The first, when tragedy befalls a soul
Through sudden death or grievous injury,
Through feeling quite a measure less than whole
When comes the hurtful loss of dignity.
The second, when a soul is drenched in praise
With all its humbleness exposed as wealth
That in its terribly intricate ways
It attributes all greatness to itself.
The third, when heedlessness sets heart on fire
And pours despair abundantly as fuel
But then the inward eye, it drowns desire
And sends its soothing waters up to cool.
This is the day, now is the time to cry
To let your love return and cool your eye.
Poetry
On So Much
We like So Much so much; let me explain.
Some nights we cuddle up as dad and tot
And let the rhyme and flexible refrain
To captivate us for the time we’ve got.
Mom’s cool, and although Auntie Bibba rocks,
It’s Uncle Didi, Nannie and Gran-Gran
We love: the lingo Cousin Kay-Kay talks,
Big Cousin Ross, and Daddy who’s THE MAN.
“Again!” I dodge the sleepy tot’s protest
And send the book to shelf with skillful toss,
Distracting him with “Who do you like best?”
He flashes toothy grin, “Big Cousin Ross.”
So much is such an entertaining book
By Helen Oxenbury and Trish Cooke.
Knocked Before Shot
Knocked before shot.
The silent must go
If a clue’s to be got.
Song Of Fallen Leaf
Turn me over, let me be
Every opportunity
That you lost, and then there’s those you had.
I was once alive like you
Green and sprung from morning dew
Life is beautiful when times are glad.
Watch me close and trace my veins
Seen my share of storm and rains
I’m a story waiting to be told.
Stay the course and you will find
All you’ve wished for in your mind
Sit with me and feel the green turn gold.
Strong is my spine
Strong is my spine, so hold me
That I may relate all that’s told me
Through leaves often red,
And though I be dead
I’m yours till you’ve given or sold me.
On Saving Ourselves
Another Friday here, there’s nothing new
But words of hate and death and plans to kill
All justifiable by parties who
Have pawned their souls to execute their will
Who measure justice, let oppression rain
Who ought to love their neighbors, want them dead
Who swore submission, fight for petty gain
Who long for peace, burn children still in bed
It’s time we turned to where our faiths still stand
Abandon feeling good about our states
Because if feeling good is all we’ve planned
Then we have crystallized our rotten fates
Humanity, all, at a banquet rests
Let’s eat what’s served and spare the other guests
Grocery Blues (now up on Channillo)
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!
Malak
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.
Bracelet Accompaniment
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! 🙂