"turbaned" poems - Hello Poetry

You won't recognize them I bet, your secrets, even in broad day light, if they walk towards you smiling, wearing dark glasses to hide their eyes in a humid day.They now wear clothes of different styles to take you for a ride, even cross dress and change the accents, they play games with your hazy mind --the secrets you once buried deep under. They stand peeping behind blinded windows prowl as shadows soliciting behind half open doors,. Time flies in a hurry like migratory birds left behind, you have to strain your ears too much to hear even the faint foot falls of the past! Old memories have changed their manners they try to distract one with invented details Like the muffled voices in an attic dark, on a fateful day so long, your old secrets speak an archaic tongue, that needs to be interpreted. One has to be artful as the turbaned village elders who would for your astonishment interpret the vocabulary of lizard calls, key to nature's intents. Or the trained eye of an elder who in flashes of meteor falls, reads the secret messages of universe. To get a true sense of your own secret you have to tread the places they hide. Make them shed their crusted hides by which they conceal their true color, which one has been waiting to see, with a palpitating heart, walking back to where one walked once, long forgotten. That is why elders on days of yore would exhort, embarrassingly repeat too, not to have any hidden secrets that hurt even if breathtakingly beautiful like a courtesan. In some moment one won't expect dreadful they could turn and become witches, with fiery eyes, dreadlocks, and long nails.

0

Mar 25, 2017

Mar 25, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC

k-balachandran

Dreadlocks and long nails

You won't recognize them I bet, your secrets, even in broad day light, if they walk towards you smiling, wearing dark glasses to hide their eyes in a humid day.They now wear clothes of different styles to take you for a ride, even cross dress and change the accents, they play games with your hazy mind --the secrets you once buried deep under. They stand peeping behind blinded windows prowl as shadows soliciting behind half open doors,. Time flies in a hurry like migratory birds left behind, you have to strain your ears too much to hear even the faint foot falls of the past! Old memories have changed their manners they try to distract one with invented details Like the muffled voices in an attic dark, on a fateful day so long, your old secrets speak an archaic tongue, that needs to be interpreted. One has to be artful as the turbaned village elders who would for your astonishment interpret the vocabulary of lizard calls, key to nature's intents. Or the trained eye of an elder who in flashes of meteor falls, reads the secret messages of universe. To get a true sense of your own secret you have to tread the places they hide. Make them shed their crusted hides by which they conceal their true color, which one has been waiting to see, with a palpitating heart, walking back to where one walked once, long forgotten. That is why elders on days of yore would exhort, embarrassingly repeat too, not to have any hidden secrets that hurt even if breathtakingly beautiful like a courtesan. In some moment one won't expect dreadful they could turn and become witches, with fiery eyes, dreadlocks, and long nails.

38

64 Some Rainbow—coming from the Fair! Some Vision of the World Cashmere— I confidently see! Or else a Peacock’s purple Train Feather by feather—on the plain Fritters itself away! The dreamy Butterflies bestir! Lethargic pools resume the whir Of last year’s sundered tune! From some old Fortress on the sun Baronial Bees—march—one by one— In murmuring platoon! The Robins stand as thick today As flakes of snow stood yesterday— On fence—and Roof—and Twig! The Orchis binds her feather on For her old lover—Don the Sun! Revisiting the Bog! Without Commander! Countless! Still! The Regiments of Wood and Hill In bright detachment stand! Behold! Whose Multitudes are these? The children of whose turbaned seas— Or what Circassian Land?

0

2.7k

Emily Dickinson

Some Rainbow—coming from the Fair!

64 Some Rainbow—coming from the Fair! Some Vision of the World Cashmere— I confidently see! Or else a Peacock’s purple Train Feather by feather—on the plain Fritters itself away! The dreamy Butterflies bestir! Lethargic pools resume the whir Of last year’s sundered tune! From some old Fortress on the sun Baronial Bees—march—one by one— In murmuring platoon! The Robins stand as thick today As flakes of snow stood yesterday— On fence—and Roof—and Twig! The Orchis binds her feather on For her old lover—Don the Sun! Revisiting the Bog! Without Commander! Countless! Still! The Regiments of Wood and Hill In bright detachment stand! Behold! Whose Multitudes are these? The children of whose turbaned seas— Or what Circassian Land?

