Although they never meet in ease, They always meet in pain, Remain apart in Iceland, then Unite in pleasant Spain, And there, on banks of babbling brooks, They meet again and again. Vacant valleys, hidden hills, Anger shows them near, Calm you down and clap your hands To make them disappear.
I wrote this story a few days ago for my children. Then I thought it would be good to render it into verse. Badruddin Al-Burtuqaali Departed for market to buy His mother a measure of barley. The light of the evening sky Did match Badruddin’s little turban And shalvar to such a degree, It made Badruddin very happy, As happy as happy can be. Now, tucked in the folds of his turban, Two pieces of copper as price, And one citrus, juicy and golden, For serving his mother so nice. And over his shoulder he slung A sack of the finest black leather, While praise of the prophet he sung In thanks for the summertime weather. Then when to the market he came, The shop of the grocer he sought, And with the two pieces of copper, A measure of barley he bought. A barley-filled sack on his back, Proceeding to whence he had set, Good Badruddin Al-Burtuqaali Reached up to his turban to get The orange, he peeled it with speed, And broke off a wedge for a bite When all of a sudden before him He witnessed a sorrowful sight: A wretched, old beggar he spied, Outstretching his wrinkled old palms, In voice almost cracking who cried His plea for the smallest of alms. Good Badruddin felt for the man, And thought he should give him his snack, When voices inside him began To speak to the boy with the sack: Badruddin, Badruddin, one said, The orange is yours, […]
Three riddles today. What can I say !? 🙂 You may find it nowhere, From you no one may take it, But, it’s yours once you make it, And then it’s hard to break it. My neighbors disdain me, I’m sore; Yet, when they do come to implore, Oppose I each neighbor conjointly in labor To finish up every chore;I’m stronger than they, I am sure Kill a whale, Anna Graham.Kan you guess my name?Some would think me digitalIf I were a dame.
Here’s a shout out to every little Zakariyya that lives in Lombard :-). Zak Lombardi has such fun Each day when his day is begun With Salaam to his dad, Salaam to his mom, And Salaam to just everyone. Zak Lombardi wants to eat, So he sits in his usual seat, Then patiently waits for platters and plates Each bearing a breakfasty treat. Zak Lombardi smacks his lips Bismillah he starts off with sips Of milk, then a bite of toasty delight That powders his wet fingertips. He licks them all clean with a smile, Alhamdulillah all the while, He kisses his brother, says thanks to his mother, Oh, he’s such a beautiful child. Salaam to greet, then patience, Bismillah begins all occasions, Then everything ends with hamd And a sweet little thank you to mom.
There is absolutely nothing I can do to make Mondays bearable for my kids, except advance this thought: if you don’t have it, then how are you going to get through it? Monday, it is not a fun day, Wish it were a done day, Hoo hoo hoo. My head is so low I feel my toes on my chin, I got no strength to start, and no will to begin, All the weekend fun is dripping into my shoes, Nothing left in my body but the Monday blues. Monday, it is not a fun day, Wish it were a done day, Hoo hoo hoo. Then my father tells me this with a tea-flavored kiss: If it weren’t for a Monday, we would know no bliss, You have to crawl before you walk before you skip and hop; You have to climb up the mountain to reach the top; Monday, it is not a fun day, Wish it were a done day, Hoo hoo hoo.
I bring folk together in fair or dark weather, All manner of thought must journey by me, I’m richer and purer when I’m not obscurer, My end is with age, quite literally.
It’s mass production everywhere I look, From toys of plastic hope to airplane parts, And after all the livelihood you took, You’re pressing mass production upon hearts By binding hands that never meant you harm, And feet that never trampled on your dreams, As tears part from eyes in cold alarm To join the pools of blood beneath the screams. But know… A heart’s a forest flushed by hope that springs, And though you burn down every single tree, The waters gush and split the seed that sings The song of life proclaiming it is free To ever serve the faith to which it clings.
One hundred thousand ginger-headed troops Abandon ranks and hide behind the rocks While down at them a flock unfeathered swoops Of blind, yet guided, wingless silver hawks; They take the soldiers, each one to his death, But not before they bleach their bodies white, Delighting in the odors in their breath, While spent grenades mourn silently their plight.
The icy weather these past few days has got me thinking about how much extreme cold and extreme heat are like each other. You know what I mean if you have ever been exposed to the bitter cold for a while: your skin takes on a fiery sensation owing to the dryness coupled with the cold. That in turn made me wonder if the real dichotomy is between the middle and the two extremes, for the two extremes tend to blend into one. There’s something very odd about My journey on this street: Its absolutely cozy in the middle; But if I wander to the right, I feel a burning heat, Like walking on an unforgiving griddle. I venture left and there, I feel The razor bite of cold, It cracks my skin, and makes me gasp and wheeze; And if I linger long, I’ll meet Those poison daggers rolled In fire, forged within the wretched freeze. And so I hasten to return To where its warm and bright; The middle of the road is where I’ll stay, Away from where the scalding touch Of ice and fire smite A man who wants to be upon his way, Extremely in the middle, if I may.
I drive a noisy car, Its even noisy on the highway, Its funny how noise becomes silence When I’m thinking my way. I’m in a room full of people, And everybody’s talking, Its funny how noise becomes silence When an idea comes knocking. As I lullaby this baby Into the arms of the night, Its funny how noise becomes silence If the song is just right. But when I stand up in the silence And enter into prayer, All my silent self-absorption Makes a noise I cannot bear. I have to remember well my Lord, And forget myself some more That all the silence become silence.