Khalid Mukhtar

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

Feather

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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.

The Butterfly and the Bee

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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,

Why don’t you visit them?”
Then with a slowly growing smile,
Replied the clever bee,
“A meal is so much better with
The proper company”.

The Proposal

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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.

Inspired by the ‘Dedication’ of ‘Bismi And The Secret of The Kohinoor’

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I really like this story, and the author’s Dedication note is touching. It inspired the below.
I thank His Grace for you, my dear,
For you, my dear, have taught my heart

To spring a fount of love so clear,
That falls unto your garden green,
Unstrained and unabated, pure,
And washes all your flowers clean;
So flourish under summer skies,
Where drops of morning dew reflect
The colored wings of butterflies.
And this, beloved, is my prayer
That such a love spring from your heart
To wash another garden fair
Before it leaves the verdant scene
And flows into the ocean love
Of Sayyidi al-Mursaleen.
sallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam

I Love You

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I love you. As my day unfolds,
Your angel face my eye beholds,
And painful though the parting be,
I brave it hesitatingly.

I love you. When my day weighs down
Upon me and you’re not aroun’,
I close my eyes and there you are,
So very close, yet very far.

I love you. As the setting sun
Reminds me that my day is done,
I long again, with longing new,
For you, my love. I so love you.

On a mother's perception of her child's perception of death

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This endearing post by a mother inspired the below.

She lifted up her little head,
Looked up at me like never before,
“Mommy”, she said, “if you get dead,
Then I won’t have a Mom anymore.”

My heart leapt up into my throat,
My heavy hands dropped to my knees,
I strove to catch up and devote
My mind to say something with ease.

But speechless was, and stayed that way
Until I said “Who told you that?”,
And thought in vain what to convey
In words to my precocious brat.

I could have said so many things,
So many things about death, to see ‘f
She’d comprehend the peace it brings,
As does pain’s companion, relief;

That death completes all we begin;
For every kiss upon on her face,
And every time I cradle her chin,
And every warm and snug embrace,

There is a kiss yet to be planted,
A cuddle her chin has yet to feel,
A warm, snug hug yet to be granted
Through an application of death’s dark seal.

“I made it up myself”, came the response,
And I, by now, had had enough;
She went back to her squiggly fonts,
I, to my laundry, and other stuff.

Upon seeing a drop of water on my windshield

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I see you form a lens on my windshield

As I stop at a red light,
Lone clear drop of water.
A few of your companions fall around you,
But you have captivated my interest:
A perfectly round drop of water
Deposited by your angel escorts
Upon my windshield.
Have you memories, water drop,
Of your past descents, each ending a cycle
That all began with glorious creation itself?
Have you memories?
Were you amongst the drops that swallowed up
The world of Nuh?
Or did you land upon his strong and noble shoulder,
And stay there for a while?
Or were you a drop that clung to the hair of Jonah
As he came to his senses in the repulsive darkness?
Did you slide down his cheek and mix with his tears
As he turned in humility to his, and your, Master.
Or do you trace yourself to a proud parentage
Of one that sprung from the muddy heels
Of Ismaeel, as he lay on his back, a crying infant?
Did you quench his thirst, and make his dear mother
Weep with joy?
Or did you find yourself in a pail with little Yusuf,
When they hoisted him out of a well?
Cold and lost, but reassured.
Were you there, dear drop?
Or were you a party of those that splashed upon
The shores of the Red Sea, as Musa called upon his Lord?
Or were you perched up high on a liquid wall,
Atop all your companions;
Or down, at the bottom, watching his blessed feet
Lead the rest across a damp sea bed?
You cannot hold on, as forces break the tension and
Pull you down in a streak, just a little bit.
Weary drop: have you a memory of quenching the thirst
Of a righteous soldier of Talut,
Slithering down his parched throat?
Were you bid that honor?
Or did you babble in the stream that noble Maryam drank from,
And did you witness the sacred birth?
Did you touch litle Isa, little drop?
Were you a comfort to him and his mother?
Were you?
And when my Prophet rested at Badr,
Did you come down and wet his beautiful face?
Did you feel his love as he rubbed you into his beard?
Did your escorts stay by your side
A little longer than usual that time?
Were you bid that honor, my dear little drop?
Were you?
And now, as you slide down my windshield:
Does this my encounter with you separate
Your past glories from your future ones?
The honor is mine.