25

his head bleeds rivulets of flowers on the street with few passerby but there is still naught, not a worrier, we are all sons of this soil which has imbued in us the shield of defense against pain, poverty, wound and death, we are all idols of this soil with our open eyes that see but never could comprehend. we are solemn in our expressions but only if it could turn into actions that we have long forgot the story of, there is pain in every glance, and that is all there is to it, our hands clutching our ******* as we pass by, our eyes squinted with the soil kernels touched by his blood, fainted of life, (of alcohol may be) and of lifeless visions. his toes are half hidden beneath a car (is he just asleep, my eyes ask me, I have no answer, I pass by: a passerby) a turbaned man sees through his shield while speaking on his phone, the lips next to me tell of the blood I failed to see or sniff and him being passed out by alcoholism, those lips wonder if he’d die, may be he would, we’re all dead, when alive.

0

May 31, 2014

May 31, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC

ha

When I'm just a passerby

his head bleeds rivulets of flowers on the street with few passerby but there is still naught, not a worrier, we are all sons of this soil which has imbued in us the shield of defense against pain, poverty, wound and death, we are all idols of this soil with our open eyes that see but never could comprehend. we are solemn in our expressions but only if it could turn into actions that we have long forgot the story of, there is pain in every glance, and that is all there is to it, our hands clutching our ******* as we pass by, our eyes squinted with the soil kernels touched by his blood, fainted of life, (of alcohol may be) and of lifeless visions. his toes are half hidden beneath a car (is he just asleep, my eyes ask me, I have no answer, I pass by: a passerby) a turbaned man sees through his shield while speaking on his phone, the lips next to me tell of the blood I failed to see or sniff and him being passed out by alcoholism, those lips wonder if he’d die, may be he would, we’re all dead, when alive.

27

Sky is a taut, grey net spread, at its best in creating panic, relentless day a brutish marauder, drained of color of every kind, bleak, even thought of you distant, my nectar plays hide and seek, I am plunging in a hallucinatory spin, down, down. From inside a furnace closed with a tight lid under which heat in it's fiery glory permeates like never before, a full- throated roar, without any sound it travels around, in waves after waves after waves, to scorch every single thing under the blood thirsty sun, on a hurried march for revenge,green turbaned trees and scarf adorned branches changed all those embellishments gone bone dry,now stand apologetic like kids that made bed wet and caught red handed, shrunk in shame and pain. Narcolepsy reigns, drowsiness day and night, like marijuana haze follows. This summer makes its name stick in bad books,making T.S.Eliot look shame faced for calling one past tame April, uncharitably the cruelest of it all. But this, this is an unbridled wild horse none can in no way do anything to stop. When even the last drop of water from the pond evaporates,sunburn peels the skin, sun stroke down people, who are unaware, cruelty of April, becomes monumental. Perhaps in few days time May could barter that bad name from April,I'd easily guess. Buildings , in rows and rows lie, til horizon, like blood drained corpses all though the day, the appetite for life, they evidently has lost. Song birds on flowered trees, have gone mute, doves scamper, dart in to the air, with hope to get few drops of water from somewhere Kindhearted few fill water and feed on containers for stray birds,taking cue from the practices of forefathers. Change in climate is an ogre, that could with bare hands smash pompous attitudes and other human constructs! Will there ever be a limit, to the red eyed monster, avarice, we all pamper, within our inner courtyards, that forces human beings to to do "Harakiri" like a proud Samurai does with his own sword.

