Behind a pane of vintage
glass he stands,
A silent wizard from a distant
land.
With golden turban and a
paisley vest,
He wakes to life at a coin's
request.
An iron token drops into the
slot,
And gears awaken what the
workshop wrought.
His painted eyes begin to roll
and gleam,
A sudden actor in a neon
dream.
The crystal ball lights up with
shifting fire,
Responding to the circuit
board's desire.
He nods his head and waves
a mechanical hand,
Dispensing secrets from the
desert sand.
"Zoltar Speaks!" his booming
voice declares,
To startled children at the
crowded fairs.
His motorized jaw clicks
open and goes slack,
Demanding that you never
look back.
A whirring motor drops a
paper slip,
Your future written on a
cardboard strip.
The music fades, the blinking
lights grow dim,
And quiet shadows settle
back on him.
He waits alone inside his
wooden box,
A trapped magician under
glass and locks.
Gold turban and dark eyes that stare
He soon caught my eye at the fair.
His white gazing ball
held answers for all-
At once, I was caught in his glare!
Voltar was his mystical name.
For years, he's held carnival fame.
Now set to comply
On faith would rely
To play his miraculous game.
I placed my three bucks in the slot-
Find out what he thinks, good or not.
His words startled me,
Though he spoke softly
On something I never forgot!
He knew I had lost my heartthrob;
At that point, I felt I could sob.
A card then slipped out
My fortune, no doubt?
No! Asks for five bucks- I feel robbed!
How silly of me to believe
His fortune could soothe and relieve!
Goodbye, Zoltar- fear
You made your act clear.
Just empty words, I did receive!
Beneath the carnival lights,
where fortunes danced and swayed,
a prophet sat behind a glass screen,
dressed in a turban, and bright brocade.
A coin slipped in and woke the oracle.
With a clang, a click, a beat of drum,
A bottled genie deep within was stirred,
Our fate was sprung; our fortune opened, revealed.
The glowing eyes knew every face,
every dream the heart held dear;
every wish, every need, every want fulfilled,
was printed on a tiny card, and then expelled.
The years rolled on; the tents came down.
The boardwalk halls all closed down.
Yet the hunger for prophecy foretold remained,
in modern shrines, in glowing glass enclosed.
The prophet's turban turned to code,
Its gears and wheels changed to circuit chips.
Eliza, Claude and Gemini said: "I'm here to help".
All clad in Zolta's turban, gear and fab disguise.
From Zoltar's gears to silicon dreams,
we've always asked screen oracles for help.
To see our fortunes unfurl, and be revealed,
in the swirl of mist in dark crystal balls.
Aunt Mary’s sprawling wrap-around porch
hid curious six-year-old me.
Peeking over the baluster rail,
I spied Cross Creek Rosie passing by,
tall and stately, walking purposefully
down Jefferson Avenue.
Her constant companions,
rumors and cruel taunts,
pursued alongside.
In an era lacking preferred pronouns,
she was exotic intrigue,
inquisitive mystery,
a Pandora’s box of queries,
the circus orchestra
rife with colorful discordant notes.
Flamboyant scarlet turban,
deeply rouged cheeks, fiery red lipstick,
black mascara adorning manly features,
gypsy-like blouse spattered in rainbow hues,
black toreador slacks.
My tiny heart ached for her.
Small hand lifted in greeting,
I whispered, “Someday I want to be like you.”
Would I ever walk confidently in my own skin?
Just saw something very
touching a man,
a man of color looking
like he has been on the streets
for a while saluting old glory
just standing before a flagpole
as the red, white, and blue
flaps in the summer breeze
a random salute, silent in repose
on the side of the street
he was wearing a turban
he was tattered and torn, dirty
scared and broken
I felt I knew what his faith was
despite the fact
that this country's
disrespect for people like him
to fear to hate what is not white
what is not like the norm
at least I can see a man
a simple man, regardless of where he is from
or where he was born
still has respect for his country
I just saw something very moving
a man looking down on his luck
a man looking tatted and torn
like he has been on the streets
just standing for a while
saluting old glory
just a random salute
on the side of the street.
In the hallway of legends and ghosts
I wander aimlessly in dream
Talking with the dead of Brookhaven
The rope burns are still fresh on Helen's neck
A sickly scarlet mark upon her throat
In this corridor, I pace, a key in hand; lost
Forever the sojourn of quietus in keeping
Before a door numbered two, I stand
Silence a silver web with the muted sobs of angels
It is not a key I hold when she at last comes upon me
It is only the dark tangent of lost souls and vipers
And a blind man staggering upon a battlefield as
Cannons roar and the blue turban leers
The rains come like Jacob Marley's ghost
Riding the coach forever
Brahms Walz in A flat Major OP> Number 15
_____________________________________________
Bello, Bello
your turban has come
Bello, Bello
your Turban has come
she bowed her head in
embasserment
the fluted sound whistled
in oour ear
Bello, Bello
your Turban
is here
She wore her brothers pink headdress
when she heard of his
opponet
she bowed her head in shame
he marveled
and stood fast
and she covered her eyes
each moment
thinking her lover
would fall to the champions feet
.
'tiz true
i'll visit the b&b
with the softest
bath towels
i love them warm
i'll take the
hot
mine great anticipation
the taut wrap
'round mine
mine
turban
the chambermaid's
reinforce
*booned
1. : something asked or granted as a favor.
2. : something pleasant or helpful that comes
at just the right time : blessing ["boon'd".]
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
Hidden Face Man of Des Moines was carrying his steed to Derby Town.
It’s the oddest sight, agreed a jokester, a monkey, a duck and a clown.
Onlookers wanted to take a peek, for it is not a matter of course
When you see a man in a turban carrying a brown upside down horse.
GIRL WITH A PEARL EARRING
by Johannes Vermeer
I am covered
In shades of light
An exotic dress
In gold and white
An oriental turban
In blue and gold
And a pearl earring
That shimmers bold
Lips parted
As if to speak
Bright eyes turning
To take a peek
Who are you
Who capture me?
A simple girl
I'm your tronie
In a fleeting moment
I turn my head
My eyes are wide
Words are unsaid
My intimate glance
Has caught your gaze
And you brush your strokes
Gripped in a daze
24th April 2023
My brother, you as well as I know
That I should have wished you well long ago
Nevertheless I wish you well now
As I make to wishing wellness my vow
We brought each other down at our own expense
So myopic was our lense
We each saw only what was one's own
Until our doors were knocked and banged by others' groans
Therefore I wish you rain and I wish you dew
May God give you a robe and turban white and new
Be the walking dignity of we your kinsmen
And may we resemble gloriously as brethren
For the flourishing of one and another and another
Will breed praises to God whenever we'll gather
May it proliferate throughout the nation
That the peoples may draw from us citation
And when it's all done and unabated
So will it be to the sons an inheritance slated
So soaking will Godliness be to our name
That repute will be more than fame
K. Muitherero.
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
I design myself a turban of exotic fruit
To wear with my fabulous orange holiday suit
I wish I could find my other paisley green boot
To visit Gramps, an old colorful coot.
Not even a turban ,rob he have , oh lord! I don't know from where he came,
A torn out towel and trouser he wear, no shoes in legs,he is a lame ,
At the gate there is a brahmin, see the Dwarika empire and exclaim,
And ask for thy address, oh lord, and say Sudama is his name .
How much torn thy feet from thorns, thousand of prickles I can see,
Where thee have been all this time? How's thy family and how are thee?
By seeing Sudama's sick state , cried the lord out of pain ,
He didn't touch the trough water , washed pal's feet with tears rain !
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