"shaikh" poems
God said,
-through the Shaikh...
..be He blessed,
The news has come to me about the kind of calamity that will befall Baghdad.
Offering a supplication on behalf of the inhabitants of the city, praying they be spared. Saying, as God, dejected;
*Be my life for indeed someone in this city deserves to be killed and crucified! For one individual whom YOU honor, like thousands of others whom YOU shall have destroy them; You make us suffer for THEIR sins?*
WHAT HAVE THEY DONE?
YOU *have melted the pieces into ingots of the Godless and men?
You try to compete with the Prophets?
You claim to miracles?
You believe you speak the Word?
That you represent, in doing, by action?
Nay, -you serve the Jinn!*
This is the end of an Age,
Hypocrite!
Vanity is your loss.
* *...be not a deceiver...
(85:20)* *
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 2:29 AM UTC
She wore a pretty smile and had the perfect eyes,
Her beauty striked every heart
Her beauty hided every scars.
No wonder her pain was just a mystery
She kept it secret like it was her history.
She transformed herself from caterpillar to butterfly
Her struggle was real, but she burried it deep inside.
There was a story behind her,
The story which was unspoken but real.
For no one should see the truth behind her life,
As she was an inspiration for all the youth alive.
Her goals were limitless,
She urged to acheive it, unless .
ALL her efforts and hardworks,
Made her shine like fireworks.
-Aasiya shaikh
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 2:15 AM UTC
Beneath the metro’s twilight hum,
I stood where all the strangers come.
My voice was low, my fingers tight
Around a phone that lit the night.
She spoke — the girl I’d never met,
Whose voice had warmed each day we’d yet
To bridge the miles from screen to skin,
A year apart, but close within.
A village boy from Bengal's rain,
I came by train, through fear and strain.
She hailed from cities far and wide,
A nurse, on duty, time denied.
But just today, for half an hour,
She’d slip from work’s unyielding tower,
And meet me by this concrete gate,
Where pulse and platform danced with fate.
“Gate Four,” I said. “I’m here. Waiting.”
She whispered back, “I see you. Wait.”
My eyes spun fast through faces blurred,
My chest beat loud with love unheard.
Then there she stood — not far, but near,
In steps that wiped away the year.
I thought, “She’s tall.” My throat went dry.
But closer now — we matched in eye.
She didn’t speak — just took my hand,
And led me through this foreign land.
Across the road, beneath the sky,
Our silence hummed a soft reply.
She bought me food — a chicken thigh.
(Though she eats none. I wondered why.)
We sat, she watched, I tried to speak —
But time was short and words were weak.
“I have to go,” she said at last.
And just like that, the moment passed.
No kiss, no vow, no sweeping song —
Just fingers held a moment long.
She turned and walked back to the light,
A nurse again in white and night.
And I — I rode the metro home,
Still feeling less alone, alone.
That evening, after duties done,
We typed the things we’d left unsung.
And somewhere in that crowded thread,
She softly said, “You held my hand.”
The clock moved on. The dreams, they stayed.
A new day dawned, but I replayed
That half an hour — a fleeting grace
When time stood still, and I saw her face.
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 5:38 AM UTC
She entered
like dusk slips through curtains—
slow, deliberate,
never asking
to be noticed.
The lamp flickered.
He watched
as her earrings swung
like pendulums
measuring silence.
She undressed
without touching a seam.
The room tilted
as if memory
had gravity.
His fingers hovered
over the curve of her hip
like a prayer
he no longer believed in.
They moved
like fire learning
its shape
in a spoon of oil—
quiet first,
then chaos.
Somewhere,
a rain began
they could not hear
but tasted
in the salt between breaths.
Then—
stillness.
Not peace,
but aftermath.
She lay back,
a wound wrapped in moonlight.
He stared
at the crack
in the ceiling—
noticing it
for the first time.
The room smelled of iron
and orange peel,
as if something holy
had burned
and vanished.
She left
before the hour turned.
Her body stayed
for days
in the folds of the sheet—
a crease,
a heat,
a warning.
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Jun 4, 2025
Jun 4, 2025 at 7:34 PM UTC
Your hand
moved like silence
on my shoulder—
not asking,
not waiting.
The sheet
slid down
just enough
to forget its name.
Your breath
settled between
my ribs
and the window.
We didn’t speak.
The night
had already
been told.
The fan spun
above bare skin
and promises
no one made.
