Best Turbans Poems
_________________________
MANGALYAAN ( VOYAGE TO MARS)
_______________________
It is alright how we came.
But one cannot deny our presence.
We are in the Mars club.
found our way ahead in a bicycle!
No one helped us to be here.
It is our Vedic skills,
made way for cosmic dreams.
If you like it or not,
we made our entry silently.
We may have used a bullock cart,
a buffalo for our space ship.
Cow dung as fuel.
Does it matter?
It is not to conquer Mars.
Just to be there to do our bit.
Entire universe is a puzzling mystery.
The more we are in,
the more we entangle in the puzzle.
Depth is so deep.
Neither end is seen nor beginning.
But there is hope.
Hope in and for humanity.
Please wear your DESIGNER HATS
We wear our turbans.
Please do cartooning,
But do not mock at us in a cartoon.
It is not for mockery but for good taste.
Let us do something,
useful for humanity.
Not to make a Nuclear winter out of greed.
We chant a hymn.
a mantra that reaches beyond galaxies.
A couplet for our liberation.
Om Shanti, shanti, shanti.
(Peace on Us, Peace on us ,Peace on us)
Categories:
turbans, anger, appreciation, dedication, feelings,
Form:
Free verse
My Sometimes Song
I once knew a poet called Rhoda Monihan,
Who was thought always to visit the Sanhedrin,
By her parents who said,
That god was not dead,
But she did happily voice her opinion!
For Laura Loo's Famous Last Line contest:
But She Did Happily Voice Her Opinion!
But she did happily voice her opinion!
Even though she was a woman cross dresser,
Rejected by those who were family familiar,
And made to feel like a used can or onion.
An atheist as well amongst Christians,
Not slack and did not just float into atheism,
Not apathetic to philosophy and to skepticism,
Prepared to remark upon and criticise turbans.
No blond hair to indicate purity and righteousness,
No blondness to propose truth and good,
Just black hair, normal and with no mood,
To pacify the quick spirited, pious countess.
What gave her the right to speak?
Her body: her legs, arms and voice;
Her mouth or voice said she had a choice,
About which she was not often weak.
1st March 2016
Categories:
turbans, anti bullying, conflict, feelings,
Form:
Rhyme
SLAVERY
.
They said;
If I count, and I walk twenty-two steps back
I will find death somewhere in mother's eyes
They said;
When I'm twenty-seven, and I become a man
I will read meaning to the jargons on my palm
.
They said;
If I begin to find fun when girls raise their skirts
I will lead a busy, and a bloody course to death
They said;
If I seek comfort from the cold caress of beer
I will lose my spirit, and heaven doesn't care
.
( But who are they? )
.
They are the men who have conquered hell
And have massacre the living proof of mortality
They are the priests who call us brethren
But knot our tongues off the taste of humanity
They are clergies, in turbans, who speak spells
But teach us that magic is evil and brutality
.
I have read from the Bible, and the Qur'an
I have found nothing but the truth of slavery
I have seen what the books make of human
I have heard how they jeopardize our bravery
I have had a taste of how we become mutants
I have seen them subject our sanity to mockery
.
( This is how to steal your freedom )
.
Touch gently the two thousand and seven teens
Feel those prophecies, see if any has come true
Sleep, and make lust a woman in your dreams
Check if the day will break upon your face too
You shall know the truth, and shall grow wings
Then you can fly from the slavery you pray to
.
.
Micheal Ace
#magicalpoetry
©ACEworld
Categories:
turbans, bible, god, religion, religious,
Form:
Lyric
The hush sound of the mountains
Such an eloquence that thrills the mind.
Beautiful landscape terrifies the drumstick;
Groits!
D blizzard environment, a scene to flourish the hyenas
D still waters, fogs sent!
Such blessing I dare refuse?
This beauty I long to hold,
For Cleopatra never heed the call,
The call for loins, the risk taken for it - àágùn.
I cease to wonder what the beauty of life brings!
Such a candour, its callousness offer
What a myriad of history, its experiences are!
Its cadence, mankind lives for
For this, I crave for?
An endless thought.
