Sunday, 20 December 2015


Winter tried to strip the trees of sun 
Our practicalities become unnecessary realities
Create elaborate labyrinths 
Where what is to be or to come 
Is a mindset away 
Because all it is , is outreached palms

It is cold and the laughter marks an old poem
Made young
False youth , and truths
And all these false appendages 
The wild baggage shall fall like leaves
Soon to be free

Thy Lord bringeth to pass what He willeth and chooseth. They have never any choice. Glorified be Allah and Exalted above all that they associate (with Him)
Surah Qasas

Thursday, 17 December 2015


The storytellers are scribing their lives with the clouds
Strings drawn out , weaved into soft hammocks where only the children sleep 
Calculating probabilities of catastrophe
Like mushroom men whose furtherest stretch of reality
Are worn knuckles and greyed hands

There are lives that try to bypass God
Who sit in these fields and stare at the sky
The stars shine for all men

But the moonlight is mercy  

There are nights that shall speak
And rains that shall cry
And golden portions of time
that make clockwork of our lives

A decade old request turned into a breath

For all , for them , for us. 

'What is the matter with you? How do you judge?'
Verse 36 Surah Qalam 

Thursday, 26 February 2015


Shame is where the poem ends empty

In my time of need , God covered me
When I left all honour behind, God covered me

Shame is the shrouds beneath which only God sees
Shame is a stagnancy , a rotting
Shame is left lying still

My eloquent tongue and black heart
My poem ending empty


I teach myself lessons I once taught
Closed doors and epiphanies when apologies
Too late , always too late

Maybe goodness will be dispersed
Like flickered light in the periphery
Like something you felt once it was gone

Nowadays I am heavy with justifications
Such that my heart won't give way
Let me explain what its like in the limbo
Between hypocrisy and disbelief
Between too much and too little
Inside the silence of all the things I ought to say

I'm so sorry

Thursday, 1 January 2015


Here is where the metaphors meet at crossroads
Only the well tread may comprehend
Because the rains fall still
Till I stand on a side of the street I do not know
I do not know what it is like to be the green plastic
The simplicity in ends  hammered into this pacing
Let me say that glass walls taunt
And that perhaps the  mere exclusion could be counted as relief
But we are here counting the shards of glass
And bleeding veins telling one story again and again
But not quite is this light that shines hard
Onto these faulty premises
Wood carved with gaps
Sentences that don't really match up
To a point but to a bigger picture all the same
If somebody could give me peace of mind
That I could be a leaf plummeting
Little time , the presence of the absent
Fills this place with prayers
And the echo of a fear that came true
There is a silence
A held breath
A misplaced intention
Hurt bound in a book
I did not write

This should not be the place for such sentiments
But this is where the string takes root
The knotted tree
Where this brute honesty
Made the empty auditorium
All that more empty

It echoes
What an old friend once said
Whose fruits would've come at the end
But I am not thusly blessed
And ends are not ends
Just full circle , hard lives
And mornings where we begin again

Not a poem

I want to write on muslim youth musings
A little direction and discipline is in order
I wander too much
And all my wonderings cover the same ground again and again
Maybe sow a few seeds of goodness
Maybe this uncomfortableness needs roots
Maybe home is soil , is earth , is us
We are home racing towards home
I want to write like the meanings aren't dripping
Off the page with each sentence lacking punctuation

I want to write