0

Apr 29, 2016

Apr 29, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC

k-balachandran

Summer rides roughshod over a shriveled world

Sky is a taut, grey net spread, at its best in creating panic, relentless day a brutish marauder, drained of color of every kind, bleak, even thought of you distant, my nectar plays hide and seek, I am plunging in a hallucinatory spin, down, down. From inside a furnace closed with a tight lid under which heat in it's fiery glory permeates like never before, a full- throated roar, without any sound it travels around, in waves after waves after waves, to scorch every single thing under the blood thirsty sun, on a hurried march for revenge,green turbaned trees and scarf adorned branches changed all those embellishments gone bone dry,now stand apologetic like kids that made bed wet and caught red handed, shrunk in shame and pain. Narcolepsy reigns, drowsiness day and night, like marijuana haze follows. This summer makes its name stick in bad books,making T.S.Eliot look shame faced for calling one past tame April, uncharitably the cruelest of it all. But this, this is an unbridled wild horse none can in no way do anything to stop. When even the last drop of water from the pond evaporates,sunburn peels the skin, sun stroke down people, who are unaware, cruelty of April, becomes monumental. Perhaps in few days time May could barter that bad name from April,I'd easily guess. Buildings , in rows and rows lie, til horizon, like blood drained corpses all though the day, the appetite for life, they evidently has lost. Song birds on flowered trees, have gone mute, doves scamper, dart in to the air, with hope to get few drops of water from somewhere Kindhearted few fill water and feed on containers for stray birds,taking cue from the practices of forefathers. Change in climate is an ogre, that could with bare hands smash pompous attitudes and other human constructs! Will there ever be a limit, to the red eyed monster, avarice, we all pamper, within our inner courtyards, that forces human beings to to do "Harakiri" like a proud Samurai does with his own sword.

50

HE stood among a crowd at Dromahair; His heart hung all upon a silken dress, And he had known at last some tenderness, Before earth took him to her stony care; But when a man poured fish into a pile, It Seemed they raised their little silver heads, And sang what gold morning or evening sheds Upon a woven world-forgotten isle Where people love beside the ravelled seas; That Time can never mar a lover's vows Under that woven changeless roof of boughs: The singing shook him out of his new ease. He wandered by the sands of Lissadell; His mind ran all on money cares and fears, And he had known at last some prudent years Before they heaped his grave under the hill; But while he passed before a plashy place, A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth Sang that somewhere to north or west or south There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race Under the golden or the silver skies; That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit: And at that singing he was no more wise. He mused beside the well of Scanavin, He mused upon his mockers: without fail His sudden vengeance were a country tale, When earthy night had drunk his body in; But one small knot-grass growing by the pool Sang where -- unnecessary cruel voice -- Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice, Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall Or stormy silver fret the gold of day, And midnight there enfold them like a fleece And lover there by lover be at peace. The tale drove his fine angry mood away. He slept under the hill of Lugnagall; And might have known at last unhaunted sleep Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep, Now that the earth had taken man and all: Did not the worms that spired about his bones proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry That God has laid His fingers on the sky, That from those fingers glittering summer runs Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave. Why should those lovers that no lovers miss Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss? The man has found no comfort in the grave.

0

1.7k

William Butler Yeats

The Man Who Dreamed Of Faeryland

HE stood among a crowd at Dromahair; His heart hung all upon a silken dress, And he had known at last some tenderness, Before earth took him to her stony care; But when a man poured fish into a pile, It Seemed they raised their little silver heads, And sang what gold morning or evening sheds Upon a woven world-forgotten isle Where people love beside the ravelled seas; That Time can never mar a lover's vows Under that woven changeless roof of boughs: The singing shook him out of his new ease. He wandered by the sands of Lissadell; His mind ran all on money cares and fears, And he had known at last some prudent years Before they heaped his grave under the hill; But while he passed before a plashy place, A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth Sang that somewhere to north or west or south There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race Under the golden or the silver skies; That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit: And at that singing he was no more wise. He mused beside the well of Scanavin, He mused upon his mockers: without fail His sudden vengeance were a country tale, When earthy night had drunk his body in; But one small knot-grass growing by the pool Sang where -- unnecessary cruel voice -- Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice, Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall Or stormy silver fret the gold of day, And midnight there enfold them like a fleece And lover there by lover be at peace. The tale drove his fine angry mood away. He slept under the hill of Lugnagall; And might have known at last unhaunted sleep Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep, Now that the earth had taken man and all: Did not the worms that spired about his bones proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry That God has laid His fingers on the sky, That from those fingers glittering summer runs Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave. Why should those lovers that no lovers miss Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss? The man has found no comfort in the grave.

