“I want to see the prophet!”
Proclaimed a little girl,
“I want to look upon his face,
The mercy of the worlds.”
“You’ve told me all the stories,”
She told her dear parents,
“But still I can not see his face
I’m feeling disenchanted!”
“Where did you get that word from?”
Replied the dad, impressed,
“I do not even use that word
Myself I must confess!”
A New Yorker called Donald Trump
With Latinos and Muslims, he had the hump!
For him all the Latinos were a bunch of druggies
And Muslims were a national security worry.
He’d flick his quiff and pick and sniff
While screaming firebrand speeches
The Muslims angered him so much
He’d go all pink like peaches!
Dear Young Men of Baghdadi’s fiefdom,
Is Allah pleased?
When you fire upon civilians
When you shoot cowering women in the temple
Is Allah pleased?
When you blow up your own bodies
And your limbs lie upon the limbs of a young child
Is Allah with you?
When you kidnap young women
And use and abuse them for your own lusts
Does Allah approve of you?
When you deal in oil and drugs,
When you buy your stuff from gangsters and from thugs
.
Dear Purveyors of Western Freedom,
When you lay waste to Arab cities,
Is this for freedom and equality?
When you ignore millions of dissenters
Is this for freedom and equality?
When you sell and manufacture chemical bombs,
Is this for freedom and equality?
When you create heaven in your lands
But sow discord and conjure hell elsewhere
Is this for freedom and equality?
When you oscillate between who is your ally and who is your terrorist
Is this for the sake of freedom and equality?
“All things hang like a drop of dew
Upon a blade of grass”. W B Yeats
A lush and fertile patch of grass shivered in the breeze, sighing blissfully. Fully exposed to the benevolent sun and enriched by the timely monsoons, the grass grew to a staggering height, accommodating countless creatures great and small. Nothing, so it seemed, could curtail its life-force; nothing could obstruct the sun or the rain replenishing it. The grass was suffused with a rich and deep shade of green, so much so that just to look upon it brought relief to hearts, just to hear its whispers in the wind brought tranquility to troubled minds.
.
“So long as they don’t take the yam from my savouring mouth.” Niyi Osundare
.
They firebombed the tomb of Al Rifai
All that remained was mounds of rubbles in piles,
But what business is it to me and to my ilk?
As long as they’ve purged the bida and shirk.
.
.
Get indoors!
And lock em quick!
Watch out for the Mozlamics!
.
First they’ll wrap yer in a burka!
Then they’ll make you eat samosa!
Their Sharon Law will make you sick!
Watch out for the Mozlamics!
.
.
Before, I thought it all a hopeless mess
Imagined all a helpless cry of distress
Considered all a hapless guess
Rejected all a heartless process
Abandoned all, a homeless essence
Until I found it All a hidden blessing
Discovered All a hopeful beginning
Accepted All a history of genesis
Unveiled to All a heavenly gnosis
.
The prince of truth and martyrdom,
Al Hussain Ibn Ali!
The prince of youth and cherubim,
Al Hussain Ibn Ali!
The denouncer of ignorance,
Al Hussain Ibn Ali!
The splendour of the Prophet’s glance,
Al Hussain Ibn Ali!
Advert taken from The Azali Times
Requirements:
Male or female
Young or old
Black or White
Rich or poor
Single or married
Divorced or disowned
Total submission needed
.
.
I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien. Sting
.
This is what I think it means to be a British Muslim today, who was born and bred in England but hailed from immigrant parents. To have an eclectic medley of voices swirling around in your brain. Living and constantly shifting between different worlds, religions, languages, cultures, traditions and voices, all competing for some kind of hold on your identity, on your spirit, your will. All this baggage, mixed-loyalties, competing face masks and fashions stuffed into a short-lived life, which, for many of us, typically consists of home, school, mosque and holidays to Pakistan and the holy lands or whichever country you hail from.