Khalid Mukhtar

Word, like wind, cuts through you / Withers all but true you

Poetry

Walking

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I can walk all I want,
I can go any place,
With my heart in my hand, and my feet on the road
And the sun in my face.

I can sing all I want
To the tune of my soul,
I can reach very high, grab a handful of sky
And decide I am whole.

But each shadow’s a sign
To an eye that can see
Through the fog of the sin that it finds itself in,
Yes, I’m talking ’bout me.

And the laughter like wine
Makes the colors all dance
Till you turn your eyes down, as you look to the ground
At a shadow of chance.

Now I’m seeking a place
Past the reaches of space
Where no shadow is born, and a soul that is torn
May be mended by grace.

Now My Heart Is An Ocean

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There runs a stream from every limb
A river from each organ
And every single one that flows
From the top of my head
To the tips of my toes
Yes, each one drains my plains and goes
Down into the seas of my heart

 And there it splashes 'gainst the cliffs
Of my transgression
Mixing in
With the salt of my sin
Now my heart is an ocean
And my journey may begin

But where does an ocean go?

It goes to my eyes
And streams down my face
As I fall to my knees in utter disgrace
Till the winds of forgiveness
Blow on its waves
Of hope for this lowly
Hapless of slaves

Yes, there's hope in these tears
To put out the flames
Of a fire that taunts me
By all of my names
Let them flow till the seas
Of my heart become calm
Till my face feels the kiss
Of eternal Salaam

Moment

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There is a moment in the still night air
That passes by a pair of swollen feet,
A moment when each heart submerged in prayer
Breathes in the sweetest fragrance of retreat,
When all of space is folded in a tear,
And time compressed into a Word Divine,
It is a moment cool, compact and clear
Like drops of shiny dew upon a vine.
You seek this moment fervently without
And speak of it at every chance you win,
But all that ever matters is about
A silent search entirely within.
There is a moment in the still night air,
A moment that is you submerged in prayer.

Inspired by Shaykh Amin’s profound words on Laylat-ul-Qadr.

Love, Returning

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The recent talk by Shaykh Amin on the life of Lady Aasiyah brought me to compose this. And I write it now to celebrate the birth of my niece, Aasiyah Fatimah Mohajir. Congratulations to her parents and grandparents.

I welcome you, O Aasiyah
And wish for you all good
In faith and health and happiness,
As all, who love you, would.

But do you know, O Aasiyah,
The Aasiyah of old,
Who lived by gardens of delight
In palaces of gold.

Was married to a mighty king;
She raised a prince who fled
Into the wild, returning as
A Messenger instead.

And when she heard his message, she
Submitted with her all,
Yet carefully concealed it lest
The Messenger may fall;

But when her husband set to slay
The noble Messenger,
Her actions, all his burning wrath,
Diverted, as it were:

She showed her faith before the king
She loved with all her heart,
But all of love and mercy did
His countenance depart.

There is no measure of the pain
Her body did endure,
Yet in belief she did remain,
Immaculate and pure,

Beseeching Allah for a home,
A mansion by His Throne,
To roam the Garden, lofty, high,
And as she thought, alone.

But little did she know the Lord
Would gather all her love,
And destine her for marriage in
The heavens up above.

For do you know, my dear child,
Khadeejah did rejoice
At who would be fair Aasiyah’s
Companion of choice;

That Paradise around the Throne
Shall feast and celebrate
When AbulQasim takes the hand
Of his beloved mate.

And that, my dear Aasiyah,
Was Aasiyah of old,
Who lives by Gardens of delight,
And beauty manifold.

Such beauty, manifold.

On Hearts That Grow Fonder

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You’ve been away for longer now,
I cannot count the ways
That I, my dear, have missed you. How
I’ve missed you all these days.

The morning sun inspiring
The twitter of the birds,
The peace the starry nights do bring,
And my pathetic words

All grieve the absence of your smile
That livens up the air,
While gentle scents of chamomile
And lavender declare

My never-ceasing love for you,
My treasured company;
In every little thing I do,
And every thing I see,

I see the mercy of the One
Who so my heart inclined,
That in my weak affection, His
Vast Mercy is defined.

It’s true, the heart grows fonder,  now
I long to see your smile
And happily forget just how
I’ve missed you all this while.

Sahoor

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Inspired by Shaykh Amin’s talk on sahoor from a couple nights ago.

There is a moment magical
When day breaks free from night,
When seed is split and life begins,
Witnessing Allah’s Might.
But when the hand of man does it,
It fashions pain and strife;
It takes the Hand of God to split
And manufacture life.
The use of magical here is deliberate. Shaykh Amin pointed out that the Arabs observed the magic in daybreak, giving rise to sihr and sahoor stemming from the same three-letter root. Fascinating!

I’ll Have A Guest

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One more day… 
I wrote this for the kids. If anyone out there has stanzas to contribute, email me or add in a comment below.
—-
Let’s tidy home and break the oud
And set its fragrance free,
Let the money flow, and the faces glow
With smiles of charity.

    ‘Cause I’ll have a guest when the Ramadan moon,
    The Ramadan moon is born,
    Is on its way, and will be here soon
    To mend my spirit that’s torn.

To stay by me through the midday heat,
And to quench my burning thirst
With a drink of Quran to help defeat
Myself when I’m at my worst.

    I’ll have a guest when the Ramadan moon,
    The Ramadan moon is born,
    Is on its way, and will be here soon
    To mend my spirit that’s torn.

To carry me on a wink of sleep
Through the night until the dawn
And to teach my eye to swell and weep
Before my guest is gone.

