Khalid Mukhtar

Inspired by a segment of Shaykh Amin’s uplifting talk on the night of the twenty-fifth.

---

We like numbers
We like charts
We like charts with numbers
That tell us when and where 
the new moon will rise

Not for us to see
No that would be
Self-defeating for it requires
Getting up

No, it’s just so we know
When to take the day off

For what’s to see
Just a sickle in the sky
Reminding us of our own truncated intellects

Apathy 
Is when we relegate science
To brew us
A cup of tea
Boiled in our own stupidity
Steeped in our uppity
Self-absorbed amazon-dot-com impassivity

What’s that, khalid
Did I call you stupid…
No, no, of course not
I was just pointing out

That while the air is crisp and cold
And the sky is vast and blue with hope 
And the time of dusk is nigh
And night is held back by
A chance to look up and peek through the springing foliage 
To spy
A sliver of moon

Born again
Ushering in a new beginning
Out with the old
Breaths, deaths
In with the new
You
Hope as vast as the sky
That begins with a silver streak
To wax and wane
For the next four weeks

No, I was just pointing out
That stepping out and looking up
would take significantly longer 
than swiping left
And tapping twice

A new iOS update is now available.

What’s wisdom but a generous word
That when it’s kindly spoken
It soon repairs an ailing heart
That someone else has broken

For every heart has chambers which
Receive the Name Divine
To resonate its praises through
An intricate design

That when one breaks it interrupts
The orchestra of souls
And notes that rise to heaven rise
Despite the many holes

Yet words of kindness well restore
The timbre and the tone
To send the human song of praise
Unto the highest throne

And that in turn supplies the nūr
Whence gentle words are spoken
But how could such a wisdom be 
If hearts were never broken

One of the greatest signs of Allah’s lordliness is to watch his rahmah unfold upon his unassuming slave, most notably in how the man welcomes death. 

All his life this man lives simply. He is no scholar. He is no philosopher. He can barely articulate his thoughts.

Every time he disagrees with someone around him, he finds himself corrected by a dozen other voices. Yet, he gifts the last word to anyone who is in conversation with him. He does this with kindness, even gratitude. 

Every time. So much so that you might think him a nobody. What you may miss is that he is very good at being that.

Here now, in his final moments, so efficient is his economy with words, so powerful his choice in them, so frequent his recitation of the only word that matters, and so thorough his mending of fences with all his kin, that a lifetime of scholarship and pontification may be sacrificed for the nūr that illuminates his face. 

Much intellect shines now through the humor in his eyes. His eagerness to meet his Lord is tangible, electric, in the air, betrayed only by his brow dancing ever so slightly in response to an oft raised index finger.

If we could see a man’s true worth as he dies
we can begin to make sense of his life
because what he has truly accomplished
is now before our eyes

What a man!

You look at yourself and you find
The pain is just too much to bear
It's shattered your body and mind
And pounded you into despair

Your words don't come out as they used to
Your thoughts are not formed as you like
But know each contender you lose to
Is bracing you for the big fight

Recline on the truth that all things
All come from a singular source
Each joy and each grief that life brings
Is for you intended of course

So give your attention to Him
Who's turned His attention on you
And fill up your heart to the brim
With patience-infused gratitude

There's comfort for you in your tears
So cry up a bountiful stream
And soon you will see your boat nears
The sands on the shores of a dream

Then life as it must be will be
More real than you've ever seen
And in a lush meadow you'll see
Her waiting to meet you - your queen

Salawaat helps the meadow stay green.

Spare me your chivalry
If it means you’ll hold a door open for the lady behind you
Only to ogle her as she walks in

Spare me your chivalry
If it means you’ll help an elder cross the street
But only when it doesn’t dent your schedule or go unnoticed

Spare me your chivalry
If it means you won’t hit a man when he’s down in a brawl
But will cheer the cowardly slaughter of fleeing innocents

Spare me your chivalry
If it means you will let your friend have the last word, well,
Only to go home and give your family hell

All that chivalrous behavior we exhibit
We barter it for attention:
To be known
To be seen
Seen by others but more dangerously
By ourselves

For nothing is more delicious than worshipping
That handsome idol of the self
Moulded with the clay we selected so carefully
From the river banks of our toadying consciousness
Glistening from generous coatings
Of the “it feels good to be good” glaze

It does feel good to be good
And that’s alright
But it’s fickle:
You see, when we change and grow
The idol morphs and scales
There is no telling what we’ll change into
Yet the idol prevails

Let’s turn to the constant deity
Who Ever Was 
Who Ever Will Be
If we can serve to ONLY be seen
By the One our eyes cannot see
Then that may be
The truest brand of chivalry

Then hang the axe around the neck
Of your idol, saying:
He did it