"shawls" poems
Bare-handed, I hand the combs.
The man in white smiles, bare-handed,
Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet,
The throats of our wrists brave lilies.
He and I
Have a thousand clean cells between us,
Eight combs of yellow cups,
And the hive itself a teacup,
White with pink flowers on it,
With excessive love I enameled it
Thinking 'Sweetness, sweetness.'
Brood cells gray as the fossils of shells
Terrify me, they seem so old.
What am I buying, wormy mahogany?
Is there any queen at all in it?
If there is, she is old,
Her wings torn shawls, her long body
Rubbed of its plush ----
Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful.
I stand in a column
Of winged, unmiraculous women,
Honey-drudgers.
I am no drudge
Though for years I have eaten dust
And dried plates with my dense hair.
And seen my strangeness evaporate,
Blue dew from dangerous skin.
Will they hate me,
These women who only scurry,
Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover?
It is almost over.
I am in control.
Here is my honey-machine,
It will work without thinking,
Opening, in spring, like an industrious ******
To scour the creaming crests
As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.
A third person is watching.
He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me.
Now he is gone
In eight great bounds, a great scapegoat.
Here is his slipper, here is another,
And here the square of white linen
He wore instead of a hat.
He was sweet,
The sweat of his efforts a rain
Tugging the world to fruit.
The bees found him out,
Molding onto his lips like lies,
Complicating his features.
They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?
Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her ----
The mausoleum, the wax house.
38k
Oh beloved princess,
I'm just a commoner,
I just drink cannabis,
Lime & shank I have.
You are daughter of the king,
I lack any maids or servants,
You are protected by shawls,
I lack even a blanket or rug..
Get married to a moneylender,
Marry a lucky man...
I have pieces of purity,
But I'm just a commoner,
I just drink cannabis,
Lime & shank I have.
You live in the palaces,
I roam the wilderness,
You are not used to it,
I am used to roaming.
Get married to a rich man,
Marry a lucky man.
I just have purity in me,
Yes, I'm a commoner,
I just drink cannabis,
Lime & shank is all I have.
I carry on my austerity in incense,
I drink a slurry of cinders,
I tame hundreds of snakes on my neck,
I will scare you off my saturnalia.
You need a man with wavy hair,
A man with wavy hair.
My hair is dishevelled,
I am a commoner,
And I drink cannabis,
All I have is a lime & shank.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
In the seventies
we brought back silks and saris
hot with colours
that shocked the nights
Punjabi embroidery
on cheesecloth kaftans
mirror glittered skirts
that were spun with light
Kashmiri shawls
and Afghani dancing dresses
arms full of bracelets
silver and brass
enameled and etched
and singing with ***
rings of Ivory, sapphire and jet
necklaces of jade and threaded apple seeds
rain forest timber bowls
white marble boxes from Agra
with precious inlay stones
our little Taj Mahals
we wandered the globe
like a magical village
of lovers and
and came back
with backpacks of dreaming
and hope.
© M.L.Emmett
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
This poem is composed by: a Nonet, a Kyrielle Sonnet, a Free verse part, a Terzanelle and another Free verse part:
In a juerga there’s nothing around
But voices, flamenco guitars ,
Dancing bodies in moonlight,
Vibrant gypsy dresses,
Passion, obsessions,
Bullfighter’s blades,
Silk shawls,
Dancers,
Capes.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Flamenco women to attract,
Like barks of olive trees in night.
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Girls have boot heels and huge roses,
Men clench their teeth , step opposes,
Hands clap and shout in a dance fight,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Guitars are beaten at high speeds,
Castanets scratch the music’s seeds,
Rhythmic fingers snap air to bite,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Hands becoming wings
In their shadows on the wall,
Red becoming black and
Black becoming white,
Motion vibrating the guitar's string,
Cubic movements of colors,
In their dance ,
Shadowy wings becoming scarfs,
Flamenco woman arching her body,
Showing her passion…
From the soul to dissolve
The dancing sounds detach
From the soul to dissolve
When the movement they catch,
They may change all around,
The dancing sounds detach.
Drums and tambourines’ sound,
Exotic wrists and swirls,
They may change all around.
