December

There's a wind that bites on the coldest nights
In the frozen lap of December,
And it leaves its marks of depressing truth
Everywhere that it blows. Remember

All the lonesome old, and the suffering youth
And the desperate cries of a mother
As she scrapes what once had graced her womb
From the street in the wake of another

Downpour of fire; every home's a tomb
With its epitaph on the faces
Of the drenched who dried everything they had
In the rain, of all the places.

As a village dines on a morsel, glad
For the fact that their meal was bigger,
Don't forget blood spilled, all of it unwilled
By that tot enticed by a trigger.

But we all rejoice for the time we killed
In our hot pursuit of pleasure,
Just don't be ashamed of the tears you shed
They might be our only treasure.

(Take it down just a notch for the dead.)

There's a wind that bites on the coldest nights
In the frozen lap of December,
And it leaves its marks of depressing truth
Everywhere that it blows. Remember.

Happy New Year!

Mall Blues

I stole this candid shot of my son at the mall.

I don't know why I'm here at the mall,

It's so painful, but I'm biding my time

While my sisters, and my mother of all

Are deliberating some fashion crime.

Dad reminds me I'll get used to the wait,

But I know I need a miracle prayer

That, until I learn to welcome my fate,

Can dissolve all of this time in the air.

Hope

It's what makes a heart to steal away
Deep into the darknesses you find
There beneath the layers where they play,
Demons find a way to trick your mind.

Don't give up on what you feel inside
Beating 'gainst a chest that has no worth
If the sound of every beat has died,
Time to give another beat its birth.

All that matters is what you think of
Him who thinks of you just all the time,
Even when you think you've had enough
Of that thought you ever thought a crime.

Hakim

This poem is to honor our physician and all those in the medical field who strive to do the one thing that really matters - care.

Who hears the patient out,
Who listens very close,
And wisely sacrifices doubt
For what the patient knows;

Who thinks beyond the need
To make you smile, instead
Exerts all knowledge well to heed
The longer mile ahead.

Who knows disease is war
That's waged with no decrease
In helping that which battles for
The maintenance of peace.

Who answers every call
From agitated voices
Believing ER isn't always
From the wisest choices.

Who knows that every soul
Loves dignity in breath,
And reconciles it as one whole
With dignity in death.

We're blessed that while alive
We have among us such
Whose wisdom may help us surive
Death's first and only touch.

It's them we address now:
Thank you very much.

Sugar Trap

Banana Cream Pie (photo courtesy M.H.C.)

I'll pay you a dollar to build me a palace,

And fifty cents more if you build without malice;

Its walls crispy brownie, its window frames cream,
The couches are fondant in layers that gleam
With marshmallow cushions of various shapes;
And don't forget drapes cut from strawberry crepes,

And when I have run out of candy to eat,
Returns it the favor with practiced deceit,
As each of my organs it slowly consumes;
I am now its palace with hundreds of rooms.

A dollar and fifty has bought me disease,
And now I'll pay thousands in hospital fees.

When You're Sad

When you're sad, just remember it's alright,

There's a reason that you're feeling sad this way,

Someone's drawing your attention at this time

And is working now to help you turn away

From each smell, each taste, each touch, each sight and sound

That fills every space and moment of your day;

Shut it out and turn you with your heart around

To where all that ever matters goes to play,

And then look into that face you cannot see,

Listen close now to that voice you cannot hear,

As your heart pumps out a name in every beat,

It is how a sweet remembrance draws you near.

There is nothing else that matters now, my dear.

Thursday Riddle (December 5, 2014)

My seed is desire and poison, my fruit,
And when my desire begins to take root,
It grows like a fire that makes it's way higher
To burn all in sight of the eye of desire.

This will be my last Thursday Riddle, at least for some time. Thank you for playing.

In The Valley

He heard the good word, then took off his sandals
And silently stood there in awe
Of how came the order to throw down his staff;
And marveled to see what he saw:

What once was his staff now crawled in the dirt,
A serpent forbidding and frightful;
He turned on his heels and started to flee
For reasons immensely insightful.

Then came the command unexpected, it was
To stay and toward it draw near
To grasp it; he thrust down his hand in its jaws
Without any semblance of fear.

You know it behooves inquisitive minds
To ponder the reason just why
One settles to flee from peril, yet finds
Repose in instruction from high.

I hear it's the wisdom of prophets to hold
Respect for the nature of things,
While knowing that nature obeys what it's told
From where all of destiny springs.

"What is, is just not; what is not, then, is;"
Is everything this story brings.

Inspired by what I heard on November 23, 2014 at Darul Qasim's weekly exegesis of the Quran by Shaykh Mohammed Amin Khowladia (Surah Al-Qasas, Session 5).

Thursday Riddle (November 20, 2014)

A snout of length and many uses;

A chest without a heart can't love;

A stalk of strength; the winner chooses

A word for each of the above.

Homeward

I'm on my way towards my destiny,

And chance upon a verdant wooded land

With trees and lakes and endless shrubbery

That I must pass to reach to somewhere grand.

Each tree, each lake and every shrub within

Does bear a sign divine, or so inspired;

I'd gladly follow each but can't begin,

For knowledge to divine them is required.

And then I come upon a glade from where

Four paths diverge, each splendid and well trod,

And each takes from the wilderness its share

Of what it willed within the will of God.

