Naseeha:One Liners

I want to tie the camels properly
My panic stricken hands fumble because I lack the rope
So I push the huge mass gently against the palm tree of another
Holding it there , hoping that when these hands move , it won't

God gave me this camel minus the rope.
Perhaps it is buried beneath these dunes of sin
I pray for the will to find it until then I pray for mercy
That I have done enough because as my hands move away
My trust in this here camel fades because ultimately it all belongs to God.

To my Fajr time Bird

Aah a golden oldie. I was reading over some of my older poetry and I just had to share this one. It's not amazingly written, the rhyme is iffy in places but it is honest and true and isn't that what poetry is all about. Subhannallah it seems this bird was pretty important to me hence the tribute poem . 

That inevitable moment when I roll over
In that dreamy, hazy sort of state
Neither asleep nor truly awake
And there’s a chilly morning breeze
And the darkness does not feel so dark
The brightest black you’ll ever see

Oh the fajr time bird whose company I won’t deny 
Oh dear fajr time bird if only you knew
How much inspiration I’ve gathered from you
Oh the sweetest chirping by which you recite
The beauty by which you glorify
The one who you have submitted to
And I wonder
 How long you’ve been tweeting
While laying here I have been sleeping
And I wonder why you have not tired 
Praising your lord is all you desire
While I won’t even run from fire
Oh my fajr time bird
My personal Mua’zzin
How you remind me of a majestic word
Your Lord gave you a voice with which you recite 
Oh fajr time bird what would you do
If you were me and I was you
And your Lord had given you
The ability to write and to make wudhu
And to pray in jammat
And you could publish things
And read books from years ago
Learn knowledge wherever you go
What would you do my fajr time bird 
If you had the means to pray as I do
And to be rewarded for all the things I could be too
My dearest fajr time bird
Tell me what would you do
If all that reward was waiting for you
And your Lord said
Do this I will be pleased with you
My fajr time bird you would try to do it all
And you would sleep little 
And you would weep so much
Do you want to know why?
You would want to praise your Lord
In all the ways he has ordained
For everything by which you are sustained
You would praise him for teaching you how to praise
In honour and rank you would be raised
From torment and pain you would be saved
Oh my fajr time bird, I am me and you are you
If a bird with all its merits can do that
Then surely I should be able to do it too

If people only knew what blessings are in the fajr and isha prayers, they would come to them, even if they had to crawl.
Bukhari and Muslim

Assuming the Good

I’m delusional
Or so I am told. 

I’m off my head and just plain loopy .
This year has been too much for this heart
The amalgamation of hope and sorrow
Never painted a pretty picture .
So here I am, crazy cat lady lacking any cats. 

There were potholes even I wouldn’t deny that.
I thought they were mended ,
By your cement and tears from my eyes.
I knew we would fall gracelessly from time to time
I thought we would learn and pick ourselves up again.
It is not that I don’t see the issue
Rather that I see it on a completely different scale .
Insignificant compared to the good , the potential and the duas
Non existent when faced by night time prayers of forgiveness on your behalf . 
Perhaps or most likely it is true
But I won’t let it define you.
Who would have thought that optimism stings ?
You keep digging out the dirt
And helplessly I keep filling it in. 

It ruptures the earth and breaks the bones
That unremitting expanse of sin.

Abu Huraira reported Allah's Apostle (may peace be upon him) as saying:
The servant (who conceals) the faults of others in this world, Allah would conceal his faults on the Day of Resurrection.Muslim Book 32 Hadith 6267 

Imam Bayhaqi in his Shu`ab al-Iman [7.522]. 
 He (Hamdun al qassar) said (Allah have mercy on him), 
"If a friend among your friends errs, make seventy excuses for them. If your hearts are unable to do this, then know that the shortcoming is in your own selves"

Submission

I have run
to the edges of my soul
and burnt the tips of my fingers
Ironing shirts.
Yes, I have run
to destinations unknown
just to feel the wind blow
into the empty chambers
of this worn heart.
The layers of dust and memories.
Indiscernible prison.
I run from the futures I had envisioned
I loathe the reluctant steps
That refuse to run with me.
This heart rejects lies and force fed closure.
Truth overwhelming.
I run no longer.
I have fallen.

“Surely those who are with your Lord (angels) are never too proud to perform acts of worship to Him, but they glorify His Praise and prostrate before Him.”
[al-A’raaf 7:206]

 “And unto Allaah (Alone) falls in prostration whoever is in the heavens and the earth, willingly or unwillingly, and so do their shadows in the mornings and in the afternoons.”
[al-Ra’d 13:15]

All things are plausible...

Please feel free to comment. Suggestions and constructive criticism is all welcome. I pray that one day that writing about Allah and this beautiful religion will become second nature to me and the words will roll quickly and eloquently off the tongue. I have come this far by the will of Allah . I never thought I'd get here but I have and now I put my trust in Allah to take me further .Al hamdulilah I have hope for a better tomorrow not only for myself but for all my beloved sisters too.  I dedicate this poem to that, for lack of a better word, awesome sister I see everyday, you have truly inspired me.

All things are plausible

I trace the lines on my hand
Dead ends and alleyways
journeying to a destination unknown
 deep, dark and unmissable 

They tell the tale of a worn soul

Of pashminas with holes

And night time sujood
some more frolicsome, swirl

To music unheard

Playing the tune of small talk
Intoxicated by your own desires

These lines fade dizzily

All of them drawn
in black Biro pen, by her
you’re being delusional

Assume the good; you think
Lines remind you of unexpected destinations
with no other explanation, except
the pen of destiny and fate

My heart too fragile

But yet I believe that sinners will repent

That the unseen good

Within people is greater than me

So I dream
of my sister holding this rope tight with me

The moral of my own story is
I never lost faith in God
so to this tender heart it seems
He didn’t lose faith in me

NB: Palm reading is haram. I just read this over and wanted to clarify that I in no way encourage palm reading it is haram. By lines on my hands I mean doodles. 

Balloons

Happiness is fleeting,
It is a balloon that tiny palms
Are incapable of reaching.
Watching it fly above and beyond us.
We dream.
For we are dreamers by nature.
When those emotions feel almost tangible
And the hope swells in our chests,
Maybe , just maybe...
All things become plausible when
Eyes are clasped so tightly shut.
But there is no denying
The sound and the feeling
As our hands  clutch at -
Scraps of rubber
Falling woefully

Lonely Feelings

There are lonely feelings frivolously jumping
In and out of the sidelines of our thoughts
They tease with moments of bliss
Of smiling faces and the answers to tender wishes, blown
Into the wind and out of proportion
Hopes and dreams fuel desires
Leaving black ash on once soft palms
Yes, there are lonely feelings which shove mercilessly
Into the foreground of the painting
You watch as the faces of those
Who you have known and have loved dissolve
Eyes staring desperately trying
 To remember what lies behind
That black smudge on the canvas

Summer Rain

I dream a dream of raindrops falling onto veiled faces. Abayas black and heavy dragging against the grass. Of the mud splashing at my feet as I twirl, the ecstasy reaching the tips of my fingers, unrepressed. To lie on the ground and look at the sky and feel the water dripping from my brows. Deep breaths filling lungs with crisp air, I sense a tingling of lightheaded humor. My fears untangle beneath my chest and seem to float upwards giddily. I grin madly at the sky one breathtaking evening in July. I am happy.

            But I am inside. Writing poetry on my wrists. Watching as now lone raindrops pool miserably on my windowsill. Knowing deep down, that I have never longed for something more, than to be the Hijaabi dancing in the summer rain.