(Narrator) Upon a little patch of earth Beside the Masjid an-Nabi There blew a warm and gentle breeze Upon the sands, and date palm trees. (Tree 1) It was just yesterday that he Reclined on me so peacefully. I long to feel his blessed touch Againt my trunk; I miss that much. (Tree 2) I understand your pain, my friend, For I remember that day when He played with his little Hussain Despite the softly falling rain; Around and round me did he run So playfully with Ali’s son, I hoped they would not leave my side, But then they did, and how I cried. (Tree 1) Oh yes, indeed. I do recall That day when all that rain did fall. (The Earth) I long for his mubarak feet To walk upon my every street; I love him and his every trace In me and in my every space. (The Wind) And when he speaks or breathes a word, It is the sweetest thing you heard; I carry all his blessed speech To everyone within my reach. (Tree 1, whispering) Quiet! Here he comes again. (Tree 2, whispering) SubhanAllah. (The Earth, whispering) AlhamdulilLah. (The Wind, whispering) Allahu Akbar. (Narrator) And so they rustled, shifted, blew Until the Prophet was with them. (Tree 1, Tree 2, The Earth, The Wind, all say together) SallAllahu ‘alaa Muhammad SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam. SallAllahu ‘alaa Muhammad SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam. SallAllahu ‘alaa Muhammad SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam. (End.)
My Lord, send forth Your Prayers and Peace And Blessings on those hands That pressed the saplings of release Into submitting sands, And like the spring abundant flowed Beneath his father’s heel, You’ve blessed these palms that his palms sowed; This son of Isma’eel And all of matter he did touch, And all that he did say, Proclaim the highest Truth with such Serenity, I pray: My Lord, increase the ones who tend, And buy and sell and touch The ajwah palms that well extend The fruit we love so much; My Lord, increase my host who gives Me so much from his share Of barakah that lives and lives As long as you declare.
Do you think it fair to say I may careWhen I care enough to say: “I do not care.”I think it depends on how I may say it,With distance in tone or rebellious gait,An arching of eyebrows, a smile forged in hell,Or the weight of the world in the sighs I expel.I hereby do gather the silence you spareIs loud confirmation that you do not care.
A ten line stanza in iambic pentameter following the scheme ABAB and a Miltonian sestet CDEDCE. Styled after the first stanza of Keats’ Ode On A Grecian Urn, and guaranteed to fall short. Warning: Elizabethan tone ahead …all for the want of Short Rib Ragù. What magic doth transpire tween mind and pot That warmly welcometh what once formed cage, But now is seasoned, salted, shredded, brought To tenderness thy hand hath come to gauge. I sense the bay leaf draping sprigs of thyme, Its fragrance courting parsley laying soft Upon a bed of blushing carrots and Rosemary aromatic, wont to waft Toward my sense olfactory till I’m Impassioned forth to rise and kiss thine hand.
We’re hurting bad, America, You know we’re hurting bad When a schoolboy brings a project in That sends us kicking mad. He just made a clock, this thing that tells The time with gears and wires, But we see the clocks that brown hands forge As objects starting fires. Doesn’t matter what you learn in school, Let me tell you what makes dumb: Is when prejudice and fear Fashion every rule of thumb. You say guns don’t kill, people do, Yet a schoolboy’s doing time. Need a license now to make a clock? Now, learning is a crime. If we really don’t like bullies And the weapons that they draw, We can’t let bullies run our schools Nor let them press the law.
What can I say! What can I do! How can I deserve to stand before you! I am like my raiment, divided in two: One that I know, the other knows You. But I don’t know the other. All of the dirt that covers my heart Is on my skin now, I’m falling apart, I smell of the foulness I’ve wrought with my hand, I’m broken so fine, I’m one with the sand. But I long to find the other me, I’m blind although I can see, And the words that I write that I may be free Make me slave to my each fantasy. Take me now and let me be free. Help me now that I may find me.
A sonnet deploring the apathy and inaction of wealthy neighbors letting hapless refugees seek out asylum far away from home. The use of first person here points to government rather than citizen. My palace isn’t big enough for you And me, so I suggest you take a ride Just down the street to where a pot of stew May see a face that has no place to hide. My gross insensitivity may seem Disgusting to the world, but how can one By any measure realize his dream With mendicancy blocking out the sun. I need my oil to generate me power, And power runs the air conditioning: You know we need it hour after hour To cool the passions all this wealth can bring. So let me breathe and be now on your way, My gold will weigh me down another day.