The weightless grace makes girls
Steal treasures from the air,
Exotic wrists and swirls.
With beautiful black hair,
Rise like birds , fall like leaves.
Steal treasures from the air,
Having tricks up their sleeves,
From the soul to dissolve,
Rise like birds ,fall like leaves
From the soul to dissolve.
Spicy slippery steps
Waiting for a clue,
Picking up portions of pink
Of hyper-femininity ,
Overflowing screwy sounds
In heavy red chromesthesia,
Morphing themselves into glamorous ,
Red feminine movements,
Men looking like marble statues being alive,
Seemingly cracking.
Slowly diminishing their dancing rhythm,
Steps sickling sweet sounds
To hear the horn of some lost happiness.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
Silent and alone, I flow through shops with so many
windows, but I see nothing except the faces around me, the ones
who might believe I'm more gossamer than the shawls and tunics
meant to disguise us all as ethereal hippies in the New Age.
Silent and alone, I stand by the fountain, waiting
for something to break the sleepiness of solitude when
two men spot me: mouths parted, eyes appraising, judging, appreciating my physical worth. Rooted in place, I smile.
Only when they look at me do I have purpose.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
Golden shawls envelope
flushing, blending fabrics
which billow
under the waxen blackbird's
silky braided feathers.
Heaven's vault, a celestial sphere of blue yonder,
a swirling palette of oils
suffusing and dancing,
wrapping their ringlets
into one thousand spirals
which signet shadows onto the
slender impressions in the sog.
Illuminous, voluminous salmon
bleaches blushing black tissue
to pale primrose promising the cobalt then marrying to aquamarine.
Stained glass fingers barely protruding from aurelian pews.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears
The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs
Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.
Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,
Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish----
Christ! They are panes of ice,
A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking
Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,
Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo
Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean
In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.
Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs----
The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,
Let the mercuric
Atoms that ******* drip
Into the terrible well,
You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.
3.3k
A juerga with flamenco guitars,
With fires blooming like red flowers,
Corpses dancing in moonlight
The dance of wounded souls,
Vibrant red dresses
White shirts like birds,
Falling shawls,
Dancers,
Sky,
Claps,
Cubic
Movements of
Color, music's
Seeds, hands being wings
In shadows on the wall,
From soul detaching passion's
Lights, motion vibrating the string,
Resonance for a new dimension.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
matt’s hats tom’s tools & tobacco lou’s liquors fred’s beds dale's doors frank’s planks bill’s drills jane’s drains & panes chuck’s check cashing cheryl’s barrels hank’s tanks tina’s trucks & tractors walt’s asphalt sean’s pawn rick’s rifles mom’s guns terry’s tires charlie’s harleys rhonda’s hondas jim’s rims art’s parts gus’s gas mike’s bikes frank’s feed gwen’s pens ann’s cans nancy’s nursery joes‘s clothes jess’s dresses bert’s skirts steve’s sleeves paul’s shawls michelle’s shells & bells al’s pails & snails sam’s hams & jams patty’s pancakes phil’s chili don’s donuts betty’s spaghetti bob’s burgers alycia’s quiches jean’s beans jerry’s berries anna’s bananas andy’s candies cathy’s taffies tony’s ponies roy’s toys ron’s batons kim’s whims marty’s parties jill’s pills rick’s tricks alice’s palace debbie’s disposal dave’s graves
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
i like seeing people when they're sleepy.
completely real
unfiltered humans,
yawning in their baggy nightclothes,
worn blankets wrapped like shawls,
and soft smiles
as they claim they aren't exhausted,
no,
their eyes are just tired.
their low mumbling gives them away every time, though.
