My heart is at the rawdah
Moistened by the longing
Eye that hasn’t seen yet knows
The sweetness of belonging
Weak Hadith
Careful, when you speak
Of a saying of the prophet
That is classified as weak.
The hadith isn’t weaker,
Not at all, than such a speaker.
Courtesy http://sulook.org/hikam.
Ripples
Truth:
The surface of a lake,
Still, at rest;
Stir to wake;
The ripples are for us
Who do not see it.
But, Words
words can burn
scar and maim
even slay
all the same
spirits cringe
at the game
of a tongue
taking aim
sticks and stones
break my bones
Days of Hajj
They’re coming to you now, my Lord
Believers everywhere,
Responding to Ibrahim’s call
That once rang in the air;
They’ve spent their wealth and shed the threads
That set themselves apart,
And donned the simple shroud that suits
A true believing heart,
They’ll watch their actions in these days,
To hurt no gnat or fly,
And let the dirt without erase
The dirt within must die.
And tears, Lord, the tears flow
Like rivers through a land
That’s parched and thirsting for a show
Of Mercy that is grand.
So take them all on Arafah
And let upon them rains
Of love to wash their sins away
Till none of sins remains.
And we so far can only hope
The goodness of those slaves
Will send us strength to grasp the rope
That lifts us from our graves
To gather us behind RasulAllah
In countless rows
It is a high we long to find
Upon this day of lows.
Wind And Bough
look for the moment
wind and bough
here and now
faithful companions
quiet submission
On Following The Unlettered Intellect
I often wonder how to reconcile
This paradox in knowledge that I see:
To slog through books in earnest, all the while
Admiring the unlettered Nabi.
And then I heard this wisdom: all the toil
The seeker puts into sincere seeking,
The sleepless hours burned by midnight oil
To brave a climb that’s marked by endless peaking,
Produces such sophisticated minds
Well honed upon the stone of scholarship,
But even what the mill of learning grinds
Despite its many tries to take a sip
Can’t reach the fountain flowing beyond sins
To where prophetic intellect begins.
This
A dweller in the garden
Rises from a resting place
Leaves, a patch of verdant green
In a solitary trace
Rise in glory
Breathe in bliss
Fragrances
And then there’s this
One
Let the morning sunshine
Wash the golden petal,
Strengthen stalk for wind and dew
That seeks a leaf to settle.
One, the source of sunshine,
Of petal, wind and dew,
And One, the source of word and thought,
Remembering the True.
Boomerang
There is no procreation
In paradise; it’s where
Eternal is companionship
For those who flourish there.
And herein lies the irony
Within the devil’s snare:
It sparked the procreation of
The one he couldn’t bear.
Courtesy sulook.org/hikam