SURRENDERING TO ALLAH

will it be like walking through a door
whether or not the door is there?
will it break my bones
or take away all i know?
will the prophet (peace be upon him)
be there reciting, chanting Your names?
will i die? or will i live?
will i take it as my last breath
when it doesn't matter anymore?
how will i close every earthly door
when my body depends on this world
and i find myself unable to turn
away and run to You, Ya Salaam,
Ya Karim, Ya Wadood, Ya Shifa,
Ya Mustafa, Ya Allah, Allah, Huuuuu.

TRAFFIC

if you are driving in your car,
slow down, turn the engine off.
lock the doors on your way out,
leave the key in the ignition.
you were headed nowhere.
you are lost.

walk until you see a tree,
touch it, listen. go ahead and grieve.
look up at the sky and inhale
and you have your ride to heaven.
lay down; open your eyes.
see the ants? they know the way!

follow them to God.
open your heart
and exit it
and enter the mystery
of the bird above you.
drink from the same puddle
it does. bathe and wish
you were adorned in feathers.

they say winged creatures
touch heaven and we have to wait
until we are dead. why?
the rush of thoughts crowd our minds.
traffic jams are like snapshots
of what we are doing inside our heads.
do you want to sing? then sing!
do you yearn to fly?
then die. then live.

(1st draft needs lots of work)

tanka...

It is a beautiful morning.
The breeze is carrying
the melodies of birds.
And I have spoken my prayer
filling the wind with it.

LOVE CLEARS THE DARKNESS IN MY HEART

once i heal He is
Light loving me.
i am married to His love,
my vows are for Him,
Lover of Love making Love
to us all... my heart waited
for an eternity to be touched
so tenderly, embraced and sheltered.

the world is without me now.
i am in the Light of my heart.
what you see is my body.
what i am is His wife,
married to Love,
a Love child, singing to the stars
because they remind me of Him,
Light in the darkness,
my heart is on fire.
all i know is my desire
is to become one
with You, My Love.

SHEDDING THE SUPERFICIAL

answer them,
not as yourself,
but as wisdom
or starlight
or the first dream
ever dreamed.

name yourself
for them
and through them.
call yourself
rahman,
salam,
karim,
wadud,
shifa,
rahim

for with this Love will be made,
angry hearts will fill with compassion,
blame will be softened and transformed into mercy,
disease of heart, mind, body and soul
will be healed by the One who Heals,
greed will be forgotten in gifts of charity,
the oppressed will be set free.
spread the blessings of Allah everywhere!

we are not Him,
but He is there
as every cell
and atom
surrenders to Him.
Assalam Alaykum
to all,

to my brothers,
my sisters,
to our teachers,
to lovers of Allah,
to my Buddhist, Zoraostrian,
Sikh, Christian, Jewish
and pagan neighbors
who know kindness,
love, mercy and peace.

in the Oneness of Love,
we will be kin.

whether you are Muslim
or atheist, far or near,
angry or peaceful,
blameworthy or saintly,
i share with you
my bread,

humanity,
i share so that you will know
we are all one family,
Loved,
Loving,
Lovers,
touched by the Beloved...

Love is all there is.
Amin,
So Be It,
Amen.

What Made Me Humble

i curled myself up,
blossom backtracking into bud,
opened my heart and let it bleed,
tender is this refusal to become any more.
i waited a lifetime to be the rose
or the smell of the grass after
a thunderstorm or the sound
of the leaves in autumn
or lovers as they
love.
but, God...
here in your arms,
i am.
i am.

written while reading a dying priest's poem (last revised on 6/14/08)

all i know is i
expected beauty
in his description
of dying.
why was he smiling?

a pastor has a gift,
i thought as i rewound the words
verse by verse. read it again
from the beginning

"to read this poem,"
he writes,
"remember you are dying, too."

and if we are all dying,
why waste words on moonlight?
and it was as if he were reading my mind.
even a priest, in the midst of it
looks into the face of death and says
not yet.
not yet.

he opened the book back up
and said read it, this time
as if it is your dying heart's last wish.

i am here at my desk,
pen in hand, hoping to create a word for this.
there isn't one. i read your poem again
and when i'm done, i look and there it is.

the moon is making love!
why did it never tell me
it's secret? why won't it tell
me the ones you hide in your words?
here i am.
alone,
afraid,
alive.
and after forty seven years on earth,
i still have so much to learn.
death is a teacher,
and in the end, the student
learns through layers
over and over and over again.

(this is a very rough draft, not sure it is ready to be here so it will probably be revised and revised for awhile).