people are wondrously beautiful in a
natural, peaceful state.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
Somebody put Kylie Minogue on
from the wall mounted touchscreen one-pound-a-go jukebox-
Coldplay would've been better, but I should be so lucky-
and the rising water in the Titanic's engine room of noise
rose to a First Class stateroom chatter and Kate Winslet
and the queue to the bar grew a little longer
and then
you
walked
in
like
a
Sunday
morning
walk,
one long stroll by a river edge or lake side,
through a Westfield, Bluewater Meadowhall
in one long rehearsed map move entrance
dodging standing drinkers and their plus ones in Zara trench coats and Boden shawls,
and you left a wake of wet forest and crumbling beachhead afternoons behind you as you
walked
on
through
the
crowd
to the pool table at the back where you watched
*** after ***
after pint
after ***
after we need more one pound coins to play more pool,
and you went out for **** though you don't smoke yourself
and you looked up into the mist because you're the kind that would find New York Stuart Little big:
mostly building, building, building, window, balcony, bridge, statue and Central Park trees,
and you walked back in with river eyes, your lids moving from cold back to behind-the-fridge, pub-room warm
and they watered a little, Pacific blue sliding over eternal black;
I think she's the kind that needs a lion tamer not an orchestra leader,
but I've only got Petit Filous muscles and I had four raw eggs this morning and I'm still not as strong as I’d like to be,
(put the baton down, Tim)
a River Phoenix younger Harrison Ford stasis, one train wreck ride to remember,
nowhere near the lion tamer you need.
Kylie sings for the fifteenth time in a row,
and the bar is past last orders though cash is pushed under for pints
and you disappeared under bar light
and then into the moonlight
and now I'm sat grieving
the Golden Retriever of The Nutshell
in Bury St Edmunds this evening.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
My heart now aches with sleepy dreariness:
A dreamy wake from whose dull, soothing spell
I can’t awake, nor can I sleep to bless
My dreams with profound ecstasy as well
For all recurring visions, sweet and deep,
Have turnéd to a black and empty void,
And all the stepping stones of pale night
Are clouded by the mists of murky sleep,
Bedewed with memories that I enjoyed:
The visions with which I can’t reunite.
My mind now pines for all those moments when
Endured had love and bliss before slow time
Had bound such moments once and then again
Shall bind more dreams and memories, sublime
Oh, vista of my dreams, unseen, unheard
Your brow is laid with shawls of quietness
Your pinions are held tight with the chain
Of all my visions; fly then, flame-plumed bird
And sing such sacred song you can’t express
Once I now free you from my wilting brain
My tears are of ripe joy and bliss’s ruth
And though my days are thus outright expelled
I shall keep in my core, the flames of youth
Which once I had in early years, beheld
Sweet memories, ye shaking leaves, adieu
I bid you well in winter and in spring
A-flickering before fate’s icy breath
And though, no longer, shall I see all you
I’m glad you flew upon nostalgia’s wing
And warméd my cold heart before my death
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
At night I hear them
Tiny footsteps
Sneaky little feet running around my head
The creatures they belong to
Biting on my brain cells and
Rummaging around my memories like
They're trinket hunting in a dusty old attic and
Pulling out the most repulsive, musty things they can find,
The things I hid in boxes, embarrassed about,
Old snapshots of a past I’d rather not remember
But they always creep back out of there come family reunions.
These sneaky little creatures that bite on the back of my brain
Cackle over my most mortifying trinkets,
The kind that I try to give away but the thrift stores won’t take them
And I’d be too humiliated to sell them directly
Because that would mean I’d have to share the fact that I had them
When the fact of the matter is that I’m walking in the snow
And trying to cover up my footprints
With an evergreen branch
That does nothing but leave bigger, clearer marks on
The cold white unforgiving ground
And makes the marks more visible
But less obviously mine.
And the sneaky little creatures don’t like this,
Because it’s taking away from the treasures they keep
Up in my attic with the moth-eaten shawls
And dusty old rocking chair stashed in the corner.
