I was born into a
Hall of wooden pews and
Sundays full of crinkling satin bows,
Confronted by a stern-faced woman with iron grey curls
Tighter than her heart.
I remember very little of those
Sunday rooms, mazes of correct answers and long half-hours
I was raised through new pews,
Carpeted halls and
Long hours with brown haired ladies
A book 1200 pages thick of
Tradition and my mother's folded hands as I peek
From under my bowed head,
Earning sharp reprimands from white  robed men.

I saw them,
Of course,
Walking in Dearborn, Detroit, Ann Arbor, far away lands of unrest, but
They weren't in little, white, homogenous Chelsea, Michigan,
Of course,
Not them.
Yet I marveled at soft amber skin
And deep chocolate eyes full of
More galaxies than I ever knew existed,
Split solar systems of hushed mosques and mosaics that I was never
Allowed to see.

But I loved it.

My room became a tiny haven,
My dusty mirror showing a soft headscarf wrapped carefully,
Gently,
Over flyaway frizz,
Green cotton matching hazel eyes.
I knew not the complexities,
So I faked them,
Simply kneeling because I could not
Remember all the beautiful
Dances of prostration to praise another name of God.
Foreign syllables try to roll from my strangely
English tongue; I never realized how
Odd and stiff my born language is,
Too full of contradictions and
Double entendres, strict lines of black and white
Inky blood spilled on snowy sheets of paper,
Ancient characters telling me how to live my life.
As far as I'm concerned,
Allah (swt) and God are just two names
For the same deity,
And I simply preferred
Fajr
Dhuhr
'Asr
Maghrib
'Isha
Over the Lord's Prayer and
Hail Mary.
My rosary beads were quiet patches of rakaahs
Though I could not pronounce any of the words.

I kept secrets too heavy to lift into the
Dark recesses of my mental hiding-holes
Instead dwelling in discrepancies and dealing in bargains.
Half of me fit perfectly to each,
A blasphemous picture of the ****** Mary
Transposed to the cover of a Qur'an
I had never opened, like the
Guilt-edged pages of Bibles growing weary
Under my desk.
Two irreconcilable pieces of religion,
Broken images of stained glass crowns
That can't be formed into the intricate patterns of an
"Exotic" heart.
So for today I pack away my rakaahs and prostrations in a wooden box,
And take up my cross again.
Someday, though,
My heart will chase itself through the five pillars,
And I will shake out the green cotton,
Wrapping it carefully over a flyaway soul.

If they made Holy Scriptures out of our deeds
How many would we put on display for everyone to read?
When Bani Israel was frozen in time
within divine words,
they did not know
they would become timeless lessons
for generations to come.
Not the liar when he told his last lie,
nor the careless while laughing at the cow,
not even the pious while he raised his staff.
Yet today, we read their stories
With heedless hearts ,
forgetting that we too will be written
in pages heavier than stones
on scales worth more than mountains of gold.
So, why do we pretend that our time is infinite?
As though tic tocs were nothing but melodious beats
synchronized to our pulse.

wal Asr
And by time
Innal Insana la fikhusr
Verily mankind is at loss

How can we not think of yesterday as an effigy,
And tomorrow’s uncertainty as a form of art?
We are artists.
And when our hair strands start to reflect the silver moonlight
When our eyes start telling century old stories
When our joints start pleading with time
Will we then finally ask ourselves:
What will there be left of us?
Originals,
or mere copies?

Fajr passed by as I slept on
Zuhr was lost in a day's work
Asr got skipped as I sipped my tea
Maghrib flew by as I photographed the sunset
Isha was added to the forgotten list
And there I lay at night tossing and turning
Wondering why peace escapes me?

Hussain the grandson of Prophet Mohammed
Was alone on the scorching sands of Kerbala,
Surrounded by thousands of  his enemies,
Hussein fought gallantly,
With his father's sword the Zulfikar,
His enemies feared to approach him but showered him with spears, arrows, axes and stones
The time of Asr(3:00pm to 4:00pm)  approached,
Gibrail descended from heaven,
If Hussain wished He would call the Sky, The Oceans and the Earth to help him.
Hussain is Hussain,
He asked Gibrail what was Allah's wish,
With tears in His eyes Gibrail replied,' Sacrifice yourself for Islam"
Hussain immediately sheathed his Zulfikar and sat under the date tree,
Hussain had 999 wounds on his body,
Dripping in blood he still stood up to prostrate before Allah,
To pray for Islam and his generations to come.
After which he was martyred.
At the time of Kerbala Hussain had only 72 followers,
But today just to utter his name Ya Hussain brings tears to billions of his followers.
17/9/2023

Mortal men in mortal prisms
Glory not in the demise of another
One day, you too shall pass
It is the only enemy of humans
Death.

If one dies, are we then immortal?
Only God knoweth the why?
Why not hope for a better ending
In place of musing over the transition of another
If death be good, can it be bequeathed?

Save for autopsy or the likes
When a muslim transits before asr
He can be prepared for final boarding
As long as it is not magrib
Otherwise, at dawn, that is sunnah
When we get to heaven
We'll know the true followers of "Eledumare"
To the deceased, "Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un"

When a christian dies
Please, as admonihsed by the Messiah
"Leave the dead to bury their own dead.”
Whenever, however, their choice
A deceased may not be your hero
Does that confer you any title?
Say, a judge or jurry?

To be or not to be?
This is the exclusive reserve of the Uncreated Creator
May our leaders learn from this natural transition
That, called death...

We are all but sourjourners
From dust to dust shall we return
And when the time cometh
The book shall be opened
Whether to everlasting peace or contempt
You'll be judgrd by your works
Do right! Live right

But know it
When the righteous perisheth
It shall be into peace
For them who walk in righteousness
Their bed is laid in petals of gold
With the insignia: "Weldone good and faithful servant"

Oh Lord, heal our land
Let this be a reminder to us all
Life is a journey, walk it
Like had a terminus, live right
Only  remember, every soul shall taste death
When and where my friend
Only God knowest...

Finally, before you drop a line
If you wish to drop a line
Scroll through this with common sense
That which is not very common
For only the possessed
Glory in the death of another...

The rain is falling at 94b
wind in the trees
drenched fleas
Quiet pleas for mercy
but it'll be a hearse, see?
Learn surrsh Fatiha, Naas, Falaq, Asr
we are all lost, sir
You, me, her, all of us
We have the stuff to do it
get thru it, black and blue it
Life is terrestrial, fluid,
you decide how you do it