And while each path may help me ford a stream

Or get around a stubborn hill or two,

Each runs a course directed to redeem

The one who treads upon it soft and true.

Will I display my arrogance and shun

The labors those before me had begun,

Or will I choose to humbly choose a path

And stay upon it till my journey's done?

The means are many, but the end is one.

Thursday Riddle (November 13, 2014)

Survives to be heard even as executed
To echo the voice of a soul that is muted.

Thursday Riddle (November 6, 2014)

Old Ebenezer can be quite distressing:
You take off his cloak, his coat and his shirts
And offer a tear to find it depressing
That Eb is more hidden with every undressing.

Baby on the Nile

There is something about a child, you know,
Something that makes all other pain seem less;
To hear the constant utterance of No
And find amorphous order in a mess.
I was a child once, more I set my thought
To drain the worlds of wisdom for a clue
To help me solve this mystery of what
Compels a child to do what children do.
And then I hear these words so sweet and sage:
Of how a mother nursed her infant, then
Set him afloat to cool a river's rage;
I see my quest is drowned in error, when
Indeed somewhere between a kiss and shove
Lay hidden treasures of parental love.

This sonnet was inspired by an exegesis of the opening verses of Surah Al-Qasas (The Story). Shaykh Amin describes the inspiration sent to the pious mother of Musa (AS) as a profound allegory for parenting. 

The agents of the Pharaoh would
Be on her son in time,
What of this urge to nurse him good
With death upon the line?
She nursed him still, then heeded well
Another thought bizarre
To wrap the handsome, happy babe
And set him float afar.
Upon her peace, upon him too,
A prince who fled in fear
Into the wild, but only to
Return with word sincere
And lead his people out from where
A tyrant wrought his worst.
All from a mother's act in faith
Upon a baby, nursed.

Thursday Riddle (October 30, 2014)

I hope you don't mark me forgetful a man

For all of this tardiness is in my plan.

Four score and two thousand eight hundred is what

You must now resolve if you can.

Wall

I like that you are honest and sincere,
You tell me everything that's in your heart
In words that are unquestionably clear,
Just like that gift you hated from the start;
I find this so admirable, it's true
I wish that I were more direct like you.
Whew!

I love that you agree with all I say,
And that you're never hurt when I object,
It makes you so endearing in a way
That I can only love more than respect;
It would be so much better if you could
Take care of just that one thing, if you would.
Good.

I do not see why not, I may as well
Indulge another wish, it is no trouble,
How much I disagree I cannot tell
As I just do not wish to burst your bubble;
Nor do I wish embarrassment for you,
So sadly, I will gladly do this too.

Oh good. That settles everything I think,
Although sometimes I entertain a thought
(That weighs upon my heart and makes it sink)
That though you seem so happy, you are not.
Oh well, I just remembered one more thing:
Be sure to say you like the gift I bring.

Break down the wall and say what's on your mind.
Or it will fall and break you as it falls.

          Stand up a screen considerate and kind,
          Or you will be surrounded, yes, by walls.
         

Thursday Riddle (October 23, 2014)

Upon which a runner may rest
To honor so many a guest.

Mother And Child

The silence of the man she loved
Said all she had to know:
No words could take her heart to where
It was destined to go.

With a faith that dwarfed the mountains
Rising all around her, she
Rose up from where her baby lay
With the dust for company;

And she ran to the nearest hill she saw,
Climbed up and looked around
For the faintest hint of a caravan
Or the source of the slightest sound,

Then down she ran and stopped a while
Where the baby kicked and cried,
To rush up another hill that stood
Way off on the other side.

She peered again through the scorching heat
For the smallest sign of life,
Then on she ran with the firm and strong
Resolve of a prophet's wife.

And thus she searched, and so she ran
Till her heels wept streams of blood,
As the infant cried and kicked the sand
When his heels discovered mud,

And the waters gushed and sprung up wild
While the mother rushed to her crying child;
How they washed themselves and drank their fill
And she nursed the babe till their hearts went still

In the burning desolation
Of that strange and barren land,
Rose a faith that raised a nation:
This amazing mother and

Her child.

Thursday Riddle (October 16, 2014)

Stands in silence, shoots and leaves.

Thursday Riddle (October 9, 2014)

If you will take me, then I shall take you,

Together we go wherever I go.

And I go without ever moving, you know.

Inspired By Someone Somewhere Near Bountiful

I do now think it fair to call
A man deluded "liar";
(Yes "now" I said, not "not"at all.)
The heedless fuel the fire

For every lie we fabricate
Comes back to us one day;
Consider it a game of fate
That liars have to play.

Thursday Riddle (October 2, 2014)

These two brothers spindly, asleep they remain
To wake for employment that comes with the rain;
Together they sleep and together they rise,
And all that they sweep expeditiously dries.

"Ramblings in Verse" is now "Forty-two Miles"

About four years ago, I told my brother about my insanely long commute to work, and that most of my "writing" happens while I sit in Chicago traffic. He suggested I change my blog title to "Forty-two Miles".

Done.

The Greater Struggle

As soon as you feel good about yourself, know that the devil has got you, because he is made from fire and he understands the nafs better than you.  