They love the old, repulsive musty things
That I don’t want and cannot give away,
And so they make me look them over and over
And shove the hideous things into my face
Dissolving my sense of self as easily as
Salt into water
And gradually changing my taste buds
From honey to brine
As I wonder
Why, why, why
And the sneaky little feet that run around my head
Turn heavy, as if clad in iron boots
And every little trinket that they share
Makes them less and less easy to ignore.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
Last night I watched in silence
At the end of the road in forest deep
I hid amongst the trees watching in awe
As gypsies dance while others sleep
Under the violet hue of evening sky
Haloed by evening's golden moon
I watched gypsies dance and sing
As flames from bonfires leaped high in the air
Dark haired women in shawls and beads
Happily dancing and twirling without care
Casting their spells of magic and enchantment
Performing their honeyed seductions
Blended with aphrodisiacs of scent and sound
Gypsy men with kerchiefs around their necks
Hoops of silver adorning their ears, singing joyful songs
Children laughing, dogs barking
As if they’re singing right along
Oh, I so wanted to join them as I stood watching in awe
Envious was I of their freedom and joy
Caravans painted in bright images and colors
Tambourines jingling as velvet shadows danced in the night
Skirts swirling, gold and silver bangles on their arms
Dancing 'round the bonfire's fiery light
Accordions singing, with happy notes from a fiddler's bow
As they sang and danced barefoot under evening moon
In the coming dawn once again...
It will be time for them to pack and move on
With a last meal served...
The caravans are readied to make another journey long
"Gather yourself up gypsy girls
Wonderful as it may seem…
A gypsies’ life is never their own
Time to move on
Time to find another home
You must have gypsy blood
In order to survive"
As their wagons move along dusty trails
They'll be looking for a place to camp
A place to call home... at least for awhile
A place to hang their colored paper lamps
Until...
Suddenly- a cry rings out
"Stop the wagons, ring the bells
We've found the perfect place
The perfect place for magic spells
Tomorrow brings a brand new day!
Let's feast, dance and make merry
Come on let's get things underway"
And so...
The journey goes on
And never ends!
"Gather yourself up gypsy girls
Wonderful as it may seem…
A gypsies’ life is never their own
Time to move on, time to leave
Time to find another home
You must have gypsy blood
In order to survive"
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
as the bus pulls along the lazy river on Main,
a slouching mind and pressed cheek is a swimmer,
dipping toes
and meanwhile
the gentle murmur of pool-goers living inaudibly,
like hunched bunches
in shawls of shade
(interrupted only
by the occasional l-urch)
nodding, nodding
off and on and off and
into the water,
the swimmer slips in
...
Here, it is heaven on earth
an oasis
...
and the mind swims ever so far
ever so deep
...
i wonder...
...
and outside
a boy, barefoot
runs upstream
a shimmering second
an apparition of summer?
and out of sight
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:45 PM UTC
High above the Holy River Ganges
where the water flows like Brahman itself,
is an ancient cave, a place of sacred pilgrimage.
Entering silently, our small gathering
sat together, meditating here where the great
sage himself transcended in deep samadhi.
Wrapped in warm shawls, dhotis and saris,
eyes closed gently in the stony half-light.
Early hours had seen us awake, readying
for this auspicious day, and the sleepiness
of a little child began to overtake me.
With that same innocence, a childlike feeling,
I curled down into a woolen bundle, asleep
in the inner depths of that holy, dark place.
Sleep was sleep, and not sleep,
as awareness shone within me.
Limitless akasha unfolded inside me now,
and the ground where I rested expanded
into that same unbounded, cosmic space.
From far beneath the cool, damp earth,
a radiance travelled into my small frame.
Renewing energy suffused and blessed me.
Bowing in my heart, I touch the lotus feet
of Maharishi Vashistha. His darshan
shines on into our present day, and
throughout all of Ved Bhumi Bharat.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 12:16 PM UTC
The grace in the way things move feels
like the fibers of a mantilla veil until
the wind blows and turns
grace to something
worthy of fear.
I've got everything going
and they're all wondering if I'm coming
along but all I want is to keep
going my own way
even when I'm a little lost
in deciding what really is my own.
I've got the veil
I've always had
happy to know I had much more
beneath than beyond
but I think he proved me wrong.
The trouble with going
and still going strong
is that I do it best when he's gone.
I know what I want isn't
the best thing but
I want it just the same
nobody could blame me either way.
Now the wind's blowing
and blowing embers
burning my veil
clean away.
I'm finding all I hid
was worth something
to someone besides me and now
that I'm happy to be
alone they all want a piece.
Content beneath my mantilla watching
the best and the worst inch by
I had no Holy Week
and kept no days holy but my own.
Burnt to the scalp
I'm learning to dance without
the skirts and shawls that made holy
what I thought it had to be.