When thoughts precipitate, myriads of wits are birthed
The first strand of grey, has come to rule
For being seconded by its dryness
A still scent of cold; breath
Dis terrain - beauty for all
Turbans; the beauty I see more.
Categories:
turbans, adventure, appreciation, beauty, celebration,
Form:
Blank verse
Are you as surprised as I to find
That Kim Kardashian is a international spy
But don't worry she's on the side of right
Working this time for the good guys
The pics that this twit tweets
Is spinning turbans around in the Middle East
Corrupting the minds of the men and their youth
As they google eye over what she let's loose
Though Miss K. is not the one to blame
It's mainly the fault of Uncle Sam
She's just doing her civic duty
In the posting of selfies in her birthday suity
I've had suspensions for years believe you me
The Kim isn't as dumb as she appears to be
I heard that Iran has accused Kim Kardashian of being a spy...
Who knew!
Categories:
turbans, funny, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
A myth and a fable can be found on a table. When an old man does look in an ancient book. Dragons and periodic charts do not mix. But historical inaccuracies a horse with wings can fix. Flee flee flee little mice. For that watering hole will attract bison. Heavy bodies and lots of hooves. Oh dear. It is never to be said that the honest truth of a pillar in a dome is slated with a burning bushel. But when a bushel of faith is carried by either a sea maiden or a voyaging spring queen the time for flutists,piccolo players and harpists is rife. And turbans link to dance and jump, headdresses and bangles leap in feathered and clawed unison (circling), moon painted bodies of the tribal ones wave spears, and all is a united effort. All is a unison. Globally positioned. But no monetary aim. So take a mixing bowl and create two hundred and eighty-nine deserts on ten minutes. Great. Kiss then. Good. *** horticultural horse hoeing horizontally and a big sneeze from a teacup. Fantastic so clap clap clap. Monetization Z
Categories:
turbans, anxiety, appreciation, assonance,
Form:
Enea, at the Scottish Court
The critics claim that this is far the worst
of all the frescoes. Enea the star? No
inkling here. Can that be James the First?
And that’s the Clyde? It looks more like the Arno.
A spartan Stuart court? Or is it Bourbon?
Less Edinburgh in feel, and more Locarno.
Whoever saw Scots courtiers in turbans?
The ceiling is salubriously embossed,
more like the Vatican of sainted Urban!
Perhaps Enea’s Latin can’t be glossed,
for no-one’s listening, that much is certain.
One wonders what the marble columns cost.
And wrapped in that red robe (looks like a curtain!),
he seems to lack all gusto, all scintilla.
For this he braved the Beauly and the Burton?
There’s nothing interesting in the villa.
Less Donatello, more like Damien Hirst.
It wasn’t worth Charybdis, much less Scylla.
Enea Receives the Laurel Crown
Not only is he with the Emperor:
he’s kneeling to receive the laurel crown.
His deeds will be preserved in tempora,
his poems printed, bound and handed down.
What more can man achieve in life than this?
While many live and love, and toil in vain,
Enea’s standing on the precipice:
rewarded for that fine, well-nurtured brain.
So why am I uneasy? Read the signs.
And eagle savages a hapless duck.
The building seems all wrong. Wrong size, wrong lines.
And what’s it meant to be? Are you not struck
to see the woman on the loggia, being raped?
Pandora’s Box is open. Hope’s escaped.
Form and Matter
It all comes down to this, don’t you agree?
The Court of Charlemagne, the Holy See –
there’s Thought and Thing: idea, reality.
We’re in the presence room, but some are free
to stroll the colonnade at liberty.
Unyielding marble throne, lapped by a sea
of flowing silk: that’s how it has to be.
Enea kneels between eternity
and actuality: the Papacy
against the Empire. Physicality
abuts against the realm of sophistry.