-Shaykh Mohammed Amin Kholwadia

When I read in the news last week about the inflammatory Defeat Jihad ad campaign hitting New York City buses, I couldn't help marvel at how poorly Muslim thinking and preoccupation is represented in the media. It made me ponder the widely known story whereby the Prophet (peace and blessings of God be upon him) once welcomed home troops returning after an expedition. "You have returned from the lesser struggle to the greater struggle", he is reported to have said to them. When the companions asked him what he meant by the "greater struggle", he clarified: "the struggle against (the desires of) oneself".

This story is so widespread and so well diffused into Muslim discourse that it could very well be one of the most cited traditions (hadith) in our times. It is all about the battle with the nafs, the "urging self". Libraries of Islamic literature are filled with books written by masters of the subject such as Imam Ghazali, sermons abound with the idea, poets have wrought verse about it for centuries. Even I felt compelled to craft a riddle on it two weeks ago. (Seriously, take a look! :-)

To better understand the idea of the greater jihad, I'd like to lean on what I think is one of the most beautiful modern day lyrical poems in the English language on the topic - Yusuf Islam's Angel of War. Mr. Islam takes the idea of the greater jihad and embellishes it with the mundane vocabulary of warriors and warfare. But to the seasoned reader/listener, every verse has a remarkably subtle reference to the nafs.

The poem reads as a dialogue between a hypothetical angel of war and a young man who Mr. Islam aptly refers to as a soldier boy. That the poem was cast into song in the tune of his original number, My Lady D'arbanville, dating back to his days of rock-stardom, is no mere coincidence in my opinion, but certainly inconsequential.

Oh, angel of war, what am I fighting for?
If death comes tomorrow, inform me before 
Inform me before

Oh, young soldier boy, I'll tell you what I know
If peace is your wish, to battle you must go 
To battle you must go

Oh, angel of war, please, make it clear to me
Which is my side and who is my enemy? 
Who is my enemy?

Oh, angel of war, within myself I see
The battle has started, what will become of me? 
What will become of me?

Oh, young soldier boy, you're wiser than you seem
Look into your heart and keep your motives clean 
And keep your motives clean

Oh, angel of war, what weapons do I need?
Lest I may perish, that I may succeed 
That I may succeed

Oh, young soldier boy, if you protect the poor
Let truth be your armour and justice be your sword 
And justice be your sword

Oh, young soldier boy, the war that you wage
If it's for your ego, it will die in rage 
It will die in rage

Oh, angel of war, how can I tell for sure
Pride's not the reason that I'm fighting for 
That I'm fighting for

Oh, angel of war, when I look at me
I'm fearful to confess, the enemy I see 
The enemy I see

Oh, young soldier boy, now you can go to war
I'll see you tomorrow and a boy you'll be no more 
A boy you'll be no more

Here are a few insights I have gleaned from this poem.

• "O Young Soldier Boy" could be anyone, and is meant for the reader/listener to identify with. Its repetition in every verse is almost taunting, but is clarified in the closing couplets.
• "If peace is your wish, to battle you must go". This is the overarching theme. If you seek peace then you must wage war. But as the following couplet goes, against who? "Who's my enemy?" That does not come out until the penultimate couplet.
• Truth as an armor... for the soul. And justice as a sword... for how can justice smite unjustly.
• The closing couplets confirm that one remains a boy - a soldier boy - for as long as one has not recognized that one's self, one's nafs, is one's greatest enemy.

This sort of self-control and introspective battle-readiness is related in countless stories of the prophets and in the biographies of the pious predecessors. Two powerful examples follow.

The First Example

The story of young Ali, the prophet's cousin (God be pleased with him) when he accepted a duel from the massive Amr son of Abdi Wud is a glowing example of self-restraint that was witnessed by hundreds. The duel begins with Amr and his companions mocking Ali on account of his short stature and youth. It is a classic David and Goliath duel. Ali wields the Zulfiqar to eventually overcome the giant, and straddle his chest. His dagger is inches from being thrust into Amr's throat when Amr, in a last show of defiance, spits into the younger man's face.

Now, picture this: you're surrounded by enemy soldiers even as you duel the strongest of them, while your own remain watchful beyond a broad trench. You are young and strong and the obvious underdog in this poorly balanced match. But then you subdue your adversary by skill and agility, and find yourself the victor in the duel. And then the defeated man insults you, hoping it will bring you to expedite his death. 

But what does Ali do?

Ali restrains his dagger, gets off the giant's chest and steps back. When Amr asks him why he had not slain him, Ali responds that had he slain him then, it would have been out of an anger he felt towards Amr, and not out of love for and service to God.

Now that is the greater jihad. This of course upsets Amr even more, so he picks up his sword and attacks Ali again, and so the story goes. A poetic rendition of the entire incident is here if you like: http://www.khamuk.com/2012/11/blog-post.html

The Second Example

The ultimate story is that of the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings of Almighty God be upon him) when he visits the leaders of the city of Taif seeking their support in his mission. It was a difficult time in the Prophet's life. His only supporter and protector, his uncle Abu Talib, had died earlier in the year, and his other pillar of support, his beloved wife of twenty-five years, Khadijah, had died a couple months later. His companions in Makkah were being sought out and harassed for professing their belief in one God. The poorer among them were tortured, many killed without restraint. 