48

With eyes of black obsidian And eagle's beak of nose Black turban of the Taliban Worn everywhere he goes, Warrior of God's mountainside Mujaheddin, known by name, Pashto is his verbal tongue And Allah's quest, his fame. Razored knife in braided belt Long"Jezail"musket points to sky, A gimlet glint to garnet gaze One thoughtless move , you die. Gliding fast from rock to rock Gazelle like in his easy grace, Silent as an adder's strike Assassin black with turbaned face. For centuries invaders came To vanquish this stark land, Persians,Romans, Russians And British redcoats tried their hand. And recently the Yankees Came with automated war, To find themselves engulfed And fleeing for the exit door. Inexorable Afghanistan Has bleached their bones as one Vendetta for the insult While there's air to breath and gun. Like Shah Massoud, the warlords Descend from mountain cave To slaughter all who venture Be they terrified or brave. Tribally disconnected From Islamabad to Kabul, Tajik versus Pashtun Versus Koranic Islam's rule. No prisoners are taken, The women always use their knives And ravines echo shockingly As tortured slowly lose their lives. But the sunsets are glorious Valley mists by morning rise And row by row of fractured peaks Rise in grandeur to blue skies. And the children croon to goat herds As they graze high meadow's green And above the taloned goshawk glides Ever watchful and unseen. Hulks of Russian gun ships Litter valleys and the plain And the ghosts of many nations Walk these dusty roads of shame. For the legacy of the Afghans Is a ****** litany of war And the road to their tomorrow Is paved with promises of more. Marshalg Wanganui 30 December 2009. www.worthyofpublishing.com www.hellopoetry.com

0

Jan 3, 2010

Jan 3, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC

marshal-gebbie

Afghans

With eyes of black obsidian And eagle's beak of nose Black turban of the Taliban Worn everywhere he goes, Warrior of God's mountainside Mujaheddin, known by name, Pashto is his verbal tongue And Allah's quest, his fame. Razored knife in braided belt Long"Jezail"musket points to sky, A gimlet glint to garnet gaze One thoughtless move , you die. Gliding fast from rock to rock Gazelle like in his easy grace, Silent as an adder's strike Assassin black with turbaned face. For centuries invaders came To vanquish this stark land, Persians,Romans, Russians And British redcoats tried their hand. And recently the Yankees Came with automated war, To find themselves engulfed And fleeing for the exit door. Inexorable Afghanistan Has bleached their bones as one Vendetta for the insult While there's air to breath and gun. Like Shah Massoud, the warlords Descend from mountain cave To slaughter all who venture Be they terrified or brave. Tribally disconnected From Islamabad to Kabul, Tajik versus Pashtun Versus Koranic Islam's rule. No prisoners are taken, The women always use their knives And ravines echo shockingly As tortured slowly lose their lives. But the sunsets are glorious Valley mists by morning rise And row by row of fractured peaks Rise in grandeur to blue skies. And the children croon to goat herds As they graze high meadow's green And above the taloned goshawk glides Ever watchful and unseen. Hulks of Russian gun ships Litter valleys and the plain And the ghosts of many nations Walk these dusty roads of shame. For the legacy of the Afghans Is a ****** litany of war And the road to their tomorrow Is paved with promises of more. Marshalg Wanganui 30 December 2009. www.worthyofpublishing.com www.hellopoetry.com

