Finished My Second Book

This story took me a little over a year to finally get done. It is called Kindred. It is about 55,000 words. I have it out to three first readers at this time. I hope to open it up to a group of second readers in the coming weeks. I am yet to work on a query letter for it. I also hope to start on my third work of fiction drama shortly. I have included a small chapter below by way of an excerpt.

5. The Third of July 

    Ray sat on the steps of the porch watching Blain Travers assist a neighbor whose home had suffered significant damage from the quake. He didn’t particularly care for the cup of heavily sugared chamomile tea his grandfather had forced into his hands, but he couldn’t deny the calming effect it had on his nerves. He thought about how the bitterness in the strong brew seemed to overtake the sweetness in it as the warm liquid gently swirled up into his palette with each sip.

    It reminded him of the events from two days ago, bitter-sweet in so many ways: his impulsive decision to run, against all odds, into the cave, the upbeat mood of the group as it followed his lead, the shock of realizing one of them was left behind, the relief at finding Nabeel alive and well, the frantic pace that he and Nabeel worked at as they moved the fallen rocks in the hopes of finding Cory. All of it played back in his head. He thought back to when Tom Leary and a fireman named Bert, emerged from the side path and joined them in their efforts. He recalled how all four of them worked incessantly until 11 PM at which point Nabeel’s knees buckled and he fell down on to his fours, breaking out into sobs. The next three hours went by quietly as Ray and Nabeel sat back against the cold walls of the cave watching Tom and Bert move like machines. At 2:15 PM, the rescue workers from the other side broke through. With each passing minute, their hopes of finding Cory dwindled, until every rock had been moved off to the side and the floor at the site of the collapse had become even with the rest of the surrounding floor. It was as if Cory had just disappeared.

    Ray blinked as the next wave of recollection came upon him, of when he and Nabeel exited the mouth of the cave with Tom ahead of them. It was almost 5 AM. He remembered seeing a couple massive cranes, and rescue workers lining the narrow path that led to the mouth of the cave. He remembered how the floodlights almost blinded him, how pockets of onlookers gathered high above began a cheer that Tom quickly arrested with a slow and deliberate shake of his head preventing its growth into a roar. He remembered how his grandfather took a step forward and covered him up completely in an affectionate bear hug. He remembered how, from the corner of his eye, he, along with everybody else gathered there in the dawn, watched as Nabeel slowly made his way to his friends standing beside the sitting figure of Joshua with an arm around a fast-asleep Drew Fedson. He remembered how Drew opened his eyes with the slightest squeeze from Joshua, and looked up at Nabeel, and how Nabeel looked down at Drew, his face an image of resignation. He remembered how the tears welled up in Drew’s eyes instantly as he sprang up and into the arms of the man who had been closest to his father, as if the act alone would somehow bring him closer to his own father.

    And the tears streamed from Ray’s own eyes and down his cheeks into the bitter sweet cup of tea he held close to his lips. So lost was he in thought and so hazy was his vision on account of the tears, that Ray did not see the towering figure of his grandfather standing above him. Blaine Travers placed a comforting hand on Ray’s shoulders that brought him out of his dreamy state. Ray lowered the cup and wiped his face on his sleeve as Blaine sat next to him with a deep sigh, placing his walking cane on the steps next to him.

    The older man cleared his throat and spoke as he nodded his head. “It isn’t easy, Ray. But you’ll get over it.”

Ray said nothing. He was glad for his grandfather. He wished his parents were with him too, but took strength in knowing that they would be with him soon. He had talked with them the night before for an entire hour. All roadways into and out of Memphis had been closed the previous night due to the quake. Flight cancellations abounded as almost every airport in a three-hundred mile radius of Evansville had to be shut down. Ray’s father had called at noon to say that the roadways had opened up again, and that they were planning to drive up later that night. Ray took solace in the fact that his parents were both safe and had survived the quake without injury or major losses of any kind. Families in Evansville and surrounding areas weren't that lucky, with one fatality reported in Evansville. Hospitals were teeming with outpatient cases. And Cory Fedson was still considered missing as his body had not yet been recovered.

    The cuckoo clock in the living room behind them chimed 6 PM when they saw two cars pull into their street and park in front of their house. Ray recognized the Grand Prix as Nabeel’s, and assumed the Infiniti next to it to be a rental.

    “Now that is a fancy set of wheels.” Blaine said in his raspy voice as he stood up with his cane and began to make his way towards the sidewalk.

    Ray watched silently as Nabeel Hassan and Jason Banner exited the Grand Prix. Joshua Sanders got out of the other car. Each shook Blaine’s hand with a courteous nod. They spoke with him for some time before Joshua and Jason broke off from the conversation and made their way towards Ray. Nabeel continued chatting with Blaine and sent a wan smile in Ray’s direction which Ray reciprocated with a nod.

    The two others shook Ray’s hand and thanked him profusely, patting him on his back, recalling his handling of the crisis. Ray asked where Drew was and learned that his mother had
rushed down that morning and was with him at this time. They were going to stay in Still Mountain a few more days.

    Jason Banner frowned and shook his head . “I still can’t believe Cory’s just disappeared.”

