Khalid Mukhtar

The more I say, the less you hear;
The less I say, the more its clear,
That wishing for to know me more
Is not a fancy you hold dear.

Head…pain.

I pull into the parking lot,
And want to shake my head so bad,
But find that I cannot.

Head…pain…feather.

My immobility persists
While I attempt to process why
These words arrest me so.

Head…pain…feather…child.

And then I see inside my head
A scene projected by my heart,
A fascinating show:

A baby in my mother’s arms
Is rocking slowly back and forth;
She smiles, she laughs, she imitates
His coos so very well.

And as he rocks and bobs his head,
She’s taken by surprise just when
His forehead strikes her in the chest,
How hard, I cannot tell.

But she does seem to wince at that
With baby still held in her arms,
Laughing, then crying out in pain,
And then, laughing again.

I blink to end my reverie.
Feather still eludes me.

This came out on a quiet Sunday afternoon at the behest of my two little girls. They supplied the words and the scene while I mashed it all together. Quite contrived, but such a fun exercise.

On a bright and sunny morning,
Where the grass grows wild and green,
And the colors of the rainbow
Wash all the flowers clean,

The butterfly came fluttering,
And sat her light self down
Upon a black-eyed Susan’s
Crisp and golden crown;

And was about to sample
The nectar, filling, sweet,
When, overhead, she heard the buzz
Of interrupting feet.

“My kindest salutations,
To you my fluttering friend,
I come with hope to partake of
This black-eyed Susan blend.”

The butterfly turned to him,
Said with a quick Ahem,
“A hundred others sway here now,

The thought had come and swiftly gone
At least a dozen times that day,
Then like a close and dear friend,
It caught itself and chose to stay,

And cause a stir in Ali’s heart,
Who gently put his burden down,
Then stretched his sore and ailing self
Upon the parched and dusty ground.

And where he lay upon the dust,
The burning sun shone down upon
The son Medina doted on:
Ali, the soldier, scholar, scribe.

How could a poor man like he
With not a dirham to his name
Aspire so, he shook his head
But considered it just the same.

Good men of higher standing tried,
But everyone had been denied
Their wish to marry Fatima,
Sweet piety personified.

The crisp adhan cut through the air
And shook young Ali from his thoughts,
The lowly water carrier
Broke from his work and made for prayer.

And as he found his lips complete
The call to claim the harvest high,
The indecision left him, for
In every thought does action lie.

The soldier ambled out of prayer,
And saw the man he dearly loved,
The Prophet, making for his home,
His fragrant scent perfumed the air.

With quickened heart and pace to match,
He came to where the Prophet was,
Who turned around and with a smile
Said thus to end the pregnant pause:

“Upon you Peace, Abu Turab”,
To which Ali responded and
Proceeded to articulate
His plea for young Fatima’s hand.

The smile upon the Prophet’s face
Grew brighter as he drew Ali
Towards him, then the words he said
Set Ali’s tender heart to race:

“And what shall be my daughter’s dower?”,
To which did Ali promptly yield,
“The worth of my sole property:
My coat of mail and trusted shield”.

And thus a seed of thought had found,
In young Ali, its fertile ground,
Then from it sprung a blessed tree
That bore its fruit for all to see.