At this time, the prophet hears that the people of Taif may be sympathetic to his cause. So off he goes to meet with them. They swiftly reject him, but they don't leave it at that. As he exits their city, the leaders send word to the children and youth playing about to band together and stone him even as he departs the city. So the prophets runs. But he is unable to dodge the rain of stones flying into his face from every direction as he makes his way through mobs of deriding youth, shouting and flinging rocks at his person. 

When he finally gets out of stone's throw, he sits down on a rock and wipes away the blood and sweat dripping down his face. In that moment of weakness and grief, the Angel of the Mountains comes to the Prophet, and asks his leave to bring the two mountains on either side of Taif together that they may crush the city and all within it. 

The prophet's response is packed with a subtlety befitting one who has vanquished his self at many levels. He informs the angel to leave them be, as he sees the possibility that their children may one day believe (and that did come to be). And then he raises his hands in supplication to God and says, "My Lord, if you are not upset with me, then I am alright with what you have decreed". Now that is an introspective war waged against a nafs already at peace and in full submission. Make whatever sense of that as you may. 

And that is the greater jihad in the deepest sense of the term. The peace that we seek (whoever and wherever we be) does not lie in defeating jihad. Rather it stubbornly lies in understanding and embracing it. 

As for the misguided engaged in the mindless slaughter of innocents all around the world, whatever faith or ideology or political force they claim an allegiance to, it is time for them to look hard at themselves, into themselves, and to take in what they see.

Oh, angel of war, when I look at me
I'm fearful to confess, the enemy I see 
The enemy I see.

There is a Face I Long to See

There is a face I long to see,
I pray that it will turn to me
The day I dread but hope to free
My lowly soul.

There is a voice I long to hear,
I pray that I will find it near
The day I lose my own to fear
I can't control.

There is a hand I long to touch,
I long to touch it very much
To drink from it my fill as such;
And I'll be whole.

There is a man I long to meet,
I long to sit beside his feet,
In timeless moments to repeat
For evermore.

SallAllahu 'alayhi wa sallam.

Thursday Riddle (September 25, 2014)

Waves to me; rapidly dies

Between the stars beyond the skies.

A Simple Sermon

I made the Friday prayers today at the Rolling Meadows mosque, and I have to say it was an excellent experience. At a time when sound khutab are hard to come by, it was revealing to me that a Friday sermon can achieve its purpose on the back of either or both of two things:

1. the merit of the message in the khutbah and/or 
2. the merit of the khateeb's (sermon-giver's) sincerity 

I thought today's sermon at the Rolling Meadows mosque was a glowing tribute to the latter. A brief explanation is due here.

When the unassuming Imam stood up and conveyed in the most mundane tones, a simple and mundane message, nobody knew ( I certainly did not know) how worthwhile the next few minutes of our lives would be.

"Remember Allah", he said. And then a plethora of "the season of the Hajj is upon us", and "men and women of every color and race and age and intellect will gather together in the worship of one Creator", and such. Nothing earth-shattering for the regular listener, no hyperbole, the only semblance of any depth coming from a not-so-eloquent narration of a recorded conversation that occurred between a pilgrim and the esteemed Imam Junayd al-Baghdadi.

And that was it! So what am I raving about!?

I once heard Shaykh Amin say (and I paraphrase) that the whole point of the Jumuah khutbah is to take a break from the dunya and immerse oneself in Allah's remembrance. That alone is the goal of a Friday sermon.

What made that happen today is a bit hard to explain, unless your imagination can fill in the gaps in my shoddy explanation here. At every mention of "Madinah", "forgiveness", "Hajj", the khateeb choked up with tears. Tears. Now you know that nothing washes away dirt like tears, and if you don't know that, you don't know "dirt".

So, if you do not possess the scholarship to break new ground in your khutbah, then please, please, do the next best thing (and may be you'll even top the scholars). Pick the most simple reminders you can serve to Muslims, and (this is important) say it like you feel it. Mission accomplished in sha Allah. But then again, what do I know?

Oh, right! I know "dirt".

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They're coming to you now,
My Lord, believers everywhere,
Responding to Ibrahim's call
That once did pierce 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 never hurt a fly,
And let the dirt without erase
The dirt within must die.

And tears, Lord, the tears flow
Like rivers on 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 afar, can only hope
The goodness of those slaves
Will bring us strength to grasp the rope
That lifts us from our graves

And huddles us in throngs behind
The man you hold so close:
It is a high we long to find
Upon a day of lows.

Thursday Riddle (September 18, 2014)

Taller than mountains and wider than skies,
Yet never been seen, well hidden from eyes,
Survives on appeasement and plentiful lies,
And all the corruption that it justifies;

It seldom obeys, most often defies,
Repressed by the best who inhibit it's rise
Through stratagems wily and formulas wise,
A noisy companion that nags till it dies.

The Kindness of Zak Lombardi

My second Zak Lombardi installment. Thanks, AM, for the motivation :-).

Little Zak Lombardi

Was always late for school,

Was exceptionally tardy,

Though he followed every rule.

He remembered now the words

Of Miss Benson yesterday

As he smiled up at the birds 

That he spied along the way.

Yes, today Zak would be

Right on time to catch the bus,

He would give old Miss B.

Not a chance to make a fuss.