61

The red flower centered between exotic curled lines evokes the smell of old Jaipur the Hawa Mahal ~ Palace of the Winds where the maharaja’s women once peered from pink honeycombed windows above streets overflowing with painted elephants, camels, turbaned men. A river of color, movement, sound from red-dust shrouded sunrise to ember scorch at the horizon line the desert broken only by the organic rise of dung and mud-bricked houses sheltered by one denuded tree, a mirage of shade. A cobalt hurricane spiral or vine’s end worn smaller than its origins its story, the shelf on which it sat perhaps a fragile immigrant, hand-carried from the old country by someone’s mother’s mother. Whole and admired for a century before its demise, told with regret-laden mouths mother to daughter, daughter to mother *Oh, I wish we still had that blue bowl great grandmother dropped when she heard about Roy* a circle of memory, come to rest on this distant curve of beach. The cream and blue striped shard could be my grandmother’s coffee cup rimmed brown and lipstick stamped sip, then drag on the Raleigh cigarette always attached to electric-tipped fingers. The cup was most likely broken in the war that raged until death parted my grandparents maybe it sailed harmlessly past my grandfather’s shiny head and hit a rock near the creek, exploding into pieces a small token of their shattered marriage a lifetime of regrets carried to the sea grievance-scrubbed, muted by the journey this sliver must be handled with care. The largest fragment found tangled in the eelgrass at my feet delivered on a tide of need at the ebb of an unexpected storm a perfect cross, soft edges raised on a rough slab of terra cotta. The fragile sun had warmed the worn shape nesting in my palm like a missing piece as my restless fingers traced down and across, across and down asking questions, seeking answers.

0

Dec 22, 2015

Dec 22, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC

denel-kessler

Shards

The red flower centered between exotic curled lines evokes the smell of old Jaipur the Hawa Mahal ~ Palace of the Winds where the maharaja’s women once peered from pink honeycombed windows above streets overflowing with painted elephants, camels, turbaned men. A river of color, movement, sound from red-dust shrouded sunrise to ember scorch at the horizon line the desert broken only by the organic rise of dung and mud-bricked houses sheltered by one denuded tree, a mirage of shade. A cobalt hurricane spiral or vine’s end worn smaller than its origins its story, the shelf on which it sat perhaps a fragile immigrant, hand-carried from the old country by someone’s mother’s mother. Whole and admired for a century before its demise, told with regret-laden mouths mother to daughter, daughter to mother *Oh, I wish we still had that blue bowl great grandmother dropped when she heard about Roy* a circle of memory, come to rest on this distant curve of beach. The cream and blue striped shard could be my grandmother’s coffee cup rimmed brown and lipstick stamped sip, then drag on the Raleigh cigarette always attached to electric-tipped fingers. The cup was most likely broken in the war that raged until death parted my grandparents maybe it sailed harmlessly past my grandfather’s shiny head and hit a rock near the creek, exploding into pieces a small token of their shattered marriage a lifetime of regrets carried to the sea grievance-scrubbed, muted by the journey this sliver must be handled with care. The largest fragment found tangled in the eelgrass at my feet delivered on a tide of need at the ebb of an unexpected storm a perfect cross, soft edges raised on a rough slab of terra cotta. The fragile sun had warmed the worn shape nesting in my palm like a missing piece as my restless fingers traced down and across, across and down asking questions, seeking answers.

51

Among the flowers of my Persian carpet vines sprout curl twine me into fields of silk and wool. Sliding through warp and weft, I hear the rustle of thread grasses, and my nostrils fill with the pungency of feral cats, I taste the dryness of dust, and the dampness of a blue silk river runs through my ears. A blend and blur of color mark the horizon spots of russet and black resolving into a hunt undisturbed by my addition to the scene. Arabian steeds damp dark with silken sweat, silent as Attic shapes, prance and wheel through date palms and trees of fiery-fruited pomegranate. Turbaned caliphs, bows slung across their backs, chase a leopard forever peering over his shoulder. An arrow loosed never hits its mark eternally suspended by woven threads. Trees stand in an expectancy of silence as I move within zig-zags of light and shadow. My arms slide round the leopard's golden ruff and I am bound by threads of color to be hunted forever through fields of silk and wool, chased by frozen horses, another player in the weaving fields of Bokkhara.