Fear driving my fingers to Flamenco
twists and my feet to wind-blown flames
I've got nothing to lose because the worst
is mine to claim and the best
isn't coming but going
my own way.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
The moon cracks and blooms.
Its grey nowhere to be seen,
It shawls itself with a bleak cloud.
The floating pearl biscuit
Busily dictates orions and dippers.
One travels, and people start wishing.
They are hopeless: the people and their pretentious wishes.
The jackfruit tree bears only death: dead leaves, thorned fruits.
Under the nocturnal skies,
It is the great witch.
Silent and black. It is voiceless.
Shalini Nayar
© 2002
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
Black shawls over glass
To prevent staring eyes
From the hatred from inside.
Masks glued, taped, stapled, nailed on the faces.
“Is it true,
Self-mutilation prevents isolation?”
Why must there be pain?
Why must there be pain?
In foggy Tupperware, tinted pink,
Some firm rose jello. She did think
It spoke oddly, like a jack-in-the-box.
Walks, talks, mocks, shocks, paradox-in-the-box,
But no socks.
The jello wasn’t jello.
Jello breaks no hearts.
“He wasn’t the fellow.”
He was mundane,
It was quite in vain.
Lost in clouds of thoughts,
He saw faces in blurs, in purples and slurs.
Hiding in needles and giggles,
His heart is escaping.
He knows well bacteria multiply.
[Quite an education, for your information.]
His infection, anti-biotic resistant.
Willing, the suicide persisted.
He’s stuck in the chain.
“God, he’s in pain!”
So many broken, so many shattered,
Tucking pieces behind painted faces.
Cotton candy-covered black clouds hound
The carnival where everyone’s a clown.
Clown ashes, dolls, and masks scattered,
Behold a grand masquerade.
No kisses for Phantom,
He cut his lips on the glass.
It wasn’t random.
God, I’m insane!
I am sane.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 8:44 PM UTC
January
winter objectivity
the coldest month of the year
a month that bring most folks to tears
Wooly shawls, fluffy robes
doggy ears slippers struggles
to warm the curse of your cold feet
~~
Early to bed, and early to rise
Followed by a hot cup of fresh mint tea
Vick vaporize that stings your eyes
Would make a blind person see clearly
~~
Re-corking that age old red wine
from nineteen eighty-nine
with two wines glasses on the top cabinet
In hopes of one day for another romantic setting
Or most likely your daughter futuristic June wedding
~~
let’s accepted the unacceptable
I cannot imagine a winter without snow
a summer without the hot blasting sun or
autumn without the leaves slowly falling
to the ground,
mother nature the grief we feel
your unalterable changes of your teaching
once again you have won this round
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
the professor
name's John, I think
every day a goatee
a ponytail
and an honest smile
brings me flowers
sometimes.
pays in nickels
sometimes.
"have an easy day"
he says to me
man in the same brown
suit, mismatching
every day
coffee, hunched over
with something under
his arm
sometimes.
never seen him speak
just a scowl
and a solemn shuffle
the owner
of the bar next door
I think.
out for a cigarette
every 30 minutes or so
or move his car
he gets our mail
sometimes.
glasses on his forehead
never on his face
always a fleeting
noncommittal smile
pacing past the door
sly eyes.
there's the guy
stuck in the 70s.
every day
bell bottoms
a black bowl cut
it's a wig
I think.
a leather jacket
sometimes.
walks like he owns
the sidewalk
he doesn't.
the old man
the half-blind one
orders the same thing
always.
with his walker
his hands searching
haven't seen him
in a while
the big guy from
the burger place
across the street
no, not the famous one
the other place.
took his suggestion
got a burger
wasn't very good
but he's always so
cheery, gotta be nice
the one guy
blue shorts guy
stops by during his
run, to check
the selection. back
an hour later in
pants and
a jacket now.
never buys a thing
wearing those blue shorts
the woman with
oddly spaced teeth
and hair
the short witchy kind
lots of shawls
and oversized tote bags
and cargo-capri's.
complained of
an allergic reaction
once
to god knows what.
keeps coming back though
a mother and son
mother, tired.
ten year old
private school boy
asks for too much
and too many questions
"did you make this?"
