I came to a crossroads,
And the indecision broke me.
I decided I didn’t want to experience it again,
Ever.
So I live there now.
Poetry
How many tweets must a twitterer tweet
‘Fore a twitterer tweets his mind
With his fingers all racing through keystrokes retracing
A thought he cannot leave behind.
Ajwah
My Lord, send forth Your Prayers and Peace
And Blessings on those hands
That pressed the saplings of release
Into submitting sands,
And like the spring abundant flowed
Beneath his father’s heel,
You’ve blessed these palms that his palms sowed;
This son of Isma’eel
And all of matter he did touch,
And all that he did say,
Proclaim the highest Truth with such
Serenity, I pray:
My Lord, increase the ones who tend,
And buy and sell and touch
The ajwah palms that well extend
The fruit we love so much;
My Lord, increase my host who gives
Me so much from his share
Of barakah that lives and lives
As long as you declare.
The Sands, The Trees, The Gentle Breeze
(Narrator)
Upon a little patch of earth
Beside the Masjid an-Nabi
There blew a warm and gentle breeze
Upon the sands, and date palm trees.
(Tree 1)
It was just yesterday that he
Reclined on me so peacefully.
I long to feel his blessed touch
Againt my trunk; I miss that much.
(Tree 2)
I understand your pain, my friend,
For I remember that day when
He played with his little Hussain
Despite the softly falling rain;
Around and round me did he run
So playfully with Ali’s son,
I hoped they would not leave my side,
But then they did, and how I cried.
(Tree 1)
Oh yes, indeed. I do recall
That day when all that rain did fall.
(The Earth)
I long for his mubarak feet
To walk upon my every street;
I love him and his every trace
In me and in my every space.
(The Wind)
And when he speaks or breathes a word,
It is the sweetest thing you heard;
I carry all his blessed speech
To everyone within my reach.
(Tree 1, whispering)
Quiet! Here he comes again.
(Tree 2, whispering)
SubhanAllah.
(The Earth, whispering)
AlhamdulilLah.
(The Wind, whispering)
Allahu Akbar.
(Narrator)
And so they rustled, shifted, blew
Until the Prophet was with them.
(Tree 1, Tree 2, The Earth, The Wind, all say together)
SallAllahu ‘alaa Muhammad
SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam.
SallAllahu ‘alaa Muhammad
SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam.
SallAllahu ‘alaa Muhammad
SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam.
(End.)
I Don’t Care
Do you think it fair to say I may care
When I care enough to say: “I do not care.”
I think it depends on how I may say it,
With distance in tone or rebellious gait,
An arching of eyebrows, a smile forged in hell,
Or the weight of the world in the sighs I expel.
I hereby do gather the silence you spare
Is loud confirmation that you do not care.
Ode On Short Rib Ragù
Note to Ode Enthusiasts: This is a ten line stanza in iambic pentameter following the scheme ABAB and a Miltonian sestet CDEDCE. Styled after the first stanza of Keats’ Ode On A Grecian Urn, and guaranteed to fall short.
Warning: Elizabethan tone ahead
What magic doth transpire 'tween mind and pot That warmly welcometh what once formed cage, But now is seasoned, salted, shredded, brought To tenderness thy hand hath come to gauge. I sense the bay leaf draping sprigs of thyme, Its fragrance courting parsley laying soft Upon a bed of blushing carrots and Rosemary aromatic, wont to waft Toward my sense olfactory till I’m Impassioned forth to rise and kiss thine hand.
Punishing Clockmakers, And Other American Pastimes
We’re hurting bad, America,
You know we’re hurting bad
When a schoolboy brings a project in
That sends us kicking mad.
He just made a clock, this thing that tells
The time with gears and wires,
But we see the clocks that brown hands forge
As objects starting fires.
Doesn’t matter what you learn in school,
Let me tell you what makes dumb:
Is when prejudice and fear
Fashion every rule of thumb.
You say guns don’t kill, people do,
Yet a schoolboy’s doing time.
Need a license now to make a clock?
Now, learning is a crime.
If we really don’t like bullies
And the weapons that they draw,
We can’t let bullies run our schools
Nor let them press the law.
Broken
What can I say! What can I do!
How can I deserve to stand before you!
I am like my raiment, divided in two:
One that I know, the other knows You.
But I don’t know the other.
All of the dirt that covers my heart
Is on my skin now, I’m falling apart,
I smell of the foulness I’ve wrought with my hand,
I’m broken so fine, I’m one with the sand.
But I long to find the other me,
I’m blind although I can see,
And the words that I write that I may be free
Make me slave to my each fantasy.
Take me now and let me be free.
Help me now that I may find me.
My Palace Isn’t Big Enough
A sonnet deploring the apathy and inaction of wealthy neighbors letting hapless refugees seek out asylum far away from home. The use of first person here points to government rather than citizen.
My palace isn’t big enough for you
And me, so I suggest you take a ride
Just down the street to where a pot of stew
May see a face that has no place to hide.
My gross insensitivity may seem
Disgusting to the world, but how can one
By any measure realize his dream
With mendicancy blocking out the sun.
I need my oil to generate me power,
And power runs the air conditioning:
You know we need it hour after hour
To cool the passions all this wealth can bring.
So let me breathe and be now on your way,
My gold will weigh me down another day.
Clear As Fog
Order. It pervades all things, inextricably linking what we sense in this world with what we cannot beyond it. It’s everywhere.
The stars above, and the galaxies of souls below.
The tongue, and the eternal Garden it tends to.
The soft bloom of a rose welcoming sun, and a prayer answered.
The silent obeisance of the trees, and the circumambulation of the planets.
I imagine the marauding armies of men portending hosts of avenging angels joined in ranks, faithfully holding back for an appointed time.
I suppose then that one may hope to divine the next move of a man by looking to what his child has done.
But then I also expect rain at my every act of heedlessness. It seldom falls.
In Sonnet
Each thing that meets the eye is but a sign
Of something that lives on beyond this earth;
Our souls reflect celestial design,
And cool remembrance brings a Garden’s birth;
The answer to a prayer like the sun
That bathes the petals of a blooming rose;
The silent bowing of the trees as one
To match the manner every planet goes.
I wonder if the blood that armies spill
Portends a host of angels foming ranks
Awaiting the allowance of their will
To carry out the justice it demands.
I often think my sins will bring the rain,
But all that falls are hopes that rise again.