0

Nov 3, 2010

Nov 3, 2010 at 6:21 AM UTC

margo-roby-1

A Thousand and One Nights

Among the flowers of my Persian carpet vines sprout curl twine me into fields of silk and wool. Sliding through warp and weft, I hear the rustle of thread grasses, and my nostrils fill with the pungency of feral cats, I taste the dryness of dust, and the dampness of a blue silk river runs through my ears. A blend and blur of color mark the horizon spots of russet and black resolving into a hunt undisturbed by my addition to the scene. Arabian steeds damp dark with silken sweat, silent as Attic shapes, prance and wheel through date palms and trees of fiery-fruited pomegranate. Turbaned caliphs, bows slung across their backs, chase a leopard forever peering over his shoulder. An arrow loosed never hits its mark eternally suspended by woven threads. Trees stand in an expectancy of silence as I move within zig-zags of light and shadow. My arms slide round the leopard's golden ruff and I am bound by threads of color to be hunted forever through fields of silk and wool, chased by frozen horses, another player in the weaving fields of Bokkhara.

24

I knocked at Hannah's door her mother opened it and I asked if Hannah was in she looked at me as if I'd suggested something impolite Hannah th' boy's haur she bellowed over her shoulder I took in her fiery eyes and turbaned head her dark hair tucked away beneath Hannah came to the door where shall we go she asked so I can tell Maw? What about Bermondsey docks I can show you my school then see Tower Bridge? We're gonnae see Tower Brig Hannah said to her mother awe rite be cannie her mother replied so we walked off from her flat and got a bus to Bermondsey (my mother had given me coins she was a kind soul) sitting together in the front watching the scenes go by nothing spectacular just London sights and people passing and vehicles going by we held hands moving to the motion of the bus her hand was warm our fingers entwined once we arrived I showed her my school (she went to a girls' school nearer to home her mother insisting no boys) it looks a bit Dickensian Hannah said it is and even the teachers are old as grime she laughed and we walked on to see Tower Bridge and walked across to the other side then had pop drinks in a small cafe and shared a slice of cake and sat and talked I don't think your mother likes me I said o she doesn't like males full stop not just you Benedict men ur blecht she tells me and my dad what's that mean? I asked her means men are a blight like a disease she laughed and sipped her tea I sipped mine smiling away hoping that she (like her mother Mrs Scot) never included me.

0

Aug 1, 2015

Aug 1, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC

TerryCollett

HANNAH AND TOWER BRIDGE 1960

I knocked at Hannah's door her mother opened it and I asked if Hannah was in she looked at me as if I'd suggested something impolite Hannah th' boy's haur she bellowed over her shoulder I took in her fiery eyes and turbaned head her dark hair tucked away beneath Hannah came to the door where shall we go she asked so I can tell Maw? What about Bermondsey docks I can show you my school then see Tower Bridge? We're gonnae see Tower Brig Hannah said to her mother awe rite be cannie her mother replied so we walked off from her flat and got a bus to Bermondsey (my mother had given me coins she was a kind soul) sitting together in the front watching the scenes go by nothing spectacular just London sights and people passing and vehicles going by we held hands moving to the motion of the bus her hand was warm our fingers entwined once we arrived I showed her my school (she went to a girls' school nearer to home her mother insisting no boys) it looks a bit Dickensian Hannah said it is and even the teachers are old as grime she laughed and we walked on to see Tower Bridge and walked across to the other side then had pop drinks in a small cafe and shared a slice of cake and sat and talked I don't think your mother likes me I said o she doesn't like males full stop not just you Benedict men ur blecht she tells me and my dad what's that mean? I asked her means men are a blight like a disease she laughed and sipped her tea I sipped mine smiling away hoping that she (like her mother Mrs Scot) never included me.