"are you really 20?"
"do you go to school?"
he asks so many questions
"yes, yes, no."
"why not?"
"well…"
mom saves me
distracts him away
the poor skinny one
the homeless man.
ill-fitting clothes
always.
women's
sometimes.
begging, cigarettes and money
has a tic, says
"hello! hi! hello!"
every few seconds
he's very persistent.
and very polite.
gracefully insane, I'd say
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
A thick flood of thought clogs
lemon teeth and pools, crude
and salty behind lost red eyes.
Gouge them hollow! Darken the moon.
Brittle moans like a swollen beehive
loom tall, fifty miles behind the lost craters.
Hugs from pigs in blue,
they dance and loll around the flames,
a funky dark against their luminous fire.
Proud and bogus (and probably ******
bitter about foul books they never read,
statues made of fear in the groins of men.
Ruined: hurled into a crag,
torn and singing, trapped in loops -
No elbow room in black hole falls.
Snoring next to wives wrapped in shawls,
hugging her leather Buick seat,
praying to wake up gaunt and lithe.
They rise, mornings, clutching onto dreams
in which they fly through the cold gloom.
They scratch desperate screeds onto napkins,
bite squirming, disobedient tongues,
souls raw, chafing in their dank enclosures.
Animals! Bred to elect ourselves for slaughter.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
Of all of the days to sleep in this late
Why did I have to choose today
The revolution we'd been planing along
I'm sure was already underway
I grabbed my bag, thank goodness already packed
And headed for the door
I ran out so fast my dog was aghast
My feet barely touching the floor
When I arrived at the park
I saw none of my friends
There were old ladies knitting shawls
Old men playing rummy and gin
I was already there
So I refused to go home
The revolution got canceled
And I wasn't informed
So I stood up on my soapbox
And yelled listen to me
All the old folks gathered round
As I gave the greatest of speech
I talked of how long
We'd been beat down by the man
As I went point by point
Of my intricate plan
There came weakened shouts
From a few in the crowd
While the hearing impaired
Wondered what all the fuss was about
We all moved to the street
With luck a Boy Scout happened by
To help all the old ladies across
But only one at a time
We surrounded Dairy Queen first
Because they have ice cream soft serve
Which goes down so smooth
When your wearing dentures
Next we did a flash mob
In the local Right-Aid
There were old women swinging purses
And old men waving canes
They all slowly shuffled down
The adult diaper aisle
Where they stripped the shelves clean
With raspy giggles and wrinkly smiles
Things were running so smoothly
According to revolutionary plans
We were creating social havoc
And sticking it BAD to the man
In the middle of the craze
My cell phone it rang
It was my radical friends
Wondering where I have been
I'm a tad bit embarrassed
That's the least I can say
In my mad rush to arrive
I went to the wrong park today
So I snuck out the back of Rite-Aid
As the swat team arrived
If I had a conscience I'd feel bad
In leaving my new old friends behind
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
Istanbul is wandering on my forehead
the seagulls are flying from my chest
the clouds of the longing on their eyes
the dream showers on my eyelashes
As I compose the poems of the sorrows
pile on my letters the greetings of the fellows
the pipes urges my heart
istanbul doesn’t shelter in my heart
What wraps my shoulders are the shawls of the separation
pours down on me the coolness of the night
you were crippled by how many bends that your wound doesn’t bleed
a light grabbles our memories
It is fall that caresses the hairs of our lives
when my eyes touch the tree on black and white
of a photograph, my mind is scattered
the leaves of the love surround my heart
My loneliness cut out from the cloth of the sorrow
is the pages of the summer, which are not closed
not death, a hope, what my tongue says, anyhow
wait for my youth, you are my longing oh istanbul.
Koray Feyiz
(Translated from Turkish by Koray Feyiz)
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
In the open space below the mountains
lakes and rivers, trees dancing with moss shawls and furry tips
the rolling breeze that bathes us into peace
Our surroundings that dictate our disposition
If we reduce it all to steaming rubble,
grey concrete and loud sharp horns
the peace dissipates
and though it is curious how we are affected from the outside in
if we challenge nature, we’ll never win.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC