her mouth as she told).
Left behind her beamish days of time of life, her days of girlhood…
Left behind her mother’s warmth and faced against frailties,
She left behind her father’s ires and raced against entelechies.
She brought with her those memories,
At once she wailed and bemused she smiled
She brought with her those glosses, palled in her eyes.
Left behind her rainbow and lived in blues
She smiles in low, her eliding Jodhpuri days.
Felled by griefs when thought of those kites at mackerel sky
Her heart yelled mutely at the Marwar soothed musical bliss fly.
There she drew by the Nagaur Turban and adorned faunae
Ceased by arts of jugglers, puppeteers and spread her wings with the winter newbie.
Revived with these memories she framed her ethnic hospitality
Multihued costumes and the aura of the folk dances attired by the society.
The copious finesse graced by palatable cuisine
Kachori, mirchibada and panchkuta are edible by.
Her blue eyes sobbed by her memories of palship
A walkover by the Balasammand lake
One will pass by the bird of Juno by the lush greenery.
The Sunset splashed with spectacular colours,
She enjoyed those days passing by the blue hills and envying canvas.
Retraced by the red sandstone and columnar, spire temples
She sketched her agone days with those prayers
Devoted towards the Shrine, deities and heroes of decades forgone.
Her heart thumped by her memories of gossips
Becharmed by the Forts and palaces,
The bygone era still reminds the battles fought
Witnesses still stand still by the chronicle held upon.
Lost by these memories colorful
She vivified in her vignettes
She brought up herself with the city
And she slept by the daydream known as Sun City.
Dated: 16/01/2010
Note: This poem is dedicated to my Jr. Miss Rajni
Here someone goes again, blowing smoke out their pipe.
Just going with the flow, using a common stereotype.
Here's a black man, I wonder how many kids he has on child support.
If he's late to a meeting, he's always a day late and dollar short.
There is a Mexican outside the Home Depot store,
he must be illegally looking to do a gardening chore.
If you see one Mexican go into a house, I swear,
inside you'll find at least forty people living there.
What's that over there, yellow skin, yep Hong Kong.
Better hide your cat unless you want to say so long.
I bet he could build me a robot if he tries.
Yeah they are all real smart, them oval eyes.
I see a man with a turban on his head, my final doom.
Better start running away now, before he goes boom.
We know he's got to be a terrorist,
see if he's on the most wanted list.
Who else is out there that I can bash?
Oh yeah, what about the white trash.
That gosh dang redneck hillbilly.
His brain is small just like his willy.
Everything mentioned above must be true.
So you must decide, what are you going to do?
Say something back and even up the score?
Or decide that words aren't worth going to war?
I think that if we just walk and go our separate way,
then the one speaking it, will have nothing left to say.
It is not worth your time to get mad over what you heard.
At the end of the day, it is still nothing but a word.
Im still in overwhelming awe and fascination of this young man.
The pioneer of modern Tamil poetry they describe,
But he is simply a perfectly righteous insane man I`ll say.
With a thick black moustache and a white turban,
Adorned by a laugh that will send fear into all false hearts.
I pinched myself when I realized my mind has slowly drifted away under his fearless flaming gaze
And fearless means a truly fearless gaze of death, dark, insult, nothing.
Indeed eyes are the window to the soul.
Despite a lean physique, he vibrates majesticness like a lion.
Walks up-straight with a balance of rhythm and harmony merely like a wise artist
The only man I wish still in flesh because wisdom & love have been so scarce in this era of dirty humans
Unfortunately, even the `God` is so fury and jealous of him and he finally heard the call.
Poem for the king of poetry is ridiculous and I’m laughing at my own mortal insufficiency.
Nevertheless, I`m a devoted soul of my insane poet just as how he is the devoted son of Mother India.
I just made it in time for Mary's funeral, it had been raining
heavily all day but the sun came out through the clouds.
And as I watched her coffin being lowered into the ground,
I was filled with emotions pouring out of my soul.
I recall that typical day four years ago that my co-worker
and friend told me she had discovered a lump in her breast.
No pain, she said, probably nothing at all but we all told her
to go have it checked.
The pathology report came quickly, Stage IV, invasive
massive cancer tumors; in lymph nodes, in her breast,
metastasized. I recall thinking how is this possible? Mary
was hopeful, saying, I will beat this. She joined groups,
did walks with others with breast cancer. And she wore
pink. At work we all wore pink ribbons.
Both breasts were removed within weeks and the nodes,
and maybe more; then she started chemotherapy treatment,
and radiation and hormone therapy. I think sometimes, why
did she go through all that when the end was obvious to all.
Cancer victims must have exceptional inner courage.
Mary called me to say she was losing her hair, next she
lost her eyebrows and eyelashes, her finger nails and her
toenails were frail and discolored. We painted them pink.
She lost so much weight, oh she was so thin. When I visited
I had to hold back tears, only after leaving did I cry.
When I saw her, Mary wore a pink turban or hat and put
on makeup and big earrings. Actually she looked quite
beautiful to me. But she showed me her horrible scars and
would weep. She talked about breast cancer awareness
and the need for research. So much inner strength.
There was a hospital bed in her living room. Husband slept
on the couch, cat in her bed. How she loved that cat, they
had put a pink ribbon around its neck. Family and friends
came, in hushed tones they kissed her goodbye. She just
smiled and one evening alone with her husband and her
cat, she died. He said it was peaceful.
Please support cancer research and awareness always and,
remember, October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month,
so wear PINK!
______________________
September 8, 2015
Narrative
For the contest, Pinktober #2, sponsor, Poet Destroyer
10th Place
Dad Revisited
RIP 1924-2015
Last night I sat up in bed and prayed a little longer,
I asked god to send dad back for just one more day with great fervour.
Dad was waiting for me in the verandah as soon as I reached,
Seated on his cane chair with legs outstretched.
Suited- booted, neat crisp turban, expectant eyes so tender
The same tweed coat, the warm muffler across his shoulder.
The moment he saw me he fumbled for his walking stick,
Stood up took a few steps forward in a nick.
We embraced each other tight as he planted as kiss on my head,
I nuzzled against his warm coat enjoying the love of my figurehead.
Warm drops of love fell on my cheeks,
Saw oceans pouring through his teary creeks.
'I can't control them', he said chokingly,
Feeling the other's heart beats we clung to each other tightly.
'Let's go to the garden, the grape fruit is waiting for you!'
We walked together slowly over his leafy garden dew.
Dad showed me the new cuttings and saplings he had potted for me,
He pointed to the overgrown grass and said his workers were on leave.
He said,' Ah, for more varieties of flowers!
But the dogs don't spare them in my bowers'.
We smiled and saw the overladen grape fruit trees,
I plucked three grapefruits and said they would suffice with a tease.
We slowly climbed up the steps to our sunny verandah to sit alone,
He asked me what was it that I had wanted to tell him over the phone.
I read out my poem, '13, West Macott Road', a nostalgia shakeup,
Of our ancestral home in Poona where he had grown up.
I was reared up there, too, by my grandparents,
He wept and hugged each other, our undying love evident.
'I can't believe you had this talent and I didn't know about it till now,
You always make me cry with your emotions, but no more will I allow!'
He took out his kerchief to wipe my tears, his permanent flair,
I was still sniffing when I sighted his empty cane chair.
December 10, 2015
Contest: Just One More Day
Sponsor: Laura Loo
I wish you had ears, so I could whisper to you how you’ve been on my mind
Ever since i was brought into your world,
I had only a single wish, for
The stories my mother tells, in real sadness and grief to come to life,
She remembers when she swam in your ocean,
She still feels the water beneath her palm, rushing up to her fingertips, and vanishing before she could even utter a single goodbye,
Tells me tales of the times that she snuck out the house to go to your picture shows,
And dance under the moon light, curly hair wrapped in turban,
Clothes reek of unnsi and grandmothers perfume
With no music playing, tells me she sang her little infant brothers to sleep,
And cooked breakfast at just 5, when grandmother worked
She remembers the simple things,
The fresh colorful flowers swaying in the wind,
Children kicking their soccer balls on the beach,
Laughing as If the only happiness they will ever taste,
Lays on the motherland.
Your motherland.
My motherland.
Our motherland.
She rose this morning, only to wake up to an unrealistic dream,
Our mothers cry helpless tears,
Choose which child to feed and which to not,
Our rivers aren’t rivers, and we don’t have a motherland.
We have a tribal-land
They host parties and play your song,
Talk about when they were children,
And dream of a better land,
They say they want to be AS ONE,
But remain forever separate.
This isn’t the peace my mother spoke of,
Our schools aren’t schools, and our kids became skinner than the women i see on theses western covers.
We don’t have a motherland. We have a tribal-land
Rasta Master(For Bob Marley)
Like the lion of Judah ,
Lying on the coast of hope,
With the turban of gold crown,
From the mountain of glory,
His mantle of office adorn.