But then just as he got

Right about to cross the street,

Zak Lombardi came to spot

Granny Williams on her feet.

And she held in her hands

Many bags that were filled

To their tops with the groceries

Determined to be spilled.

As she stumbled on right past him,

And he ambled as he did,

Little Zak had a glimmer 

Of what makes a kindly kid.

Sure the walk five block south

Would not make Miss Benson glad,

But a taste in his mouth

Said it won't be all that bad.

So around turned Lombardi

Took the bags with a smile

And that pleased Granny Williams

The entire half a mile.

There always will be choices

That, my friend, you'll have to make,

But a chance to be kind

Is the one to ever take.

Thursday Riddle (September 11, 2014)

Born of cowardice and shame,

Blackens hearts that love to blame;

But when borne by pure intent,

Deftly uttered where it's meant,

Softens hearts and binds them true, 

To outweigh the good you do.

Thursday Riddle (September 4, 2014)

Four brothers kingly unsurprisingly

Unite their four kingdoms as one;

Each joins with their subjects, all end up divided,

Desired by some, while by others derided,

For hours and hours of fun;

Haytham's Catch

I made up this bed time story for my son about a baby eagle's first catch. I render it in verse below, with a closing "Note to Parents" couplet ;-).

A long time ago, before there were trains,

Before electricity or aero planes,

There lived at the top of a mountain along

The shores of an ocean, a family strong

Of eagles: a father, a mother and child,

Three proud and remarkable creatures of wild,

That well loved each other,  lived happily on

And so did it happen one morning at dawn.

You see, the young bird, Haytham was his name,

He'd learned how to fly, but didn't know game,

And thus he set out with his father this day

To listen and learn and to follow his way.

They flapped and they glided away from the shore

To where little Haytham had not been before,

And when they looked down, they spotted a pod

Of dolphins that swam in formation unflawed.

"Will that be our meal?", Haytham had to ask

So eager to start on his morning time task;

"Oh, no", said his father, "That creature you spy

Is too large a beast to carry and fly."

And so they turned shoreward and saw the sun fold

The waters in mantles of yellow  

and gold,

Then dove down together and scouted the beach

And noticed a crab on a rock within reach.

Asked Haytham, "Will that be our meal?", as he eyed

The two muddy pincers that opened up wide,

"Another day, Haytham", his father explained,

"For more must be learned for more to be gained."

So westward again they flew over sea

And slowly descended till Haytham could see

The sizable quarry his father had sighted

Oblivious to the attention invited.

And then in that moment, the two eagles parted

For Haytham remained while his father departed:

His young eagle senses had grown to such height,

That all he could think of was locked in his sight.

So down Haytham swooped with both wings upturned

Immersing his talons that swiftly returned

With halibut catch so patiently earned,

Then upward he soared with the knowledge he'd learned.

There is but a Haytham in every child

With body and strength that the Fashioner styled,

We only need guide them to where they may find

What tends to the spirit and waters the mind.

To lead is to follow; to follow the blind,

You follow in silence and lead from behind.

Thursday Riddle (August 28, 2014)

Grab hold of my tail and walk me around,
My bearing Plecostomus-like on the ground;
The nothing I make shall noisily take
Whatever my kisser has found.

Change

Are you done with the peace that you spread

By the fires you rain from the sky

Till the faces of children once smiling go dead

To their mothers who silently cry.

Are you done with the justice you seek

By the heads and the cams that you roll

While the words you recite and the verses you speak

Never pass down your throat to your soul.

Am I done with the goodness I preach

With these words and their meter and rhyme,

While I buy all the junk that my wallet can reach

With free shipping from amazon prime.

We are losers, we all are, but for

Any truth in our call to be heard,

It is time you and I, every nation at war

Let each other just have the last word.

It is all just a thought that occurred
To a man shallow-minded as I.

Thursday Riddle (August 21, 2014)

Holds numbers and names and so many places,
And many a kind of beast and of bird,
Uncountable happy-sad voices and faces,
And many a word read, spoken or heard.

Thursday Riddle (August 14, 2014)

I'll take your palms, your knees and toes,
My touch is soft, so calm your woes;
Exhale your anger, drain your mind,
Inhale the languor that you find

When I am spread, and spread I'm best
To kiss your head at every rest,
And hear the conversation sweet,
A conversation to repeat.

Form And Function

I've thought of this before
And I'll think of it again:
What's the purpose of creation,
And of angels, jinn and men?

What's the purpose of the earth
As around and round it spins
Bearing all its many children
And their many, many sins?

What's the purpose of the sky,
Of the stars and of the sun?
Each is born and wont to die
When the time of time is done.

As we turn and spin about
Through the dawn and afternoon,
Just before and after dusk
And through the passing of the moon,

There are jinn and there are men
Spanning every longitude,
There are angels flocking by
At each and every altitude

Such that every breath of time
Sends a prayer floating, one
That outlives the life of rhyme
And outshines the shine of sun.

When this planet stops to turn,
And the breath of time is spent,
All that's left is is left to burn,
And what isn't can't repent.

So the form and the function
Help us out here once again
With the purpose of creation,
And of angels, jinn and men.

Thursday Riddle (August 7, 2014)

I've got no face, possess no head,

Have naught for the palms of my hands,

My slender legs may walk if led

By claps that aim to settle demands

For portions of what I may tread.

