POEM: a prayer

Let my ears welcome Your Word.

Let my lips speak Your Message.

Let my hands be busy in service.

Let my eyes gaze upon the Ultimate Reward.

Let my nose welcome the sweet scents of our Eternal Abode.

morning race

5:45 a.m.
The morning race has begun.

Shower.
Get dressed.
Eat.
Brush teeth.
Rush out the door.

The breakfast half eaten and the carefully packed lunch forgotten.

I’m always running late.
An endless dance of catch up
to pretend I’m keeping up.

Did I lock the door…

The 8 to 5.
The long car ride.

My youth spent longing for adulthood.
That endless freedom so longed for.

I did all the right things:
Ivy league university
Followed by the suitable job.

Good pay
Nice car.
Now I have it all.

My bank account reads six figures.
Advertisers peddle self worth and happiness.
Love, now sold in stores.

This is the game I play,
as I go about each day.

I bought what society sold.
I gotta keep going.
Can’t change now.

This is what life is after all.
A business transaction,
A networking event.

I Am Free

‘The sky’s wide with possibilities,’
Is not a line you sold to me.

Always doubting my capabilities.
Finding humor in their plausibility.

The girl you knew
internalized that doubt.
Never allowing her
true self to come out.

Stuck in the box you made.
Dreaming of a way to break out.

I drove myself into those corners,
Hitting the same walls.
Carefully maintaining the boundaries you made.

Until the edges began to tear
And the box wore thin.

A sliver of light
beckoned me
to follow it out.

I took a chance
And peaked out.

The first time my voice came out.
No longer drowned out by others doubts.

The world was more than I was being sold.

I took a chance
And my voice began to emerge.

A dormant sea
of dreams and epiphanies
overcame me.

I bathed in their light
And re-emerged
With the most precious gift-
the discovery of self.

Self-love.
Self-belief.
Self-respect.

The girl I lost
Returned to me.

I am free.

friday free write

Your infinite love,
wisdom and mercy,
surrounds me.

Your creation-
a feast for the eyes.

No replication
can match its
perfect placement.

The Divine Creator,
a master artist.

The priceless 
perfection of
your pen.

You said, "Be."
And we became.

We've forgotten you-
but, how so?
When we reside
inside your masterpiece.

Each branch and corresponding leaf, just so.

Each body and soul connected, no mistake.

How can we deny Your signs?

Each one perfectly placed
within our reach
for reflection.

If this is dunya,
then what is Jannah?

I want a taste of the penultimate masterpiece.

Is it surreal, abstract, realist, or expressive?
Did any man come close enough to boast?
Did anyone's masterpiece compete? 

The Fabric of creation

the fabric of creation

brushes all sensations

it weaves thru our being

as elements maneuver into their spaces

each intricate design

unique

divine

stillness holds time

in her loving embrace

beckoning those of understanding

to not waster her fleeting gift

the realm of the believers

the making of souls
an elusive entanglement of spirits
winding through ether
penetrating realms
of unfathomable wonder
whispering softly
immersed in divine connection
whispering wishes diverted down byways
lying dormant for eons as souls meander
in search of their golden map–
a ticket to salvation
a restorative redemption
a circling back home
the realm of the believers
where our souls first were born

A dreamer’s declaration

Once the mind traversed the globe longing for places unknown. Youth held so much wonder between the pen and the page, the brush and the canvas.

I rewrote the playwrights’ wishes and inserted my own. I housed myself in imaginary realms. The penultimate escape against life’s transgressions. All those sticky situations unwound.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas–my life support.

Until the outside became too much. When the real and the imagined clashed, the wonder faded. Slowly giving way to depressive waves, crashing under other’s expectations. Standards of self and success, designed to count you out.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas–lost.

I became a wanderer blind to her forgotten lifeline. When you pursue concentric circles, you inevitably remain on the same path. The truth alludes you while it rests in a forgotten plane.

The plethora of personas I clung to led not to respite. I fought back dreams for more suitable pursuits.

The degree and the job, the pay and the promotion.

For what are dreams without profits? Mere distractions hindering capitalist quests.

The degree and the job, the pay and the promotion.

A mantra birthing my ambition to stay relevant, complicit and affluent.

Mindfulness.
Self-help.
Heal me.

The wealth race has depleted me.

S l o w d o w n.

Inhale.
Exhale.

Through the hustle and bustle, I found a forgotten thing.

Renaissance–.
Resistance.

I’m no longer complicit in this trope.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas–
a trust once broken,
Renewed.

The dreams resurge.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas–
weapons against the misery society sells.

A voice of my own–
Priceless.

Those old personas–
Deceptive,
Unfulfilling.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas.

A dreamer’s plea
For serenity.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas.

Your standards
No longer
Touch me.