    Everyone nodded but they couldn't think of anything else to say. The rescue workers had dug into all the other parts of cave three where rock had fallen during the shock waves, and they had gone an extra six inches deep, twelve in some places. But there had been no trace of Cory.

    Nabeel left Blaine and walked towards the others assembled near the porch. The skinny man made straight for Ray and threw his arms around him in a tight embrace, then motioned with his fingers to the others to join him in a group hug. They obliged closing in on the forms of Ray Pritchard and Nabeel Hassan.

    Blaine watched them huddle as the afternoon sun cast a long shadow of the group. He could hear the soft murmur of Nabeel’s voice. The group hug extended into its fourth minute, and when
it finally broke, all four men wiped their faces with their hands. No other words were said. The men got into their respective cars, waved quickly and disappeared down the hill.

    Blaine and Ray finished a meal of macaroni and cheese after which Ray helped his grandfather clean up. Blaine made no secret of his fatigue and ambled into his room to call it an early night. Ray, on the other hand, decided he wanted to watch some television. He stretched himself out on the couch and clicked the tuner to an old Seinfeld rerun. Watching a George Costanza meltdown was one of Ray’s favorite television experiences. But this night, even George’s antics couldn't bring a smile to his face. It only took fifteen minutes for him to fall asleep on the couch. He hadn't the slightest inkling as to what awaited him.

Ekphrasis of an Amaryllis Bulb

Biding our time fighting the flu,

Staring at objects that come in our view.

Amaryllis, silent, you

Rest on vase with naught to do,

Stalk of green, and root of brown,

Waiting for your crimson crown;

How long will the waiting be,

Amaryllis, patiently?

Eternity

This is a sonnet I recently submitted as my contribution to Highland Park Poetry's on-going chaining experiment.

How can the reaches of a mortal mind
Encompass what defies encompassing,
To plumb the depths of time and space to find
The secrets that such explorations bring.

This fascination makes my inward eye

Reflect upon the play of earth and sun:

How rays of gold that wash the morning sky

Drip crimson when the turn of day is done

Until they kiss the sparkle of the sea;

And when I see the jewels of the night,

I know the sun is rising though it be

For but a new beholder of its sight.

    While minds are strained and spent in time and space,

    Do hearts approach eternity by grace.

Inspired by Arthur Rimbaud's Eternity.

How Sweet is the Song

This was inspired in part by a lecture on Maryam, one from the Women in the Quran lecture series, available here for purchase. I recommend it strongly to anyone interested in a fresh perspective on the life of Maryam, her mother and her son (peace be upon them all). 

How sweet is the song
Of a stream in the wild
That softens its rush
At the coo of a child;

How sweet is the song
Of the leaves in the breeze
That rustle and fall
On the weary knees

And hands of a maiden
So pure as the dawn
Caressing the face
Of the baby that shone,

How sweet is the song
Of the grass that is green,
Where showers of dates
Meet the water serene,

How sweet is the song
Of the angels that span
The space and the time
Which with Adam began.

This Word from the Lord
So conceived in the morn:
How blest is the child
In a day that is born.

The Friday Song for Little Muslimahs

The week is behind us, the weekend's ahead
As Friday reminds us: be happy instead.
There's food's on the table, and health in our hands,

We've got no worries and we haven't any plans;

We do our hair and our nails after taking our showers,
And dress up in clothes all embroidered with flowers;
We moisten our hearts, plant the sweetest of words
In the soil of remembrance, a home to the birds:

Every verse spreads its wings, rises high up to fly
Through a love like the meadow and a faith like the sky
Till it reaches its perch in the tree of my heart,
Where it lives on forever, to never depart,

And the song from this tree on this day of the week

Brings believers and angels each other to seek,

Now if Friday were my day, I'd make it so long

Till my heart joins the rhythm in the beat of this song.

The week is behind us, the weekend's ahead
As Friday reminds us: be happy instead.
There's food's on the table, and health in our hands,
We've got no worries and we haven't any plans.

Tears and Whispers

In our efforts to be virtuous we often tolerate injustice. And in our efforts to be just, we often overstep our bounds. True justice lies in knowing the rights of creation. It is why the best of creation (prayers and peace be upon him) was the most moderate in temper, for excellence is the sum of all acts wrought in moderation.

Take care you are not blinded by
The tears in your eyes
That long to weep an ocean deep
For all that they receive;

Take care you are not deafened by
The whispers in your ear
That like the clamor of a hammer
Make your heart to grieve;

But let your inward temperate check
Your hearing and your sight;
There is no virtue if when hurt,
You steal another's right.

Won the "Lighting of the Fire" Poetry Contest

Good news for me. I recently learned that my entry was placed first in the "Lighting of the Fire" Poetry Contest sponsored by Highland Park Poetry and the Ravinia Neighbors Association.
I have been invited to read it at the November 22nd Centennial Celebration of the Ravinia Village House (that's Friday night).

Here's an article talking about the upcoming celebration.
http://www.ravinianeighbors.org/ravinia-neighbors-association-blog/your-invitation-to-a-once-in-a-century-event

And here's the winning poem.
http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/home.html

My sincere thanks to the Ravinia Neighbors Association and Highland Park Poetry for this recognition. I've pasted the poem below in case the above link expires :-).

