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!
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.
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.
Sung to the tune of Scarborough Fair (of course)
Are you ready for Trump’s Muslim camps
Blanket, soap, toothpaste and shampoo
I hear that they will honor food stamps
And American Express too.
Make me a gallon of cardamom tea
Blanket, soap, toothpaste and shampoo
And bring me a slice of your creamiest brie
Soft-ripened and served on a croute.
Tell her to gather some brown paper bags
Blanket, soap, toothpaste and shampoo
And make me a kufi that matches my rags
Dyed in hues of red, white and blue.
Hack me some bandwidth to skype with my fam
Blanket, soap, toothpaste and shampoo
I’ll trade in my access to Amazon Prime
All setup to auto-renew.
Are you ready for Trump’s Muslim camps
Blanket, soap, toothpaste and shampoo
I hear that they will honor food stamps
And American Express too.
Once upon a trump
In an old thick wood
In the hollow of a stump
Where an oak once stood
Lived a colony of ants
And their life was good
And they all got along
As well as they could.
Now every trump
That the rain would fall
They would leave their stump
And those ants would crawl
To a big safe hill
Made of mud and all
And they had no fear
For they had their wall.
Was a great big wall
For it went all round
And it stood quite tall
On the forest ground
And it kept out all
Other creatures bound
For the stump in the middle
That it did surround.
When the rain would stop
All the ants would jump
Out the mud hilltop
To descend with a whump
Then a skip and a hop
To their favorite stump
Wherein they’d abide
In a great big clump.
It happened one trump
That the rain fell long
And the hill came down
Did the ants so wrong
So they went to their stump
For their stump was strong
But the roots of the oak
Came loose like a song
And they all spread out
In many a throng.
They marched to the wall
In different rows
In different ways
As the story goes
Till they all climbed up
As the water rose
Up the wall they wished
Hadn’t touched their toes.
Was a difficult trump
For those ants in pain
Oh to see their stump
Fallen in the rain
In a watery dump
That was hard to drain
So they sat on the wall
And they mourned in vain.
But the sight they saw
Was a beautiful sight
For the wood was green
And the ground was right
And the creatures all
Just seemed to delight
In the dance of the rain
And the song of the night.
What happens next
Only trump will tell.