The prophet stood up in his mosque “Will someone entertain my guest?” A hand went up and that’s how it Began The man - he rushed home to his wife “A guest is coming home tonight” Alarmed, she said “we only have A bite” He thought for one moment or two A plan emerging in his mind Looked at his wife and said “Here’s what We’ll do “Let’s kiss the children off to bed That sleep their hunger douse, then we’ll Turn down the lamps as we sit to The spread “And wife, we will pretend to chew With skill, we will put on a show So that our guest who has his fill Won’t know” And thus they carried out their plan The guest arrived and ate the bread Then left, the couple prayed and went To bed The night went by, the day arrived The Prophet saw the man and cried With joy from news that came on angel Wings For one attracted by the nūr Had found the good companion’s house And saw the wealth a humble servant brings
Knots
You're broken and sad And feeling quite bad The tears spring forth from a sigh Your chest is constricted Your lips cannot stop A whimper becoming a cry This grief comes like rain And falls where it falls E'en deserts get their share of showers Take heart in the faith That this too shall pass In seconds or minutes or hours The prophets were tested Like no one before So know that your grief is a trial In shukr and hamd Send salawāt galore Upon him for a little while
On His Baldness
Why so much love for them that part from you They give no thought to how they’ve grieved your mind Such love for things that leave the way they do But not for them that choose to stay behind Don’t shun the shine upon your blessed bean God’s plan is in all things that shed and fall Be hair or fur or leaves that once were green They all submit obeying nature’s call So why so sad my khalid at this loss When all it really is, is wholesome gain You know that your beloved won’t be cross If you yourself have chosen to remain Some surfaces are meant to be some day A field of cranium for children’s play
Hanging Around
There’s a stack of air Just hanging there Between the Japanese maple And the lazy white hydrangea It’s such a stack of air It’s a lovely shape With a fragrant flair Fully taking in its staple Of the morning sunshine can’t you Just taste that snack of air I don’t think it’s moved From it’s leafy lair Where it appears to stay still Encased by petal candy, oh I’m done.
Stay On It
All the world is a sign That a hope is your way If the only thing you fear Is an act where you stray That displeases the One With a will that melts glaciers And freezes the sun Cling well to that hope And nurture that fear Till the journey is done
Don’t Answer The Door
Despair comes knocking often in these times Its droll and dreary beat upon your door Conjuring up images of your crimes Until your shattered heart can take no more khalid acknowledge your deficiencies While there’s no good in lying to yourself Your mad frustrations only serve to please The demons wishing ill upon your health But sit upon a rock and let the air Remind you of the one who’s heart was filled With grief that his beloved wasn’t there To nurse him when a rain of stones had stilled The heavens sending prayers upon a man Content revived and pleased with Allah’s plan
In Line
Your life is as long As takes to respond To the welcome iqamah You heard as a babe So weave through your time You’re waiting in line And when you arrive We’ll pray on your grave
On His Love For Tāif
How can you claim To praise his name For the rahmah that is his life Unless you knew What he said to The angel of the mounts at Tāif
The Boy and the Dessert Table
Once upon a time there was a boy. He was a good boy. He had those eyes that rivalled suns. He had a forehead with little space for anything but overgrown locks of hair and transient evidences of frowns. It was a good forehead.
He was an extraordinary boy. He was bound for greatness. He would come to do great things as a man, perhaps command an army that would win him many wars, but not the usual kind of army or the usual kind of wars. He would come to be a good brother, a good son. He would grow up to be a good man, a good husband, a good father. Yes, he was bound for greatness, if the Lord from Whose Hand such things flow, willed it.
But for now, there he was.
Beside him, there was a table. It was filling up with desserts quickly. They were of different kinds. The boy was watching people bring more and more desserts to the table. He stopped watching the people after a while. He could not take his eyes off the sweets. There were chocolate chip cookies – the crunchy and mushy kinds – and coffee cake, and pound cake and walnut bars and kheer and sheer khurma and gulab jamun. The gulab jamun filled his eyes – like planets revolving around his solar pupil, drawn to it by gravity, destined to circumambulate and succumb to the heat of its gaze.
The boy waited till everyone went away from the table. When they had gone, he walked up to the table, removed the lid from the corning ware that held the gulab jamun and set it aside. He then picked up one sphere with his right hand and put it in his mouth. He pushed it in until the syrup-laden ball pressed into the back of his mouth and shrunk as the syrup drenched his tongued and flowed down his gullet. With his left hand, he picked up a second sphere and stuffed it into the right cheek, pushing it in firmly so that it sat lodged behind the rows of shiny teeth. Then with both hands he picked up a third sphere and placed it in this mouth allowing it to find whatever space it could to coexist with the others. Then he wiped his hands on his shirt and turned around.
There she was. A woman. She was the hostess.
She looked at the boy. Her mouth fell open. The boy looked at her. His cheeks bulged dangerously.
There was no room to move his jaws, but he chewed anyway. A little syrup escaped from a corner of his mouth. The woman stared. The boy tired of looking at the lady and ran away. She stood there a moment. Then she laughed. Something clanged somewhere and someone shrieked in laughter and the atmosphere of the party made them both forget everything.
But I wrote it all down for you.
Taken from my growing collection of short stories with a working title of Hawker’s Point and Other Boyhood Tales.
On That Fruit Seller Reading Qudūri
How can I being myself to count The many forms of love Of mothers tending babies And fathers burning nights Of brothers standing silent watch Over their brothers rights Of sisters gone downriver And queens becoming mothers Or a prophet drawing back The angel wrath above all others I’ll take the simple love of one For whom he’s never met From whom he has inherited A wealth of intellect Just sitting by his stock of fruit Qudūrī in his hands For time is his who fills it with A humbleness that spans Eternity, and angels marvel: Now there’s a love to love