I just learned about the tragic passing of an old friend’s little son. Tears. We come from The Ever Living, and to The Ever Living we return. I still remember wondering about Whence came this little sapling in my care, I planted it with all my love without Withholding any love that I could spare. I’d tend to it each morning when the dew Exchanged itself for drops of golden sun, And as the nightly veil of darkness drew, I’d gaze upon the beauty I’d begun. But yesterday, a storm aroused my fears And tore my little sapling from the earth, And all my loving care and streams of tears: All proved to be of very little worth. I saw last night within a timeless hour My sapling blossoming a fragrant flower.
Not a toy But a gun In the hands Of the one You can trust; Yes, you must With your all. Then you fall: All that trust Up in flames Of disgust, As you lay In the dust, Someone’s son. Not a gun Just a toy In the hands Of a boy. Now he’s dead Cut by lead, Burning deep. Can you sleep As they weep For the loss Of a life That you slayed From the palm Of your hand? And then killed Him again With a law- Mocking pen. Is this all We have for Tamir Rice?
This poem was written for (“by”) one of the characters in my first novel, Tyrants. Of all the tyrants big and small, We come, the meekest of them all, For all oppression that we do Comprises that which leads us to Exalt the means above the end, Betray the trust of trusting friend, Abandon love that comes to aid, Or flee the mess our weakness made, To stress the bonds of love well tried Until two kindred hearts divide, Or turn upon ourselves in hate Begrudging much that seals our fate. Of all the tyrants big and small, We come, the meekest of them all, I cringe to think what we might be, Were we to wield more tyranny.
The signs to love God and His beloved are everywhere. Looking over the prairie on a gloomy Saturday, I felt this rush of words fall in a sonnet. SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa Sallam. My heart is as the prairie, dry and dead; Though withered by the kiss of autumn winds, It welcomes drops of rain that fall instead Reminding me of my surviving sins. But somewhere through the prairie flows a stream Of sweet remembrances: a name, a face, A man whose love for me surpasses dream, A love that thrives beyond all time and space. All death is winter, silent, cold and still, All life is spring where hearts revive, immersed In love and faith, beat patiently until The waters of the fountain slay all thirst. I long to drink my fill from hands I know Will take me to my Lord, won’t let me go.
What we wish we could undo Was meant To be, To shape our present, To fashion an impetus For what we do next.
Be silent to say a thing, And listen to explain it. An audience deaf to silence Requires mutes to train it.
To see a flower open into sun, To hear the crack of dawn in sparrow’s tweet, To breathe the sounds of children having fun Through syncopated pats of toddler feet; And then to leave that all behind to join The wheel that swallows everything it finds To spin its labor straw into a coin As shiny as its meal of chewed-up minds; It’s hard upon a silent, weary eye That misses hearts long dead and longer cherished, That knows no inability to cry And cries so long as longing hasn’t perished. The solemn rite of weeping in the rain Is all a fool for love can hope to gain.