Categories:
turbans,
Form:
Sonnet
Heading to a cauldron in the dry sea of sands
Far afield the Sahara shores devoid of life
With an array of dexterous army riding further North
Our horses neighs as honed swords beholds Amir al-Mu'mini's hands
Death on battlefield is an honourary worth
Even the treasures of war fuels this sweet strife
To bring back silvers, gold, and pleasuring flesh
As a "Missing-Captured" for my already bloated chambers
And the crown will yield more cowries if Allah blesses
The throne, to rax few shells to the proselytes or sheik in the madrasas
Who barely tattles my fate but extols me greatly
The fogged dust on our tarsals censored vision in the brown mist
And the day mocked our sights
Yet we fought with fallen numbers till the sun left the east
To the west with blunt swords clanging defeat
While the crescent moon and rayed star decked the night
Our feral horses snorted as the numbers of our enemies diminishes
From thousands to hundreds and then tens till they are no more
Then rode us to the oasis under the night's eyes
The wind sang victorious song for us while we quench our thirst
Even when water taste like sand as we drink there was plenty to pour
In our jars for the next few day's ablution
~
Our flintlock muskets hug straight at our back
As we rode our horses with our prisoners of war
Tied with our turbans to a caravan camel
Along with ostriches, ivories, kolanuts and salts
To a waiting parade while my horsemen brandished their swords
It excited the maidens who peeped under a parasol
Their breast dangles like ripe mangos in a tree.
My father rode to me with his horsemen chanting the greatness of God
He was Clad in an ostrich's feather in his turban
He embraced me and the trumpet went amok with melodious sounds
These I've always desired - a titular prince
Worthy of all admiration in the whole of the five emirates
Categories:
turbans, adventure, africa, war,
Form:
Epic
Send them home
To begin
Again
Bring them back
After the end of ends
Knock off turbans and
Ransack the shacks of the ghettos of New York
Putting things back together
In a mosaic attempt to fix
History and erase her’s
Women and Men
Brown and White
Black and Red
Yellow Yellow
Mellow war fever
Intertwined within the masses
Let’s all hold hands
And blindly lead each other
To the end
A day of reckoning
Explosive
Cutting through corn stalks and
Sprinkling homicide through prairies
Slashing the censored cacti
Tearing off the arms of the rising
Injustice supporters
Smearing blood across
The Painted Desert
We can’t move fast enough
To make bombs and slice children
Until their tears mix with their blood
To make clay we eat out of
Let’s disengage
And hit the club
Forget this mess
Babay Babay
Democratic Republicans
Poetic Politicians
Dictator loving Socialists
Ease their way into tea parties
Mad Hatter racing The Walrus and the Carpenter
Frantic on opium and dynamite
Versus me, versus you
Me hit you, you hit me
Weaving a basket out of biological warfare
And psychological child’s play
To catch our hopes before they hit the ceiling and burst
Into Reality
Categories:
turbans, political,
Form:
Free verse
IS THERE A FANATIC IN THE ATTIC?
There sat they, satisfied
satiated knowing hundreds of souls had died
there sat they midst flat bread and Allah's wine
making plans that would send shivers up my spine
missals, mortars, murder and mayhem
we, always vigilant and leery of them
a man walks into a large train station
and for this he gains whores in Heaven and fascination
face the west for that's whereupon their eyes remain
never certain if, under their turbans, there's a brain
the youthful, the elderly, the old and the new
one must consider that which a fanatic extremest will do
Mrs. Jones in America fears Mrs. Al Newasrah' Muslim son
because each one is fearful because each one has a gun
and so they face each other on an arid land each grimace a sign
because both have plans that would send shivers up my spine
© 2012....copyright PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
Categories:
turbans, angst,
Form:
Quatrain
The Sardauna, the prince
Champion of the masses
The leader of the North
The defender of the realm
Princely yet accessible
The Prince Royal
The north your realm
Though tribe and tongues duffer
You still make the difference
Portrayed as a northern zealot
Of the scion of Usman Dan Fodiyo
Royal turbans in purple array
A great thinker and visionary
Achievements so colossal and huge
Colloquial rantings so high yet can't
be denied
Institutions still blazing the trail
Posterity have seen your travails
The Sardauna, the Northern Prince
Decades have come and gone
None in the northern realm holds your sway
Selflessness your true identity
Legacies intact, history made
Posterity the true judge
None have your charisma
Nor your impeccable persona
Those that took after you have all
gone astray
Going after the god of mammon
They are all pretenders
To the crown of your realm
With trending events these past decades
There is none in the realm that holds your
sway.