A Spark and a Fire

I often set to wonder why
We take the stands we take;
What makes us rise from where we lie,
And stirs our hearts to wake

When forth, the ever silent, speak
To light a tiny spark
That burns a flame by which we seek
To drive away the dark;

Like planters of the olive tree,
They never taste its fruit,
Which, like the one who eats from it,
Knows nothing of its root.

I think the answer might well be
The courage of a few
Whose grit, resolve, tenacity,
And other virtues too

Deliver us to light again
This fire that will burn
In honor of their service then,
An honor we return.

Wind Beneath My Feet

I'm late for work and I'm driving down the street,
I've got the road in my hands and the wind beneath my feet;

I'm worn and weary of the one who makes me yawn,
I'd rather breathe in the colors of the autumn in the dawn;

Will I live to see the sunset and the night?
Will I see this song to its end within my sight?

The only thing I am certain of is this:
That the world is filled with things I will not miss

If I climb the mountain, descend into the cave
Where the mines of merciful love receive a slave;

I won't need to worry if I make it to those mines;
How the darkness goes when the Light of mercy shines

Till I find that diamond and hold it to my face,
Yes, I know my gem of redemption's in that place.

But for now I'm glad that I'm driving down this street,
I've got the road in my hands and the wind beneath my feet;

I feel like everything in the world belongs to me,
I feel like everything in the world belongs to me.


The Messenger, peace be upon him, said, "If anyone among you is secure in mind in the morning, healthy in body, possessed of food for the day, it is as though the whole world has been brought into his possession."

Wrote My First Book

There! I said it. And I said it with all the mediocrity I could summon into my fingertips.

Now, don't get me wrong. It is a big deal, or rather it was when I finished the manuscript. But I am trying to make a point in this post, and to get to it, I must dwell on the title line a bit. So I'll say it again.

I wrote my first book.

Yes. I wrote it in January of 2012. It all happened quite suddenly, and very unexpectedly.

I was with my family one Saturday morning brunching at the Egg Harbor Cafe in downtown Naperville. We were just making small talk when my wife brought up the topic of schooling in India. Before we knew it, somewhere between the belgian waffle and the cheese grits (if you haven't, you've got to try their cheese grits), the conversation whittled itself into a long and slender bamboo cane - one that graced the hand of our high school headmaster. No, we're not that old, but we did go to school in India, and back when we were in school, about twenty-five years ago, getting your daily stripes courtesy said bamboo cane could easily become an everyday ritual, albeit a painful one.

So as we whittled the proverbial cane of our conversation into dust, I said to my wife (and I paraphrase):

"Hey, maybe I could write a book on this. You know, about oppression at two entirely different levels. There's the headmaster figure, and... and maybe a tyrannical ruler, like the pharaoh. Right? You know, to show how oppression is ugly, however small or large the scale of it. Right?"

My wife looked at me, and said, "Why don't you do it?"

My then-nine-year-old daughter looked at me and said, "Do what?"

My then-six-year-old daughter looked at me and said, "I can't finish my eggs."

So, I finished them for her.

I spent the rest of the weekend thinking about our conversation, and a plot began to emerge in my head. The following Monday, my commute to work helped me finish chapter 1. I decided I would call the book "Tyrants". The return commute knocked out chapters 2, 3 and 4 (maybe even 5). Anyway, by Wednesday of that same week, I had a fully thought-out story in my head, divvied up into thirteen chapters. I told myself the plot had to be tight and engaging, and the characters interesting and believable. I even decided I would be as minimal in my writing as possible, with everything distilled down to only what was needed to carry a story and keep it interesting. I read somewhere that it was easy to add pages, but not so easy to remove, and feeling insecure as a first-time writer, I embraced the advice fully.

I wrote the first chapter the very next night. And then I kept at it for the next three weeks, working weeknights and Saturdays. And when I finally finished the manuscript of "Tyrants" in three weeks flat, it felt good. I had a 53,000 word manuscript on my computer. I put it on a flash drive and drove down to a copy shop where I printed it out. It felt so good.

My wife had been reading the chapters as I was writing them, so she finished reading the book about the time I finished writing it. She liked it, but her feedback was a bit tainted as she knew the plot from the outset.

So then I gave it to my Dad. He had no idea I had written a novel, so when he liked it, I was encouraged a bit.

I began to read up on the querying scene that all writers ought to get familiar with. I became a frequenter of queryshark.com (great resource for new fiction writers by the way). After several iterations of "writing my query letter and letting it sit", I felt my query letter was ready for the world of literary agents.

My query letter in its current state

I mustered the courage to send out a few. I started with the most popular agents on the east coast, sending them email queries, and in some cases, snail mail.

One in three got back to me and politely declined saying the work "was not a good fit for them". After about five queries, my interest began to wane. I began to wonder if my two-hundred-page manuscript was a colossal waste of time. In the days and weeks and months that followed, I shared out the manuscript with a close circle of family and friends. Some liked it a lot, a few had mixed but good feedback, while some (actually many) never got back to me.

Then someone said, "Friends and family will never tell you your book is garbage."

So I approached the founder of the poetry club I had been a member of. She was not family. She was not a friend. She was... an acquaintance. She seemed unbiased. And she taught creative writing too. She agreed to read my manuscript. It took her three weeks to get back to me. We met up right after an open mic. Her feedback was very good. She liked the story a lot, she liked the writing, she liked the characters and the twists in the plot. She pointed out a few inconsistencies and I fixed them.

And that's when I told myself there was something here. I redoubled my querying efforts.

Fast-forward from then to six months ago: I had altogether sent out just under twenty queries, twenty if you count one pathetically half-hearted attempt. That's really not a lot at all. There are happy souls out there who celebrate one-hundred query rejections by throwing their friends a party - it is the sort of grit you need to keep your head up in this industry.

Nevertheless, one bright and sunny day in May, I stopped querying. I had grown tired of it, but that wasn't why I stopped. I stopped because I had started to think. You see, my father-in-law visited with us some time back and he had given me some advice. It was simple advice: keep writing; churn out the books; when you finish one, stuff it under your bed, and start on the next one. He told me not to worry about getting published, but rather to be preoccupied with the craft of writing.

When this advice finally sank in (and it took a few months), the realization was quite liberating for me as a writer. And that is really the simple point I am trying to make in this post.

You see, I was getting better. My writing had improved. I could tell. My ability to spin yarn from word-pulp, and weave an intricate tapestry of fiction drama had increased. Cheesy imagery, but you get the point. My writing had improved just with stepping into my second book. I felt like I had crossed a bridge after dodging the one-novel-publisher troll who dwelt beneath it, a beast that ceaselessly spat the word "Publish".

Now, if you ever comes across such a bridge by happenstance and encounter a troll beneath it spitting the word "Publish", do take my advice and risk your everything to get to the other side where the grass is greener. I know, I'm chewing on it right now. And guess what, there will be more bridges that I, and you, will have to span in our respective journeys as writers, and you don't want to not cross any of them. Now, don't get me wrong. You can lean on the railing, chat with that troll, you know, query an agent every now and then with the work you have accomplished - just make sure you continually sharpen your query letters. But then once you've done that, flash that troll a smile and keep walking. The grass will keep getting greener and greener with every bridge you cross.

So I've decided that on my journey as a writer, I will not allow myself to be preoccupied with my destination. Besides, the journey is far too beautiful. And if you've been stuck on that query-your-nth-novel-like-there's-no-tomorrow bridge (especially if n = 1), I hope this gives you a push to keep walking.

I close this post with the opening verses of an old Cat Stevens number.

Miles from nowhere, 
I guess I'll take my time,
Oh yeah, to reach there.

Look up at the mountain 
I have to climb,
Oh yeah, to reach there.

Fox, Persistent

Although this poem is crafted as a first-person account, I was not part of the experience recounted in it. Rather it is based on what I heard from the esteemed Dr. Umar AbdAllah in a lecture delivered recently at Darul Qasim. The scene is the lush campus of the Alqueria de Rosales in Southern Spain. 

These last few days, each day had we

A visit from a fox,

A quiet, handsome creature, he

Attended all our talks;

For when we'd set to congregate

Upon a grassy hill

To purposefully separate

Our hearts from chatter ill,

This beast was wont to venture near

Neath the temperate sun,

Day after day to persevere

In a skulk of one.

He caused us no distraction nor

To mischief he inclined,

But stood in grand inaction for

What pacified his mind.

Then on that peaceful night as we

Prepared ourselves for prayer,

We sensed a sweet serenity

Excite the silent air;

I do suspect our vulpine friend

Detected it as well,

How quietly did he ascend

The grounds I cannot tell.

However, witness may I bear:

He walked the straightest line

Between the crowds assembled there

And made an exit fine.

I think the blessed night of Qadr

Came upon us then,

Upon us and on every other

Creature in that glen.

Take Heart

My daughter blurted the phrase "leaves can have dimples" as part of an otherwise nonsensical conversation this morning. The silly phrase landed up defining the rest of my drive to work.

Even leaves can have dimples
If you know what dimples be
In the grand scheme of beauty
To a shy and simple tree.

Even rocks host a banquet
If you know what banquets be
In the grand scheme of gaiety
To a sunny rockery.

And when the tear-laden cloud
Crosses winds that blow and blow
Till it throws a thunder tantrum
As its tears begin to flow,

Then the dimpled smiles of leaves
And the feasting of the rocks
Make the cloud that sadly grieves
To ignore the wind that mocks.

Even clouds feel encouraged
If you know what courage be
In the grand scheme of being
To whatever tries to be.

So stop drowning in your worries
And take heart from what you see:
Even leaves can have dimples
If you know what dimples be.

On Sonnets

To forge a sonnet is an art supreme;
It begs a certain clarity of thought
To court a shy yet unrelenting theme
And groom it in apparel that is brought
By aptitude and skill with written word;
To gaze into suspended space and time
And trap a flight of fancy in a bird
That preens its wings to alternating rhyme:
Three quatrains, then a couplet at the end
To tenderly and mercifully wean
You from the shady branches that extend
A dozen roses from the fertile green
Imagination of a sonneteer,
More captivating than the subject here.

Tree of Time

The yellow and gold,
Like drops of the sun,
Do glow in the days
Before they are done;

The orange and red,
And purple and black
Appear instead
To temper the lack

Of green on the scene,
For what isn't green
Is rather begotten
By hues in between;

This tall tree of time
Forever believes
To bear generations
Of leaves upon leaves.

Now do we not bloom
In spring, to be green
In summer? Come fall,
Are hues in between;

That when we are old
Like drops of the sun,
Are yellow and gold
Before we are done

In winter's embrace,
So this tree may bear
Our children by grace
When spring's in the air.

A Change of Heart

The blood on her cheek,
The steel in her eye,
No, she wasn't weak,
Was his turn to cry;

He wanted to read
The words he had heard,
She told him he'd need
Ablution; concurred

And sat down to read
From parchment upon
Were written the words,
Majestic Quran.

The beauty that shined
In His heart through his eye
Expanded his mind
As wide as the sky;

It spoke to his heart
With nothing between
And washed every part
Of it till it was clean.

And all he had wrought:
The cries of the slave,
The innocent coos
Of the child in her grave,

All fell from his eyes
And streamed down his face
To signal the rise
Of another in grace;

He made for the house
Of al-Arqam with haste,
No doubt in his mind,
Not a moment to waste,

And when he arrived,
He knocked on the door
And waited what felt
Like some moments before

It opened and there
Before him did stand
The prophet; at once
Extended his hand,

Then grabbing Umar
By his belt, drew him near
And asked him to make
His intentions all clear;

And Umar did so 
In reverent tone,
At which did the prophet
Praise Allah alone;

The house of al-Arqam
Rejoiced when they heard
The son of al-Khattab
Had uttered the Word.

Song For The Lonely Old Man

Old man, lonely,
Lives every day with his only
Companion: the soft memories of his wife
That warm up his winter of withering life.

His people stop by to see
How he's doing through kettles of tea,
As the evening sun yawns and goes down
On the old man in his old town.

Some day he'll wake up to a dawn
And find all his weariness gone,
To walk with his love on meadows of green,
United together in laughter serene.

Old man, lonely,
Lives every day with his only
Companion: the soft memories of his wife
That warm up his winter of withering life.

Plains of Arafah

The doors of heaven open wide
Unto the plains of Arafah,
For all who raise their hands and cry
Upon the plains of Arafah,

For all the tears that they spill
Into the plains of Arafah
Beseech the Lord of Mercy till
Forgiveness rains on Arafah.

It makes the devil rub his head
With dust he gathers from the earth,
To see the sea of children spread
From dust he deemed of little worth.

Cabbage Wisdom

Brown bird of prey swoops down from sky,
Gray rabbit sits with wary eye,
Grandfather kneels by cabbage young
That dozes in the morning sun
Eclipsed a mite by eagle flash
As cabbage scent makes rabbit dash
Whose rustle turns the gray, sage head
Away from cozy cabbage bed
To rabbit darting into fern;
Makes eagle to the sky return.

How, wonders cabbage with the sun,
A head so grand could spoil the fun.

Picnic

I sit on the concrete, on spirals of sand,
Just dangling my feet as I hold in my hand

A half-eaten apple, a gift from my son,
And watch the light dapple the sight of him run

Away from the waters, a smile on his face,
Toward me the thought on his tongue and he race,

His cousins are splashing about with their dads,
The sounds of their laughter and happiness adds

To all of the pleasure their grandfathers feel
While grandmothers, measuring sand on their heels,

Surrender their words of advice to the breeze;
And here is my son now, his hands on my knees.

The picnic is over, the mothers all smile,
For happy is mother if happy is child.

Loved

How do I know who loves me,

How would I know who does,

I wish I had a way to say

Who loves me now because

There's times when I get lonely,

And no one seems to care

When standing at the door before

My tears is despair;

But I will never let in

This visitor that stole

So near with a blade that's made

To cleave my very soul.

I've learned my Lord is nearer

Than I am to my brain,

So crush my body, grind my mind,

My soul will still remain.

It's all that matters, matter 

Does not matter at all;

What is, is not; what is not, is

What makes me stand up tall.

Winter Submission

Float, little snowflake,
Come, rest on my hand,
Soft as the mercy
That sends you to land;

Tree, tall and mighty,
Surrender your leaf,
Bare all your branches
To frosty relief;

Meadow and hill, spread
Your carpet of white,
River, shine diamonds
In silver moonlight;

My heart is silent,
Asleep with the grass,
Patient submission
Till spring comes to pass;

Wake me to sunshine,
Eternal and sweet,
Winter is over,
My spring is complete.

Wayfarer

In honor of the blessed Shuyukh who preoccupy themselves with our worries and help us to bring order into our lives. May our ends be good, and our means accepted.

Credit for the theme that inspired this poem goes to my dear brother Muhammad who volunteers with the Naqa organization in Leeds, U.K.

I'm weary of this jungle now,
Deceit is in the air:
I rest my hand upon a bough
To find a serpent lair;

I reach out to a rose and feel
The prick of bramble thorn;
I see how beauty everywhere
Can danger well adorn.

But on must I go till I reach
The garden that I seek,
Eternal in its peace of which
A mortal cannot speak,

And as I walk along the way,
I come across a man
Who, standing on a dusty path,

Is holding out his hand.