Thursday Riddle (July 31, 2014)

It has a remarkably large appetite

For what is entirely waste, yet it might

Present to a mother the help that she seeks

As softly together they kiss baby cheeks.

Crisis

Inspired by this moving Friday sermon by Shaykh Amin...

There's a crisis in our homes,
In our neighborhoods and schools,
As we labor hard to tell
Intellectuals from fools;

Tweets and faces tell a story
Floating in a sea of doubt,
What was true is now a rumor,
But the word's already out;

All the passion that we swallow
And the knowledge we receive
Come from places that are hollow
Upon tongues that don't believe,

Ignorance once had a father
And its words are rich and red
Like the wine that taints the blood
Of all the offspring that it bred;

Yes, the captain burned the village
And the village burned all night,
But the hearts of all the children
Went on carrying the light.

As the blood upon the sands
Becomes tears in your eyes,
Let your tears become blood for
Each believing heart that dies.

It's the crisis in our homes
In our neighborhoods and schools,
Beat a path to the fountain
Down where certain knowledge rules.

Listen to the weeping warner
Shout out to the hearing few:
If you do forget the Lord,
The Lord will make you forget you.

Walk, Baby, Walk!

A lunchtime sonnet to parents out there getting anxious about their babies' walking/talking abilities :-).

Why all this haste to see a baby walk!
Are you somehow disgusted by its crawl?
Why all this haste to hear a baby talk!
You tired of its babbling and all?
Slow down and look around, my frantic friends:
The flower blossoms first before the fruit,
The quality of which so much depends
Upon the bond that flower makes with shoot;
And every fruit bursts forth from fertile flower
Like every speech springs sweet from subtle sounds,
Each bursting and each springing takes its hour,
So kiss the hues with which the bloom abounds
And kiss the infant stumbling on its feet;
There will not be a dearth of fruit to eat.

The Sixth of Ramadan

I'm running for cover in the shelter of sky,
When the sprinkler comes on, not a moment is dry,
Playing tag with my sisters and my cousin on the lawn,
Everyone's getting wet on the sixth of Ramadan:

Getting wet in the kitchen, getting wet on the chair
Getting wet wherever the Quran is in the air,
Mercy rains in the mosque, silent lips sing a song
In the praise of Allah on the sixth of Ramadan.

You Can Tell It's Ramadan

When a lazy lout who lumbers

Through his daily prayers can

Worship late before he slumbers,

You can tell it's Ramadan.

When a good-for-naught reciter

Falls in love with the Quran,

Grows significantly quieter,

Yes, oh well, it's Ramadan.

When a cold pathetic sinner

Struggling with a simple plan

Finds his sins are getting thinner,

Starving hell; it's Ramadan.

You can skip the lunar sighting

And just look at me, a man

Who can tender this in writing:

I am proof it's Ramadan.

Hi There, Lo Here

Looking out over the prairie, just awoken baby in my arms.

Hi there, sky fair,
Cloud is floating by where
Thursday-morning-broken
Bird ascending high there.

Lo here, oh dear,
Trees and grasses grow near
Where Salaam is spoken
Word descending low here.

Baby and I

'Tween the grass and blue sky,

Taking in the token

Sights rewarding our eye;

So much passing us by...

Thursday Riddle (June 26, 2014)

#39
It only speaks with lolling tongue

When back and forth by shoulder swung;

But praise for grace a vision brings:

So sweetly the muezzin sings.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*** Thursday Riddles will resume July 31 ***

Thursday Riddle (June 19, 2014)

#38
When planted, never grows;
It spans a common measure;
Two shape an act of skill that shows
One's strength despite the pressure.

Rim to River, River to Rim

My sore legs bear witness that I hiked 7.3 miles down the South Kaibab trail of the Grand Canyon, spent the night at Phantom Ranch and hiked 10.1 miles up the Bright Angel Trail the next day. 

YES! And I couldn't have done it without the following, in order of importance:

• the prayers of some wonderful people :-)
• two fabulous friends for companions
• a sense of humor that would make vinegar taste like sugar, and
• a pair of sturdy hiking poles (oh yes, very important!)

We met up in Phoenix on the 13th of June and drove to Grand Canyon Village that same afternoon. There, we checked into our room at the very rustic and cozy Maswik Lodge. After a short but restful night, we set out down the South Kaibab at 5:50 AM, about thirty minutes after sunrise. Suffice it to say the South Kaibab is a perilous trail with a steep grade and brutal switchbacks (Wikipedia it for more!). What adds to the excitement is that there is no shade and no potable water the entire 7.3 miles of the trail. So each of us carried 6 liters of water and enough food to last us all the way down. 

The views of the canyon are spectacular from this ridge trail. We encountered a pack mule train just past Skeleton Point, and dutifully stepped aside to let it pass. It took us six hours and twenty minutes to get to the Colorado river where we spent a good hour soaking our feet in its cold waters and resting in the shade. I was intrigued that the sands were burning while the waters were icy. We would hear later that day that the Colorado in those parts ran 46 degrees Fahrenheit all year round. I haven't verified that statement, but I'd certainly recognize the woman that told me that.