Clad in a regalia of reggae,
To do the regatta acloud again,
The buffalo soldier hosts the banquet.
All around the world,
Through the Poles,through the Equator,
Jah made whole,man no dismantle.
The flame burning with glory,
The lake of the bulb on Bob.
A robust heap of dreads on Robert,
It's a summer holiday in Marley.
I'm bereaved at the Sheriff's.
Redress,regret,emotion-the notion.
"Will be together; is this love that I'm feeling?"
To feel filled;is this real?
No mummies,no makings.
Wanna hold on to love-I n I,
Right place of fold;to stick aright.
Adeola Yusuf Amuni
Race -
Did it start the big debate, in 2008?
He’s not my president
Show me his papers.
Why don’t we impeach him
Silence all the haters.
Take back our country
Those thieves took it.
Yes we can!
Tea Partiers have a plan.
Fox News or Msnbc
Which one defines me?
If I tell you my truth
Will you corner me in a booth?
Take off that turban.
What are you hiding in that Suburban?
Blow yourself up and go to heaven
72 virgins, or is it 77?
Go back to where you came from and leave us be
To be free,
Where I can be me,
Live my dreams,
Not fear you’ll punish me.
But who said this is your home
Where were your grandparents born?
Did they arrive on Ellis Island
Travel from the Highlands?
Maybe they worked the plantations
Or lived on reservations?
40 acres and a mule
Un-kept promises, your rule.
That email you sent was funny.
But should I be offended
Tell you not to re-send it?
The use of the “N” word
Thank goodness no one heard.
But why is it okay when he says it
No one labels him a racist.
Good cop bad cop
On your knees!
Please don’t shoot, officer -
They’ll say you profiled me.
A nation divided
Our opinions two sided.
Everything about race,
Case by case,
Judging me by my face.
Will there ever come a time
When we can both stand in line?
Neither the two disapproving
Wouldn’t that be moving?
I seek not a robe of glittering pearls and rubies shinning bright
Give me a modest dress only not shorter than my height
A handcuff, a collar or may be, a shackle heavy and tough
The adornment for me should compliment the stature of my love
My foe wishes to improve his stature or he wants me dead?
Does he seek my turban of glory or he seeks my head?
A pickaxe in my hand I have and fervour of love in heart
Do not fail me, O tough rock! Stream of milk* start
The treasure of ideals and vision aren’t on trees to pluck
For wealth of sensitivity, anguish and pain, one would need my luck
Seeing human sufferings, Yamin, causes torments and pains
Put me in the cosy arms of sleep, where peace and serenity reigns
----
* Reference to legendary Asian lovers Shireen & Farhad. Farhad dug a rock to start the
stream of milk for the sake of his love.
Shalom
Date: Sat, Nov 7 2015 at 11:47 PM
All alone on this "Path"
But God with on my "Wrath"
Do the "Math"
This the Future of my "Past"
Blast from the "Past" the "Backlash"
This the Wrath of Israel and "Iran"
An "Baghdad" Pakistan an "Afghan"
"Syria" and "Libya" I'm the "Militia"
Bout to change the "Forecast"
"Packed" Bat "Bag" Full of "Drafts"
Of "Charts" and "Graphs"
For the "March" to "Pass"
A Slave from "Africa" "Captured" to Become a "Ambassador"
One of the Shamans "Factors"
Inside my mind is Visions in "Patterns"
This just a page out the "Chapter"
Speaking Justice amongst the "Attackers" amongst the "Massacres"
I'm created from Fossils of Ancient "Fragments" that was "Fractured"
A Scientific "Analysis" can't "Examined" a "Graphic" of this "Calculus"
This the Anger of "Ferguson"
In Trayvon Hoodie in a "Black" "Turban"
Or "Jihad" Shallot "Shalom" "Salaam"
"Shabbat" Praying like the "Salat" while my hands "Burning" Inside "Flaming" Raging "Sermons" See I'm a "Servant" But upon "Observance" you couldn't tell in "Person" But you can tell by my "Wordings" Under Blessings and "Curses"
I hear Blood crying to me from under the "Surface" "Thirsting" I'm certain I'm one of the "Worstest" with Wisdom in the "Churches"
Thats not "Circuiting"
That make these devils "Nervous" I'm standing on the stage behind the "Curtains"
Looking at the "Circus"
I'm "Determined" to "Nourishing" the Blind to "Furnishing"