Although I don't know why I'm drawn

To him, I will attest

That standing here I sense the dawn

Of purpose in my breast.

I look into his kindly face
And take his hand, as he
Bestows on me the sweetest grace
A smile could ever be.

And through the wilds he leads me on
This path he knows so well,
And teaches me a word that helps
All kinds of harm repel.

He warns against the bramble rose
And snare of mossy bough,
But tells me of the leaf that blows,
Yet on its way somehow.

And when we stop to rest a while
He shares with me a spread
Of nectar words for drink, and soft
Remembrances for bread.

I ask him whence this blessing came,
Of which he tells me more
Of all the good and mighty men
Who'd come and gone before.

Then on we tread this path of peace,
He never leaves my hand
However sharp the cut of wind
Or treacherous the land,

We travel on until we hear
The babble of a stream
And find ourselves so very near
The waters of a dream.

And here my teacher leaves my hand
Commanding me to cross;
Although prepared for this command,
I dread the coming loss.

He looks into my wretched eyes,
Assurance in his own,
Which helps to make my courage rise
To face this stream alone.

"I've braved the jungle, what's a stream",
I think as in I wade,
But in degrees the banks recede,
And sight begins to fade.

What once was stream is ocean now,
The waves are dark and high,
I'm overcome, but then somehow
I find the strength to cry

To God for mercy as a wave
Returns me to the stream,
That I may as returning slave
My wayward self redeem.

Ascending to the grassy bank,
I can't believe my fate,
For standing now before me is
My guide in silent wait.

He takes my hand and walks me to
A garden smelling sweet,
To meet the mighty men who I
Have ever longed to meet.

As I approach the last of them,
A fountain comes to light,
Beside it sits my Sayyidee
His face is shining bright,

He fills a cup with water still:
This man that we adore,
And by his hand, I drink my fill
To feel a thirst no more.

SallAllahu 'alayhi wa Sallam.

Before It's Too Late

The thing about apologies:
Can make them anytime,
It's easy to say sorry for
Just any sort of crime;

The only time apologies
Are wasted on your breath
Is when the one they're meant for has
Already tasted death.

So shed the weight of arrogance,
And swallow all your pride,
You'll wish you had when someone has
Eventually died.

And know: it's not for everyone.
To see a matter through
Is not a thing for children, it's
What men and women do.

love, love and Love

How vain is a love that reason requires,
For reasons don't live very long:
They thrive in a storm of capricious desires
And die when the wind isn't strong.

And a love for no reason blows like a leaf
That floats on the whim of a breeze,
Wherever it blows, extinguishes grief
That those in its path it may please.

But love that is true stands firm as a tree

That sprouts from surrendering seed,

Its reason the One, eternal, and free

Of all that creation may need.

Like An Airplane

'Eid Mubarak to children far and wide. Let your imagination be your favorite toy, and your conscience be your guide.

I can be almost anything

I want to be, that's right:

A lion in the jungle with

A very frightful bite,

A tae-kwon-doh destroyer with

A roundhouse kick to match,

A gourmet chef of soups delish

Who makes a world class batch,

An airplane soaring in the sky

That even knows to land,

I can be almost anything 

That I can understand,

In fact I can be more than all

Those things that I have said

Because I always have a toy

Idea in my head.

The sky above, my trusted friend,

The earth beneath my feet

Is but my heart's companion

That never skips a beat.

I'll tread upon it gently as 

My prophet said I should,

It's why airplanes up in the sky,

I think, are very good,

If they land the way they should.

The Last Ten Days Of Ramadan

Seek the night of power,
Search until you find
That barakah-filled hour
To leave your past behind;

Deliverance from the fire
Descending from the Throne:
Is there a mercy higher
Than standing up alone

These last ten nights of Ramadan,
The even and the odd,
When in the peace before the dawn
Goes forth the Will of God.

The Second Ten Days Of Ramadan

Has come the second third now forth:

The moon shall wax before it wanes,

Dissolving mountain sins of earth

In merciful forgiveness rains.

So make the night your begging bowl

And fill it with your burning tears

To beg redemption for your soul

In freedom from despair and fears,

That He who loves forgiving may

Forgive you just as you forgive;

For every self that dies by day

Shall neath the white of badr live.

Ramadan Ajr

An ajr every fast you keep,
An ajr every prayer;
In alms you give, and even sleep,
There's ajr everywhere:

For all your pleas and tears at night,
Your constancy at day,
To hear no evil, see no sight,
To go no wayward way;

Yes, every deed attracts reward,
A measure of what's sown;
All but the fast, for that the Lord
Will make His pleasure known.

The First Ten Days Of Ramadan

It's that time of year again
When the nights are filled with light
Penetrating hearts of men
Standing up to pray at night.

As the crescent waxes, so
Do the mercies from above
In their unabated flow:
Every mercy steeped in  love.

Seek all mercies undeterred,
But the greatest mercy might
Be a supplicating word
In the silence of the night.