68

“Does one who has gone mad know he has gone mad?” asks aloud the old man, "If one does know, then surely I am not mad for I do not know; If one does not know, then surely I am mad for I too do not know." The man ponders naked, a bathrobe turbaned around his wet hair and sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor. He faces directly away from the wall mirror and trips his handsome head off his bitter tongue. Putting his chin up he resigns his thoughts, declaring "If a sane man knows that he is sane than I surely must know too."

0

May 23, 2015

May 23, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC

Shade

Madman in Meditation

“Does one who has gone mad know he has gone mad?” asks aloud the old man, "If one does know, then surely I am not mad for I do not know; If one does not know, then surely I am mad for I too do not know." The man ponders naked, a bathrobe turbaned around his wet hair and sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor. He faces directly away from the wall mirror and trips his handsome head off his bitter tongue. Putting his chin up he resigns his thoughts, declaring "If a sane man knows that he is sane than I surely must know too."

7

Tiger’s Eye Tiger’s eye gonna set you free It’s nature’s own, a magic stone Imbued with love’s energy Life’s a ***** people hard to be around But, Tigers eye never let you down No, oh no, oh no Tigers eye never let you down Amulets, charms, trinkets and beads A turbaned lady, she said to me Take this home and I think you’ll agree Tiger’s eye gonna set you free Confidentially, between you and me For the price of two I’ll give you three If you pay in Rupee, For the price of two I’ll give you three Tigers eye gonna set you free Fifty for the bracelet Five for the charm Tiger’s eye never do no harm Take it home, hold the stone And soon you will agree Tigers eye gonna set you free It’s a jungle out there Dark shadows behind every tree Spells n spies, unwanted goodbyes Endless lies and haunted cries It’s protection that you need, you see The lion may be king But tigers can outrun almost everyone And almost everything If you’re looking for love ever after No need to despair Now, stay with me, stay with me The truth is hard to hear Tigers eye is the talisman You always should keep near. Heats you up with passion, Your wildest dreams come true You could walk a lovers’ mile With a love that’s just for you So, smile for a while, Smile if you can, you can It’s good to remember, in the end Providence is the master plan If you’re looking for love ever after Everyone’s as cold as stone No fun and no laughter got you Cold down to the bone Tigers eye help to see you through and That’s my point of view Don’t be sad, don’t be flat Tigers eye is not like that Tigers eye Gonna let your spirit soar You’ll be needing nothing more Walk and run and skip a stone Over a tranquil sea Be as crazy as you can be Cause Tigers eye gonna set your spirit free And that’s what she said to me

0

Aug 28, 2018

Aug 28, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC

bo-tansky

Tiger's Eye

Tiger’s Eye Tiger’s eye gonna set you free It’s nature’s own, a magic stone Imbued with love’s energy Life’s a ***** people hard to be around But, Tigers eye never let you down No, oh no, oh no Tigers eye never let you down Amulets, charms, trinkets and beads A turbaned lady, she said to me Take this home and I think you’ll agree Tiger’s eye gonna set you free Confidentially, between you and me For the price of two I’ll give you three If you pay in Rupee, For the price of two I’ll give you three Tigers eye gonna set you free Fifty for the bracelet Five for the charm Tiger’s eye never do no harm Take it home, hold the stone And soon you will agree Tigers eye gonna set you free It’s a jungle out there Dark shadows behind every tree Spells n spies, unwanted goodbyes Endless lies and haunted cries It’s protection that you need, you see The lion may be king But tigers can outrun almost everyone And almost everything If you’re looking for love ever after No need to despair Now, stay with me, stay with me The truth is hard to hear Tigers eye is the talisman You always should keep near. Heats you up with passion, Your wildest dreams come true You could walk a lovers’ mile With a love that’s just for you So, smile for a while, Smile if you can, you can It’s good to remember, in the end Providence is the master plan If you’re looking for love ever after Everyone’s as cold as stone No fun and no laughter got you Cold down to the bone Tigers eye help to see you through and That’s my point of view Don’t be sad, don’t be flat Tigers eye is not like that Tigers eye Gonna let your spirit soar You’ll be needing nothing more Walk and run and skip a stone Over a tranquil sea Be as crazy as you can be Cause Tigers eye gonna set your spirit free And that’s what she said to me