Our time at Phantom Ranch was relaxing to say the least, and I slept three hours that afternoon. After an early breakfast at 5 AM the following morning, we set off up the Bright Angel Trail. Despite the steep climb, we covered the five miles to Indian Garden in two and a half hours. After a short rest at the oasis, we continued on for two more miles to the Three Mile Rest House and got there in less than two hours. The Bright Angel offered a different view of the canyon than the less hospitable South Kaibab, with an abundance of greenery, shade and cool flowing streams. 

We were only three miles away from the rim, and the thought of being so close filled us with excitement. One of the hikers sharing the shade mentioned how the last 1.5 miles to the rim were considered the most brutal. "Endless switchbacks", he said. That sounded familiar from a blog post I had read some weeks ago. 

We rested our tired feet, and replenished our water supply before continuing our ascent up to the rim, stopping mindfully at the One and a Half Mile Rest House to repeat the rites of refreshment and replenishment. It took us an hour to get there, and our morale was high. But there was no denying the fatigue that was setting in. After an extended break, we decided to brave the last leg of our journey to the rim.

It was slow. We were out of breath every eight minutes or so. I told my companions we'd be in good shape as long as my bad jokes kept coming, and they kept coming for some time. We were particularly troubled when a sixty-six year old hiker and his wife showed up whom we had encountered earlier that morning. They were bound for the river then and now they were passing us on the way up. He attempted to make us feel better by impressing upon us that the Swiss (as he was) were particularly adept hikers. This sharp reminder of our incapacity gave us the adrenaline rush we needed to traverse another one hundred yards before we fell into three distinct piles of meat and bones under another bluff generous with its shade. 

We repeated these sprints a few more time and I assured my companions we couldn't be more than half a mile from the rim when a cheery ranger came jogging down with her hiking poles raised backward and held to her sides. She seemed in a hurry to get to somewhere. I anticipated she was disinclined (ugh!) to stop so I shouted out to her even as she was approaching us, asking how far it was to the rim. She trotted on past us shouting back her response: "One more mile".  

My jokes were getting better, which was bad. And the hiking poles seemed like they needed hiking poles. It had been a little over two hours since we left the last rest house. But we continued on, slowly and steadily. Endless switchbacks. 

It took us another hour to get to the rim. The last mile and a half had taken us three gruesome hours. In all, including breaks, we had been on the Bright Angel Trail for nine hours and twenty minutes.

And in all honesty, it was completely worth it. I can only agree with others who say that you haven't really seen the canyon unless you see it down from the river.

Here are a few more shots selected from the couple hundred we took.

Canyon Of Life

You think you're prepared
And you step on the trail,
You've taken precautions,
Each little detail,

Six liters of water
And four pounds of food,
You'll know it gets hotter
When the weather turns rude;

It's seven some miles
Down the South Kaibab,
And the grade is quite brutal,
Makes walking a job

As you pound on the ground
Till your knees feel the weight
Of a growing repulsion
To be canyon bait;

No water at all,
No shade you may rent,
But stop anywhere on
This downward descent,

And turn up your eye,
To take in the sight
Of clear blue skies
And limestone delight;

Look down at the green
Colorado resign
Its waters between
Shores of silvery shine;

You'll likely encounter
A mule train some place,
Just let them to pass you
With every grace,

And when you get down
To the river, behold
Its shores are on fire,
Its waters are cold,

And here you may sit
And reflect on your fall
From the rim to the river,
Its perils and all,

And take out the time
To plan your ascent
Up the shady Bright Angel
Will make you repent,

Oh yes, it will treat you
To water and shade
And luxuries that
The South Kaibab forbade,

You'll tell yourself how
You've conquered it all,
For eight point five miles;
Then your engine will stall.

The water is there,
And so is the shade,
But the grade's up a notch,
And your breath is delayed,

It's a mile and a half
That just seems to go on,
But just keep to the trail
And the trail will respond;

What a glorious sign
This American treasure,
A bowl of serenity
And scenic pleasure,

Descend it to where
From its beauty is found;
Or tell yourself it's 
Just a hole in the ground.

The Dam of Smiles

I sat beside a remarkable woman on my flight yesterday. She was a good talker, and so I played my usual part of listener. Pretty soon I found myself on an emotional roller coaster ride. Her story was rife with suffering, yet she ornamented each trial with a smile and a disarming sense of humor. A life-threatening ailment, a high-risk surgery, multiple instances of children lost to illness and death. It was clear that tears had been shed at every single milestone, yet none was spent in the recounting of those sorrowful tales thirty-five thousand feet up in the sky. 

That is, not until she mentioned her mother-in-law. 

She spoke of an initial lukewarm relationship that had turned sharply cold for an extended period of time. Then, when she was recovering from a difficult surgery, in a dramatic turn of events, their relationship had blossomed into one of sincere caring, love and unwavering friendship. She had grown very close to her mother-in-law. And just as she had found solace from this unlikely quarter, her mother-in-law passed away, quite suddenly. 

That was when the dam of smiles broke and the tears seemed like they wouldn't stop flowing. 

This poem is in honor of that woman and of the human spirit that endeavors to stand up a dam of smiles to hold back a rush of tears, that life may go on. Such a dam only breaks in remembrance of one who knows the waters behind it.

But there is always One who knows, whose sweet remembrance moistens hearts with tears.