Sonnet On The Plague Of Our Times

Of all the things that end of times portend,
I think this bears the hardest on my mind:
The slain know not the reason for their end
And neither does the slayer reason find.
I've heard some lay the blame on food we eat,
While others fault our television time,
Or games of hate we endlessly repeat
Committing every pixel into crime.
Though grave a thing it is to take a life,
Be it an act tyrannical or just,
Where motive dulls the sheen of bloody knife
Or burns the lead that cools the flames of lust,
It's graver when the killer and the killed
Are heedless of the killing that was willed.

"By Him in whose control is my life, this world will not end until that time does not come to pass in which the murderer will not even bother as to why he murdered and neither will the victim know as to why he is being murdered."

Mother And Child - Part 2

Will you be the very one
Who will turn away from me
When the resurrection's done,
Is that just the way we'll be?

Will we both await our turns
On the plains of reckoning
While the temperature, it burns
All delusion that we bring?

Will the passing of that grief
Both our memories renew?
Will I savor the relief
At the fountain next to you?

All of thirst quenched at the hands
Of the one we longed to meet,
Will I recognize the lands
That you tread beneath your feet

As the peace I once had known
Back when you and I were one
Fore the swell of time had grown
Neath the blaze of newborn sun?

Mother And Child - Part 1

It's hard to see you weep
When you're crying in the rain;
It's hard to hear your voice
In the rattle of a train;

It's hard to hold a candle
To the splendor in the sky,
And hard to see the light
When the sun is in my eye;

So I can't know the pains
You knew when we were one,
Like tears in the rains,
And a candle in the sun;

You kept a pieace of me
From our separation sweet,
I'll know it when I see
Paradise beneath your feet.

The Returning

As I await the birth of another child any day now, I think of children all around the world and the suffering they endure. This piece is dedicated to them all, and their parents.

Laying silent in the dirt
Neath a canopy of sky,
Stains of hunger on his shirt
And a tear in his eye;

Sitting sobbing on the sands
Since the fire in the skies
Tore her father from her hands,
And her mother from her eyes;

Snuggled up in cozy bed,
She cannot shut out the noise,
Shuts her tired eyes instead
As her tears dampen toys.

All your suffering a crime,
But your day will come to soar,
Child, beyond the shades of time
Watches One who loves you more;

Unto Him is all return
And may yours be one sublime,
For the justice that you earn
Goes beyond the life of time.

Revelation

There is a peace one never knows
If one does not believe,
A peace that comes to only those
Who masterfully weave

A tapestry so intricate
And rich in every strand
That's dyed with every hue of faith
By a sincere hand;

It is the peace that came upon
A meditating man,
A visit from a stranger by
A sempiternal plan;

The angel held him in embrace
As was the task assigned,
Compressed his heart, a thing of grace
And piety combined.

And thus the being heavenly
Commanded him recite,
But how could he comply when he
Could neither read nor write;

And so the man declined despite
The vastness in his breast
Again, the angel held him tight,
Again his heart compressed.

And when the angel pressed his will,
The man was filled with fear,
And feeling quite incapable,
He sensed his end was near;

But angel actions waver not,
As does not falter plan
That hones the intellect of what
Is ordinary man.

Embracing him again so tight,
Expelling all his breath,
Compressing heart with bonds of light,
The man was near death;

And then release, expanding breast
So wide and so sublime,
Exploding spirit long suppressed,
Transcending space and time.

A wave of light that filled the sea,
A blast that filled the air,
A shock that spanned the universe
And all within its care;

Then rose up, through the firmaments
The news of what occurred:
The last and final messenger
Had borne the Mighty Word.

Love and Fresh Air

You can't see the air, but you know that it's there,
It stirs up the sand, and it blows through your hair,
It flushes your blood as you breathe everywhere,
You can't see the air, but you know that it's there;

You can't see a love, but you know of its bliss
That brings you a peace and it makes you to kiss,
Reminds you of times and of people you miss,
You can't see a love, but you know of its bliss;

You can't see your Lord for an eye cannot bear
What minds cannot measure though hearts may declare,
Like air ever trapped in a medium rare
And love ever blind to the sight of despair.

Pleas

Alternating anapestic tetrameter and trimeter

If your Lord loves a thing unto which you incline
In the hope that the Lord will be pleased,
Then His pleasure with you is a promise divine
With no part of it ever decreased.

But if He is displeased with a thing you adore,
And it grieves you that He is displeased,
It may please Him to see you get down on the floor
To take stock of a heart that's diseased.

With a heart that is flushed and abluted with tears,
Let the earth take your brow and your knees,
And when grief, like the dew in the sun, disappears,
Do get up and get on with it, please.

Mercy Sniffles

It's hard to see you cough and sneeze,
All curled up in a ball;
To toss and turn at every wheeze
Is just no good at all.

You miss your healthy self before
The coming of those germs,
But you know even germs must live
Their predetermined terms.

The cloud upon your face declares
The falling of a tear,
But hold your head up high for there's
A silver lining here;

It's true, the Messenger has said
The Lord is with the ill,
So come prepare the finest spread
To host Him and His will.

Begin with appetizer chants
Of His Majestic Name,
And line your plush repentance with
The cushions of your shame,

To pour into the goblet of
Your heart the Word of Light,
The more the pleasure of your guest
The more that you recite.

And then your Guest will sup upon
Your supplication fine,
Choose every word with care as you
Beseech your Guest Divine.

