It isn’t her words
That turn in my head
But the manner and care
With which they were said
For mothers say things
The way that they do
To show you how love
Can carry you through
If you don’t remember
Your mother then she’d
Want you to be son
To the mothers you need
Go study their lives
Go read what they said
In words like sweet butter
That melts on warm bread
Poetry
Humbly
Don’t pray for humility
Lest it bring a trial
But pray in humility
And sit there a while
‘Abd
With time we come around to see
That freedom from all slavery
Is only ever found to be
In slavehood under Al-Aliyy
Who takes a soul to set it free
All quite paradoxically
Striving Friend
Patience, my striving friend
Obsessing with beginnings, don’t be
Heedless of the end
Abandon all your fears
To build yourself a raft that keeps you
Floating on your tears
Hear out the caring warner
Your moment’s almost here, it’s right
Around the cosmic corner
Remain well-mannered slave
Each step until you step into
Your cold and lonely grave
This Love
This love is when you hear a name
And can’t hold back a tear
Because of all that someone did
Before you landed here
This love is for a voice you haven’t
Heard, a face not seen
And ways and manners witnessed in
Descriptions of a scene
This love is like the grief the son
Of Rabāḥ felt down deep
When words that once rang out of him
Could only make him weep
So khalid don’t be sad if all
Your love is shallow streams
Its waters drain the plains to reach
The ocean beyond dreams
Gift rapped
The thing about guidance is you
Have to want it more than whoever
Wants you to find it true. Never
Has a seeker failed to find
So long as heart beats over mind
Al-Waliyy
He who leans on the means
Will bend in the end
Use the means by all means
But know your Friend is the end
Nûr, Grieving
He sits there
Doesn’t say a thing
For silence is a song not every
Seeker learns to sing
He sits there
Sadly all the while
But walk up to him and he greets you
With the brightest smile
Setting Sail
You haven’t lost your soul
It’s right there
Past the fog of fears
An island in the middle
Of an ocean of tears
That has gone dry
How can you get there
If you don’t cry
Yours Truly
It was a different time. There were no accidental key presses Or swipes, or acts of feckless fat-fingering, And gestures weren’t reduced to fingertip gymnastics. There was enough paper, enough ink and the innocent audacity To write down our feelings in long winding sentences That began with “Dear” or “Dearest”, or “My dear, dear, darling.” I miss those cliché beginnings. They held meaning for me. Someone had taken the time To address me with a term of endearment. I couldn’t care less that everyone else used those same terms. I simply appreciated that they weren’t missing. I loved how when the writer ran out of space, and chose To cram one more thought in the margins, unaware That it would beget more thoughts, and more, until The letter, finally complete with marginalia, Looked like the treasure map that it truly was. If you paid close attention, you could just play back The actual scene of composition, feel the distractions, The afterthoughts and the gray comedy of being Human. You may detect mood. Maybe even madness. And “P.S.” had all the meaning and excitement Of a genuinely forgotten note added just in time, like: P.S. Kiss the baby for me. But by far, the single most powerful message a letter bore for me Was its confession of crumples witnessing that, at some point, It wasn't meant to be sent.