The Dam of Smiles

I cannot say why I am weeping,

What fills me with sorrow today;
You know I am smiles no matter the wiles
That destiny tosses my way.

I've sailed on an ocean of pain,
Lost children I never could see,
And those that I saw and hoped would remain
So swiftly were taken from me.

Now you, how we hated each other,
And just couldn't see eye to eye,
We've been through these storms, one after another;
I know that I'll never know why

Your feisty old heart did incline
Toward me, for when I was down,
How well had your heart responded to mine:
We haven't since traded a frown.

I feel better now that the dawn
Is warming my heart once again,
And just as it slips away, you are gone,
Abandoning me with no friend.

Yet here do I sit, through my tears,
I smile that the Lord gave to me
A mountain of hard tribulations and fears,
With rivers of love running free,

Depositing sweet memories
Of all of the times that we shared,
Thank God for my smiles that seem to increase
With every damage repaired.

Thursday Riddle (June 12, 2014)

#36 
Around it goes
With its sharp, little nose;
Can opens, but can't close.

#37
Never travels, stays in bed
Yet compelled to rest ahead.

Toe Disciplined

I skinned my big toe on the sidewalk yesterday,
Comes from doing stupid at the age I'm at;
When the brain has the body execute a crazy play,
Most ingenious imaginings go splat.

Came the time to sit down, put myself in that toe,
Set to ponder why this tribulation come,
Everything that comes to pass, each insignificant blow
Is a lesson that a story has become.

So I thought, and I sought, as this left big toe of mine,
Any reason for my violent defacement,
But I couldn't find an answer till I happened on a sign
Clarifying the physics of big toe placement:

Getting down on my knees just to tender a prostration
Proved to be a source of pain that burned and shocked;
It is so that I learned navigating my frustration
That my toe is where my arrogance lies locked.

I know why, I know what; so this lesson I will heed,
And the Lord be praised for such big toes that bleed.

Thursday Riddle (June 5, 2014)

Lanis McAllous is bound

Somewhere on hospitable ground,

Delivering traces in all of the places

That Lanis McAllous be found;

Carefully tows wherever he goes

His lodging without any sound.

------------------------------------------

Absent from air,

Absent from water,

The fast shall run less

When the temperature's hotter.

Counting Sha'baan Moons

The cup is full, can take no more,
And each new drop lets to the floor
The stains that show and slowly grow,
The cup is full, can take no more;

I know my tears can wash these stains,
If I could weep till none remains,
I need those nights, despair be gone,
All grief be lost when splash upon

Me mercy waves that wash the shores
Of dark rebellion once more;
Bring me those nights, despair be gone
With your angelic hum of dawn;

I dash my cup upon the floor,
And long for sips of Ramadan.

Thursday (May 29, 2014)

Black and white, 

Nailed, then red;

Renains conposed 
This natter said.

---------------------------------------------------

Though given, it never decreases,

From many a darkness releases,

Miserly the one from whom never spared,
For true can it be only when it is shared;

Once had, all conjecturing ceases.

The Companion

Last night I attended a lecture by Shaykh Amin in which he delivered a fresh perspective on the Israa wal Mi'raaj, one through the lens of constant companionship. 

What made him to say what he said

When the news of the journey by night
Did rejoice upon tongues, dance in hearts that were dead
To songs of rejection and spite;

But what made him do what he did
(This companion we call Al-Siddeeq)
Is a knowledge so subtle, entirely hid
Except to the one bent to seek.

Destined to be standing by our
Most beloved Rasul and Nabi
In a dark little cave in a difficult hour
As hard as an hour could be,

To join him to Yathrib, and there
Through the battles and stretches of peace,
To remain his companion beyond all compare,
His love never knowing decrease.

And so on the night when the Lord
Took his slave on a mount that was bound
Past the waters the reaches of time cannot ford
Where matter and space run aground;

It's true that Jibreel could not walk
Past the Lote, a magnificent tree,
It is where none of angel or human may flock
But for our beloved Nabi;

Above, the Nabi with his Lord,
While below was his friend rapt in prayer:
Did The Lord to his worshipping slave so afford
This companion in every affair.

The observation regarding Abu Bakr's (RA) engagement in worship during the course of the prophetic journey is attributed to Shaykh al-Akbar, Muhyiddin ibn 'Arabi.

Thursday Riddle (May 22, 2014)

Born of metals, rises, settles,
Beckons undeparted petals
And all when the end is met;
In a caliph's epithet.

Scooping Up Tadpoles on A Sunny Afternoon

Just give me a balmy day with a sunny sky
And a stream and a bridge and no reason to be soon,
And a friend with a hand that refuses to stay dry
As we scoop up tadpoles in the afternoon;

I cannot tell what makes me happy more:
Is it the feel of tadpoles dancing in my hand,
Or just whining and pretending to be sore
That we might stay much longer than we planned?

The coolest thing about our time together
Is the way we didn't think about the weather
When the rain cut short our fun time at the stream;
There are always places you and I can dream

Of things to do 'fit were not for the rain,
If it be with you, it's easy on my brain.
Alhamdulillah! Until we meet again,
Alhamdulillah for friendships that remain.

Thursday Riddle (May 15, 2014)

My mother is heavy, my father is light,
And though you can see me, you can never free me
From where I exist taking all in my sight.