Daadi’s prayers still
spring orchards
from barren land.
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@wordspage
Daadi’s prayers still
spring orchards
from barren land.
Ramadan
And He gifted us
this
recalibration,
a chance to reach
the highest of stations.
Nights will descend with
vials of gold.
Qiyam Al Layl,
salve for the souls.
The man in this cell
does not know
freedom
Wife and children
Lights that
flicker
then
dim.
Father’s voice,
a distant wind.
Mother’s warmth,
a dying ember.
But this man’s slender hands know
how to tend to an inmate
thrown into his cell
after interrogation,
body battered
in the chasm between nations.
And this man knows
that to feed
a fly in the keyhole,
a grain of his rice,
is resistance in
an empathy depleted place.
And this man knows,
on the night that he dreams
of the last messenger
feeding him sweets
and his father in sujood,
that the sun will rise soon.
Daadi (Grandmother)
harsh at times, like a wind
that would whip you into shape,
frustratingly resolute when she had made her mind up; like the din caused by a pan hitting the floor.
Her grey eyes could hold storms and crashing waves. But her anger stemmed from an instinct to protect; a lioness fighting off the hyenas of the world. Really she was soft.
Soft like a cotton sleeved embrace with a toothy grin. She would pour the words of Rahman Baba into my ears like vials of sweet rose water. Any ache in my body would exit like a frightened demon in the wake of her healing hands.
If you must leave
then do not take the sky with you.
Do not shake the stars
loose on your way out
if you must leave
then pause on the step
and reverse from your haste
and sit back on that sofa,
and learn
and
breathe
and repent from your mistakes.
If you must leave
then make sure you come back.
prayer-mat
is threadbare where knees lean
into heaven,
hear these prayers rise there,
their melancholy
acknowledged.
Hear
These
Prayers
rise there.
On earth they sit in mud, on earth they swallow flames
Allah elevates his beings,
from the darkness
to His love.
To decanter love,
to know you
cannot
stopper
its ache.
sweet vials
leave
bitter tastes.
This world is
a dark one
but there are
small openings,
like a cat against a
rain-specked window
as the night unveils
to let in the light
May Allah heal those
whose hearts do not feel
inclined to make dua anymore
Some days I drown
under the weight of my personal grief.
On others i ask myself how I could be so ungrateful for being mildly scalded
in a world that’s burning.
Perhaps death will be sweetened for you
by the bitterness of the trials you faced in this world,
Perhaps that one thing will never cease to ache
until your last breath
but the doors of paradise await you.
Mother was a light
in a little cottage
spotted from afar
on a dark night.
Mother’s hands
were shields from father’s
storms.
Mother’s lap
a sanctuary
her bangles playthings.
And peace was her heartbeat
in my ear
my eyes were protected
through the lens of her chadar.
Mother was a girl
with a mother who plaited her hair,
and fed her
and gave her dolls
to play with in the garden of their back to back.
She ran carefree down the alleys,
a safer time.
Mother had dreams,
that seemed to drift with the wind
like a dandelion
extinguished with one blow.
You see
Mother lost her mother at 6 years old.
mothered younger siblings
and tried to bridge what
was too many spans above her hands.
They found sanctuary
in a thousand prostrations
with His names upon their lips.
Found grounding in the moments
when the journey seemed adrift.
Their prayer mats were threadbare
their hearts were full of bliss.
The night holds many stars my love
for those upon the gift.
A book has often been
the only hand in the dark,
the only star in the sky.
The lady opposite passed away months ago
but the little black cat she fed the odd morsel to
sits expectantly in her porch
patiently waiting.
I only ask that
you leave some stars
in the sky before you go
so that their light
might fill my
aching soul.