For everything you ask him for
Is granted you, or stored
For you to be united with
The day you meet your Lord.

Remember, child, that you are in
A state, supreme and pure;
So pray for much, but do begin
By asking for a cure.

Published in The Society of Classical Poets 2013 Annual Journal

Four of my five submissions were published in the 2013 Annual Journal of the Society of Classical Poets. The works included are:

Children of the Year
Jameel and Jameelah
On Cancer, Guns and Hit 'n Runs
The Ever Rising Tide

This is a real honor for me considering only forty poets were selected from over 600 participants, and the journal has about seventy-five poems in it. Very heartening for me and my work.

Thanks to Evan Mantyk for his consideration, and for his zeal in keeping the tradition of classical English poetry alive and thriving.

-KM

One-Dream Child

My son, he thinks he sees a dream
Each night, always the same,
It does not change, not ever; so
Is his sincere claim.

It starts out with a slowly growing
Darkness, vast and dense,
That swallows up his sight as well
As every other sense;

There is no place where he is at,
And no time he is in,
There is no company without
And not a soul within.

Then as it comes, does it recede,
This darkness, vast and dense,
And wakes him up to wonder
Where it goes, or came it whence.

He tells us of this dream he has
At breakfast every day,
Relating every detail in
A most fantastic way.

Someday he'll know his nightly dream
Is not a matter deep;
We just don't have the heart to tell
Him all it is is sleep

The Wednesday Song

I wrote this little song to help the girls cope with Mondays. The weekend seems too far away on a Monday. But Wednesday... now that's almost here. 

The middle of the week is here, the middle of the week,
There's something very special 'bout the middle of the week.

Your Monday morning blues fade into Tuesday morning skies,
By Wednesday, you're walking with the sunshine in your eyes;

Just like a spoon of lemon flavored cod liver oil
Goes down before it leaves the taste of lemon in your cheek.

The middle of the week is here, the middle of the week,
There's something very special 'bout the middle of the week.

Its true they say that Thursday and Friday can be fun,
But you know it gets busy when there's work that must be done;

You're happy for the weekend now, but have you heard the news:
You're headed for another case of Monday morning blues!

The middle of the week is here, the middle of the week,
There's something very special 'bout the middle of the week.

Your Monday morning blues fade into Tuesday morning skies,
By Wednesday, you're walking with the sunshine in your eyes.

Happily Ever After

When Baasha had done his hours of toil,
He walked from his shop through the dirt,
His hands bearing cuts from metal, and oil
Did streak down the sleeves of his shirt;

All traces of weakness fell from his face
To see by the door of his shack
His Rehmet in all her dignified grace
Just waiting for him to get back;

They shut out the twilight, bolted the door,
Then dined upon water and rice,
(The water in fact exceedingly more)
With salt as the singular spice;

Then Rehmet looked up at Baasha and drew
His blistery hands to her face,
To wash them in streams affectionate dew
That rolled down her cheeks in a race;

Ten thousand some miles away in the hour
When dawn is announced by a breeze,
There sitting beneath a clematis bower
Husna and her husband Aziz;

The question that Rehmet hid in her tears
And found not the words to advance,
Her sister in faith presented those fears
In much of the same circumstance;

If you were to die, and I to survive,
Or I were to die leaving you,
I worry the one remaining alive 
May not really know what to do.

Aziz said no words, but dried off her tears,
Did Baasha, to Rehmet, the same;
The darkest of nights eventually nears
The dawn in celestial game.

Your marriage is like a stake in the sand
That shifts with your every breath;
As long as you breathe, you must understand:
The thing that cements it is death;

He witnesses you as one, in His name,
As you bear the witnessing high,
Companions in life to always remain
Companions in life once you die.

The Parable of the Sincere Sinner

There once lived a man, so happy and blest
With but little good to his name,
For much he accumulated in sin
By deeds of remarkable shame.

And left he his sons instructions to burn
His body when he will have died;
Thus when came the time for him to return,
His dutiful children complied;

And true to his words, his ashes were spread,
One half of them over the land,
The rest of him went to the ocean instead,
Exactly the way he had planned.

But outside the realm of on-ticking time,
Where even does time have an end,
The Lord gave the earth an order sublime,
Commanding the ocean to send

Before Him the dirt defining the man
Attempting to hide in the earth,
Completing the glorious cycle began
Before he was destined for birth.

Addressing that soul in manner so plain,
The Lord did approach him as one
Who chidingly asks his child to explain
What made him do what he had done.

"I did so, my Lord, from fear of You,
Forgive me, a misguided slave",
And so shone the Light of mercy and love;
The best of forgivers forgave.

Now, this is a tale, a parable told.
Prophetic, insightful and true,
So don't you become so foolishly bold:
That man was sincerer than you

And I.

Parent's Wheel

In proper proportions of water and clay,
And merciful motions of formative play,
Expel the rebellious pockets of air
Resistant to fashioning fingers that care;

Position it all at the center, precise,
The center of pulsating goodness and vice,
And tend to this child with a nurture so warm
That molds it to beauty and perfected form;

As perfect as whatever may be the norm.


Inspired by a verbal exchange between my wife and this prolific craftswoman.