65

The robed and turbaned guides lead us Station to pillar to post Here the last puddle of sacred blood outlined in platinum, There the stray knotted whipstroke picked out on the Mudstone wall in jasper and rarest peridotites - Change yer shoes for the final hill to the death sanctum, Last sonatina set to begin, with eye max. But, but here monsignor, what’s this minor Scatter of comic beaks ‘n bones off to the side in shadow, This fouled corner irrigated by ninety-nine generations of Three faiths and their pets? - Pay no ear, it’s got no voice or at most The scalded steamkettle hiss of a dying gull, Was never no human language Nor saw anything really seen And those what claim to have dug up gored pieces of value From under there just kissed the *** of madness.

0

Mar 8, 2020

Mar 8, 2020 at 9:12 PM UTC

tonylongo

Escariotes

The robed and turbaned guides lead us Station to pillar to post Here the last puddle of sacred blood outlined in platinum, There the stray knotted whipstroke picked out on the Mudstone wall in jasper and rarest peridotites - Change yer shoes for the final hill to the death sanctum, Last sonatina set to begin, with eye max. But, but here monsignor, what’s this minor Scatter of comic beaks ‘n bones off to the side in shadow, This fouled corner irrigated by ninety-nine generations of Three faiths and their pets? - Pay no ear, it’s got no voice or at most The scalded steamkettle hiss of a dying gull, Was never no human language Nor saw anything really seen And those what claim to have dug up gored pieces of value From under there just kissed the *** of madness.

17

the two tall cans horizontally lined up to each other again how quickly years can go by, 3,5,6,7 and so on the more years that go by the faster they go by maybe it started with a surprise, an unexpected win and ended with a disappointed dream a truth that just couldn't be changed such filth in this world such beginning of sorrows woes of Isaiah and so on a truth that will never be changed defectively loved children and stupid nasty mothers from india he/him/demon/jeffrey marsh richard levine in a skirt you feel too safe with trannys in the military no problem with trudeau throw away canadians diapered biden, turbaned canadian, uk and so on third world greed and so on bereft and garbage scrunched, valerie jarret really does look like an apely primate a dead ringer threads and more threads rats bought for food, mouths fulls of rats and mangy ***** and a truth that can never be changed just look at you now mouths full of rats and mangy ***** whites are indigenous to europe ***** in the streets third world greed and so on just look at you then the more years go by the faster they go by have you heard about the beginning of sorrows? a good dream would be one where mark zuckerberg and zelinsky were hanging motionless side by side a dead ringer small little disgusting men approved by disgusting people and so on.

0

Jul 8, 2023

Jul 8, 2023 at 4:35 AM UTC

july-hearne

in the blink of blue eyes

the two tall cans horizontally lined up to each other again how quickly years can go by, 3,5,6,7 and so on the more years that go by the faster they go by maybe it started with a surprise, an unexpected win and ended with a disappointed dream a truth that just couldn't be changed such filth in this world such beginning of sorrows woes of Isaiah and so on a truth that will never be changed defectively loved children and stupid nasty mothers from india he/him/demon/jeffrey marsh richard levine in a skirt you feel too safe with trannys in the military no problem with trudeau throw away canadians diapered biden, turbaned canadian, uk and so on third world greed and so on bereft and garbage scrunched, valerie jarret really does look like an apely primate a dead ringer threads and more threads rats bought for food, mouths fulls of rats and mangy ***** and a truth that can never be changed just look at you now mouths full of rats and mangy ***** whites are indigenous to europe ***** in the streets third world greed and so on just look at you then the more years go by the faster they go by have you heard about the beginning of sorrows? a good dream would be one where mark zuckerberg and zelinsky were hanging motionless side by side a dead ringer small little disgusting men approved by disgusting people and so on.

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