You traced a path
below my navel—
a sentence
you never said aloud
but I remembered
for days.
Later,
you left
without shoes.
Your steps
soft
as permission.
I lay there,
the sky warming,
your warmth
still turning
in the folds.
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Jun 4, 2025
Jun 4, 2025 at 7:32 PM UTC
Now I don’t know what to do anymo'.
I am deep below my own trench,
and still falling into the deep, dark below.
Will I ever hit the bottom?
The point where there’s no further down—
only up? I know I feel like a clown.
But still,
No more confusion.
No more sadness.
Only hope and happiness, I guess.
Peace of mind.
With all the past behind.
I feel lost. I don't feel like me.
I feel like I’m falling.
I feel empty inside me.
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Jun 12, 2025
Jun 12, 2025 at 8:32 AM UTC
The matchbox
was hers—
bright red
with a tiger on it,
its head tilted
like it knew the ending.
One match left.
He kept it
in the drawer
beside loose buttons,
an eye drop bottle
half full,
a packet of salt
from a meal
they never finished.
He never lit it.
Not when
the bulb blew
above the stove.
Not when
monsoon took the power
three nights straight.
He’d reach—
then pause.
Then close the drawer
softly.
Until
the day
her number stopped ringing.
He struck it.
Once.
It flared—
brief, bright,
then gone.
The drawer
still smells
like her.
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 10:48 PM UTC
Will I ever find my soulmate?
Who will bathe me with love,
bring peace like a dove,
Who will be more compassionate?
Whose heart will reflect in their eyes,
Bright like the stars that shine in the night skies?
Where are you, my beloved?
When will I find you?
I’ve preserved everything I have to give you.
I want to be loved, to be adored —
By you, the one whose love I desire,
Like a candle in a dark room needs fire.
Who will water me like someone waters a dying flower,
Take care of me like I’m battling a fever?
Who will hold me close on nights so cold,
Whispers of warmth, a refuge to behold?
Who will ease my worries, calm my mind,
And appreciate the love that’s so hard to find?
Who will see me for all that I am —
Flaws, doubts, weaknesses — yet still call me their gem?
Who will grow with me, side by side,
Across every storm, every high and low ride?
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Jun 13, 2025
Jun 13, 2025 at 12:12 AM UTC
During the chess game,
she made a good move.
I smiled a little,
typed:
"Nice"
Just felt right.
A simple thing.
No reply.
We played on.
It ended—a draw.
Then came her words.
First:
"indian"
I blinked.
Felt the air shift.
Then, second:
"monkey"
I just sat there.
Not hurt yet. Not angry.
Just… stunned.
Like: is this real?
I typed back:
"Why"
I added:
"You broke my heart"
I read it again.
Still stunned.
I didn’t know her.
Didn’t do anything.
We just played.
Then she dropped:
"virginity"
That word.
Out of nowhere.
Then:
"i no interesed"
"bye"
It didn’t sting.
It didn’t burn.
It just confused me.
Like the wind changed direction
and I wasn’t ready.
I wrote:
"Virginity?"
"What are you saying?"
No reply.
Just me,
sitting with a drawn game
and a question
I never saw coming.
Hope this poem reaches you.
To Juana Dayana
Of Colombia—
From HRS,
An Indian soul,
Caught in a drawn game’s pull.
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Jun 8, 2025
Jun 8, 2025 at 6:34 AM UTC
The curtain moved.
Not with wind—
but with something
warm,
like breath held
then let go.
Her anklet scraped
the floor tile
only once.
Your tea
steeped too long
on the windowsill.
The calendar page
was blank.
Her scarf stayed
where she dropped it—
on the chair’s back,
faint with
lemon shampoo.
And you—
you didn’t touch it.
Not then.
But later,
you folded it.
Twice.
As if
that meant
you hadn’t looked.
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 9:27 AM UTC
I lay there,
Face pressed into a pillow
Wet with every reason to scream.
“What did I do?”
“What did I do?”
Like a scratched record stuck
On guilt and grief and ******* helplessness.
She said she didn’t want it.
So why did she go through with it?
Why leave me behind
When I was already ruined?
I loved her.
I still do.
I saw us building things—
A life with messy mornings
And laughter so loud it cracked the ceiling.
But she’s married now.
She’s gone.
And I’m still here.
Still breathing.
Still pretending it doesn’t hurt as much as it does.
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Jun 11, 2025
Jun 11, 2025 at 8:27 AM UTC