Word, like wind, cuts through you / Withers all but true you
My poetry series on Channillo, Sand in my Parfait, now has twenty poems. My latest post is titled Grocery Blues.
I’m off again upon a quest
Here at the grocery store
I’ve got my list upon my phone
To help me keep the score
Two yogurts, butter, milk and cream
Three dozen eggs cage-free
A packet of old fashioned oats
A wedge of well-aged brie
. . . . . You do have to subscribe to read the rest – just how Channillo works.
Stay hydrated out there!
This was it.
Samuel Elijah Perschbacher kept his eyes fixed on the gaggle of tots playing in the dirt.
But that wasn’t where his head was. He had picked her out when she got off the bus on the other side of the park. He followed her every move – looking about innocently, stranger in town, casual conversation with a passer-by, asking for instructions, brush sleeve here, cough there, looking in purse.
Oh she was good. He watched the lady in blue circle around till she was at his Two o’clock, then she made a beeline for him seated on the parkbench. A brown bag sat next to him. He watched without looking how she floated toward him like an angel. Slow but sure steps clicked on the pavement. They echoed inside his head. It helped him focus.
“Excuse me. Is anyone sitting here?”
* * *
Read the rest of it on Channillo.
I enter where the cries of children sound
And therein dwell until they die away,
Where mothers’ soft embraces can’t be found
And fathers’ mighty hands may hold no sway;
And though my anger swells, I have no leave
To act till comes to pass the death of time,
But well I see the the stricken when they grieve
And well I study souls that fashion crime.
My day will come, and when it comes, the damned
Will find their fettered souls within my clasp
When all their hands had wrought, their necks, shall brand,
And naught may ‘scape their lips but wretched gasp.
I weigh, withhold, withdraw to watch and wait
For when the cold inversion seals their fate.
– – – – – – – – – –
Even the lowest angel forms are an intelligent force to reckon with. They are sworn to justice, unwavering, serving only Al-Muntaqim.
Preserve us, Ya Rahmaan, in Your Love and Mercy.
My most recent submission to my short story series, The Gulmohur Tales.
Abdullah Rasheed stepped off the quaint cobblestone pavement and entered the coffee shop. At thirty-two, he was an attractive man with large, caring eyes, a prominent nose, and a headful of wavy brown hair. His lips blended into ruddy cheeks in an ever-present smile. A lean and muscular frame showed through the snug apparel he wore, topped by a bright orange Cashmere sweater and a tan sports jacket – attire that a certain brand of confident yuppie specializes in pulling off without even trying. [Read more…] about A Change of Heart
This is an account of all the hands I love.
I love:
The hands of my father
worn by service
torn by sacrifice
raised in prayer
destined to be answered;
The hands of my children
moistened by their tears
as they implore the Hand
that encompasses my soul;
The hands of my mentor
that grasp my own
when I lose my footing on that bridge,
pulling me safely to firm ground,
such strong hands;
The hands of my Habib
giving me drink from His Kauthar
That I may feel thirst no more.
I love his hands.
The hands of my mother
holding my face,
kissing it,
at last.
She looks into my eyes,
she finds them searching
for something…
someone…
She knows.
So she takes me by my hand
to another mother I recognize,
who steps aside
to reveal
you
and places
your hand
in my hand.
That’s why I bought this,
this sorry product of silver and stone
I’d like to think was wrought
by some caring workman’s hands
only to end up in a Macy’s display case,
begging for rescue,
longing for adornment:
would you give it that?
You know how much
I love your hands.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Eid Mubarak! 🙂
Ramadan is almost over. Last night’s Khatm duaa at Darul Qasim reminded me of this old post from 2014.
https://khamuk.com/ya-sayyidee-dont-turn-away/
I’m all a lie, I tell myself,
When I am all alone,
The second third’s upon me
And my heart is still a stone;
The truths I told were only
To make myself seem good
Surrounded by them, lonely
Inside my hellish wood;
My mouth is parched, my head is
A cloud of hunger and
A host of deprivations
Depriving me as planned;
Then somewhere in the corner
Of my transgressing mind
I find that patient warner
Won’t let me stay behind;
Now him, I know I love,
And him, I long to see
That him I’ll find beside me where
The kauthar waters free
A slave from his own fancy
Through sips of truth and light,
I long to touch my quencher,
I long to find that night;
Forgive this hapless seeker,
O Lord, forgive your slave,
So weak, he can’t be weaker
Than when he’s in his grave.
Allah, forgive your slave.
My Constant Guest returns to me again
He bears no signs of weariness or sleep
But brings me my provisions in a rain
Of mercy, every drop for me to keep.
Welcome, Ramadan.