How Dear You Are To His Beloved

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On the streets of Chennai, half covered by a discarded shawl
Trying hard to sleep on the cold pavement,
Trying hard to forget it all,
Dear child: how magnified you are in the sight of Allah,
And how dear you are to His beloved.
In the camps of Kigali, staring blankly into the sand,
Trying hard to stay awake
As you hold your sister’s cold hand,
Dear child: how magnified you are in the sight of Allah,
And how dear you are to His beloved.
In your cozy Chicago home, surrounded by stuffed toys,
Feeling your heart rise up in your throat,
Feigning sleep to tune out the noise,
Dear child: how magnified you are in the sight of Allah,
And how dear you are to His beloved.

The Snake

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On a warm afternoon, in the shade of a palm,
Speckled with the sun’s golden light,
The companions stood behind their Imam,
The Prophet of God, dressed in white.

The journey was ending and home was near,
Near enough to long for its joys;
As the second salaam sealed the prayer,
The Prophet smiled, and looked for the boys.

How strong was their stand when they had been told
By their father and mother to forgo the ride;
The command only tightened their hold,
Determined to remain by their grandfather’s side.

Thus were the two little darlings counted
Among this group leaving their ground,
The horses were saddled, the camels mounted;
But not one trace of the boys was found.

Now let us visit our two little friends
Who wandered away, away from camp
Into the desert where the sun descends
Over the sands like a crimson lamp.

Down a dune they rolled and leapt
And wrestled playfully each other,
While nearby a someone crept,
Unknown to Hassan and his brother.

The snake, she started from her rest
And spanned her length towards the boys
To vehemently stage protest
With all the strength a snake employs.

The children’s eyes went wide with fear
They clutched each other, set to bound,
But stopped to see the snake so near,
And that was when they looked around.

They sobbed aloud, their tears flowing
And darkening the twilit day,
The snake inched forward, not knowing
What sense to make of this display.

Back with the Prophet and his company:
They searched everywhere, yet could not find
A clue as to where the children might be,
Despite their frantic efforts combined.

The Prophet looked up at the darkening sky,
Then down at the earth respectfully,
And taking the name of his Lord most high,
He bid it show what he wished to see.

And the earth did respond to his blessed request,
For to his good eye, the desert sand shifted,
Till the land was flat with its dunes depressed,
And the boys far and low were near, lifted.

Their crying had grown louder and louder,
Causing the reptile ready itself,
To strike; but then a sensation cowed her
Pinning her down to the sandy shelf.

A fragrant scent filled the air
That wrapped the boys in hope and strength;
They turned their heads with the greatest care:
Their grandfather at a hand’s length.

The Prophet motioned them to stay,
And stepped toward the confounded snake,
“Leave my grandsons and be on your way”.
And she vanished for the Prophet’s sake.

The children cheered, and jumped and flew
To hold and kiss the Prophet’s face,
And he in turn did kiss them too,
Then thanked the Lord for His grace.

This is where our story runs dry,
So moisten your eye and send down a rain
Of prayers and blessings of God most high
Upon the Prophet, Hassan, and Husayn.

On a Ramadan Morning Getting Ready For Work

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The last drop of water slithers down my throat
And leaves me desiring no more.
Dawn is here.
I have a busy day at work,
So I shower down, and dress up.

As I look into the mirror to comb my hair,
My eyes serve me back a look,
A look that warns me to be wary,
A look that has me looking back, back at it.

Everything before my eyes
Gets to it at the speed of light,
And once I see it, its burned in my head
Like so many a forbidden delight.
But my eyes don’t want to be fed.
Not today, not quite.

As I look away from my reflection,
I can’t help but give a moment’s thought to the blind,
Thinking who was the more blessed
In the light of the thoughts I left behind.

Good men come to mind
And the answer is right there:
It is he who sees, and yet is blind
To the questionable affair.

I smile at the terribly winding path I took
To arrive at this obvious conclusion.
But I’m glad I combed my hair today.