Poetry

Like ants that slog each summer day
Despite the rain and sun of May
To gather food to last them through
The year
Grant us so we may fast away
Our sins as we stand nights and pray
To gather Nūr to last us through
The year

What a joy it will be
When I make it to that place
And I stand before a tree
Such a lofty piece of grace

And I learn that it is mine
All its shade and all its fruit
Then I wonder what I did
That begot this thing with root

So I ponder and I think
Even as I take a taste
And the ecstasy I’m in
Puts all word and thought to waste

Then I’m told my tree sprang forth
From the lips of my Nabi
A SubhanAllah uttered
One he uttered meant for me

What a sadaqah, it’s as
His companions let on
That his generosity was
Even more in Ramadan

What a joy it will be
When I make it to that place
And I stand before that tree
What a joy it will be

The sidewalk kissed the toddler’s lip
He gets himself up from the ground
One part of raḥmah all around
The place
There’s ninety-nine more stowed away
We’ll see it on another day
A day when we will get to see
The Face

The pitcher’s half empty
My thirst isn’t quenched
Raḥmah waters
Wash out my toxins
I’ll just keep drinking
And hope I can drown
The sounds of my thinking

They loved the Final Messenger
He loved them even more
When they obeyed
Or when they strayed
Returning by remorse delayed
Like driftwood sanctuary
Just lying on the shore

Like lumber, sawn, then
Joined and sanded
Soft unto the edge of metal
Let my heart return commanded
To that place where all things settle
With Your Will and Mercy, Lord.

The sermon was solemn
And heavy with care
Of two things distracting
Us standing in columns:
Arrogance, stinginess.
Hearts in repair
Turn soft as the moon
Waxes into its share.