    I’ll have a guest when the Ramadan moon,
    The Ramadan moon is born,
    Is on its way, and will be here soon
    To mend my spirit that’s torn.

To taste that sweet remembrance, comes
In a cool and timeless night
When the wakeful eye of a slave becomes
Awash with eternal light.

    Oh, I’ll have a guest when the Ramadan moon,
    The Ramadan moon is born,
    Is on its way, and will be here soon
    To mend my spirit that’s torn.

Let’s tidy home and break the oud
And set its fragrance free,
Let the money flow, and the faces glow
With smiles of charity.

    Oh, I’ll have a guest when the Ramadan moon,
    The Ramadan moon is born,
    Is on its way, and will be here soon
    To mend my spirit that’s torn.

Poetry Potluck & On The Spot

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I entered On The Not So Many Things I Cannot Stand into the poetry pot luck and Bryce J. nailed it.

The On-the-spot prompt was Good Advice Gone Bad.  I couldn’t come up with any advice, so I decided to call my father before the first event began and asked him to blurt out any advice that came to him. I managed to contrive a Shakespearean sonnet, but I think it lacked the punch needed for a winning performance. I should have gone with a rap.

My father, bless him, always used to say,
“Son, always mind the company you keep.”
I took it in a literal sort of way,
Not bothering to wade the waters deep.
And so I hung with folks of manner mild,
Avoided rubbing tattoo-laden shoulders
And chose to steer clear from the wild,
Preferring peace among the office folders.
And this was how I navigated years,
Assuming good was good and flocking to it,
Until my poor judgement fell in tears
Reminding me how terribly I blew it.
I should have listened closer when my Dad
Advised me how to tell the good from bad.

The Tale Of Frantz Fernandas And Morgen Myna – A Lousy Love Story

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Frantz Fernandas von Anoplura,
A grandiose name for a louse,
He lived in the hairs of a callous old dame,
And often reclined on her blouse
In search of a dwelling befitting his name,
A filthy yet classier house.

He witnessed the innocent act of a thief
That brought his unsavory mistress
A child, for the want of a rampion leaf,
A beautiful creature in distress
Confined to a tower, much to his relief.
But Frantz had his eye upon this tress

For here in the forests of sunshine and gold,
There thrived a louse nation of splendor,
Amongst them a creature of beauty untold,
A lausmaid of opposite gender,
Who captured the fancy of Frantz by the fold
Of her palpus attractive and tender.

And thus he left witch for golden-haired wench
And traveled for long on that head,
Till came he to face in all of that stench
The lausmaid he wanted to wed,
The sweet Morgen Myna, oh nothing could wrench
Him ‘way from the charms that she spread.

So Morgen and Frantz, they married and had
The happiest moments together
And how they rejoiced, especially glad
For times when Rapunzel sent nether
Her tresses to help that most elegant lad
To climb up in every weather.

But one afternoon, on the edge of a hush,
Frantz scoured a follicle bare
When voices in anger preceded the rush
Of a shear that cut through the hair,
To send Frantz Fernandas down into the brush
On the face of a mighty king’s heir.

But what shocked poor Frantz was the prince’s dull wit
To up and just wander away,
“The tower, good fellow,” he sucked and he bit,
“Oh, at least you can manage to stay.”
But the prince wandered off in his blindness to sit
In the shade of an ash on the way.

They mourned, man and louse, for the loss of their love,
Sweet Rapunzel and fair Morgen Myna,
While fragrances princely that fell from above
Obligated poor Frantz to divine a
Grand means of escape, but a flutter of dove
And the gentlest of breezes were sign of

Love returning. The voice of Rapunzel they heard,
The prince ran toward it with glee
They met; how she cradled his head with a word
Bearing grief that her man couldn’t see,
As her tears fell, Frantz clambered up undeterred
On a lock of her hair by her knee.

The prince found his sight, as Frantz madly sought
Morgen Myna, and found her indeed
By the follicle whence he had left, she had brought
Forth their nits, Anoplura of breed.
Then they all lived together and died at the spot
Where Rapunzel’s first bath was decreed.

Letter to Friend On His Upcoming Wedding

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My Epistle entry at the June 12 Pentathlon.

My Dear Friend,

Tell me: can you see that keen bumble bee
Alighting itself on a flower,
And pray, do you see the flower when she
Looks up in that early dawn hour;

Yes, you’ve seen the skies through your weary eyes,
How clear and blue they come bowing
To kiss well the trees and the edges of seas
Whenever the weather’s allowing.

Well, forget all that!

You’ll be married in a fortnight, it will never be the same,
So be merry now and let your heart to sing,
When you see that blasted bee, trust me, all that you will see
Is a buzzing blob of yellow with a sting.

And each flower that is born is a reason for a thorn,
And the early morning air won’t be so still
When you see your day is planned, you’ll be putty in her hand,
Losing every day a kilo of your will.

When you look up at the sky, you’ll invariably spy
Clouds of grey and every other darkness form,
And the trees, they will (it’s true) be those things that block the view
While the seas become an omen for a storm.

Then you’ll tell yourself it’s love that takes all of the above
And just blends it all into one toxic smoothie.
Drink it up, you poor fool; do it while it is still cool,
Every drop you drink will die proclaiming you the

JACKASS!

But now, if you hang in there, you will see the day you swear
That the jackass in you is a broadway act,
For there comes to every man that approaches half his span
Knowledge of this one invaluable fact:

Be her destiny, her love, be her “all of the above”,
All it costs you is one stinkin’ ounce of tact.

Kindest Regards,
Khalid

P.S. CONGRATULATIONS!!