The Sardauna the Northern Prince
Categories:
turbans, appreciation, courage, death, dedication,
Form:
Epic
Turbans in a short hat? Never. No that's right never. It is the will of the integral self to be employed only by one's belief in flow and source is not sauce so don't raise your hat to an irate bun. Balmy bewildering belligerent buffalo. Er no not a buffalo. In fact it is the antics of a stick insect. Interrupted is not intrusive it is inspiring. Creatively calming chaps could change clams. And the big fish laughs ho ho ho. Xxxx irrigation irrigating igniting ignorance. Ha. Yes lots of hahahaha and several billion xxxxxxxxxxxxx and waltz. Good. Great isn't it. Wow. Exciting. Wonderful. Haven having heaps. Fantastic. Be not a pin be a staple. Xxxxx haha haha haha. Xxxxx unconditional x p y q with a ! And a z z z entomologist.
Categories:
turbans, bible,
Form:
Are you mindful of the fact that the man there in the turban
Is not a chimpanzee?
I know this because that man is me.
If you close your eyes, you’d never guess my race.
My nails are the color of blood and my nose has been known to run,
But Heaven knows I don’t bite. We came to have fun.
I’m on my best behavior. Don’t you worry.
Please give me a chance. We don’t eat with our hands.
I just dropped in to savor the goods.
Learning how to speak is part of the game, but
Could you please give me your name?
It could be Smith or Smythe. How can one know?
Let me say this: it’s a joy to be laughed at.
My name is not easy, but please do
say it right and without making faces.
We’ll stay out of your way.
I’m not blocking the aisle.
We’ve been standing here for only a while.
Our turbans aren’t glass,
So there’s nothing to break.
But for your sake, we’ll put them away in the car.
So long? Good bye?
No cause to get jumpy. Your voice grows angry.
Okay, all right. We’ll stay no longer.
As you stroll through the park
Why not see our cousins the apes?
Wave so they’ll know we are all friends.
Categories:
turbans, allegory, beauty, confusion,
Form:
Blank verse
LANDING IN A ME AND YOU LAND
listen,~
I have this like conundrum,
A choice
and probably a problem with either one or one million complaints
As I curse the portrait this universe paints
With the blood of those in turbans atop
And no matter how loud I scream the world won’t stop
Cease
Surrender
nor accept and live with people who are willing to be tender
The world has always been a world of trouble for me
And if John Doe had problems they would double for me
Perhaps it’s because I seem vulnerable enough to ache from whatever the universe throws in my direction
unable to make any correction
nor connection
And watch the hills to tumble as mountains turn to mud and clay……
today
© 2011.….Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
YES YESTERDAY YELLS
Ah, but that was yesterday
Today God surveyed the universe as it is
And always was
and shall always be
seeking beauty beholden to no one the Lord hath created creatively
It was most shapely in form
Far from the norm
Rich in royalty with a countenance divine
And now I see the universe as a vintage cask of wine
A world wherein we fear not my dear
A land of luxury where the sky is always clear my dear
No clouds to blur the beauty of the one that God had chosen well
No hurt, no pain, no misery from the cradle from which i fell
Children are free to be children and have no need for a locating device
And for peace there is never any price
Everything is everyone’s to share
To care
To bare the weight should it find the shoulders of a soldier
And it matters not as we are ordered to slowly become older
God’s hand came down and chose the one with beauty beyond one’s due
God’s hand came down and picked an angel to be you
© 2011.…..~free cee!~
Categories:
turbans, funny, god, world, beauty,
Form:
Free verse
Talismanic turbans trade togas. How great. Short grin large grin. Big beam. And now an elephant in baggy trousers dancing. Peachtree waving. Chutney calling. Tantric trade. Tanks. Till not a tailor. Traditionalists trumpeting. One six zero. And a purple patterned silk cloth. Rice dance then. Kilowatt jewels. Oooh sparkly. Good. Hahahaha green relish. Hahahaha many many many many turrets. Xxxx Adriatic sea. *** corrosional. Z
Categories:
turbans, angel, anniversary, beautiful,
Form: