Nation of Ghifar

Nation of Ghifar. 

Our celebrated hero,

May Allah t’ala bless him

Once could not stand that people be free Through the declaration of faith

And so he asked the Messenger 

And thrice he (saw) replied

With the last a humorous chide. 

And when the blessed one left us,

And Abu Dharr (ra) sought to impose 

His understanding of charity and frugality 

The companions had him banished 

And so befell the words of the Messenger

That he would be left alone. 

For the obligations were set 

A trust to be kept 

So that we might be free

At not slaves to a false religiosity. 

How my heart bleeds 

That these people have stolen 

A religion made pure 

Flowing as a river 

They damned with their fiqh

And every now and then cull silver fish. 

So that the people believe 

That orthodoxy is conservatism 

It never was 

For this revolutionary religion 

Will burst their every bank. 

(C) Shafeesthoughts 30th January 2018

LONDON, MS BACHELANI

impressionist Journey

Impressionist Journeys

The brush strokes of my life lie thinly veiled

Beneath the glossy veneer, of this charming smile.

Endearing me to a city that I do not know

Or is it the foreign dollar that, unbeknownst to me, opens those doors. 

Where they say three climes, in a day, can come and go. 

Where every rain chases away laughter

And every drain, gurgles with pending disaster. 

They say that these rouge bonhomies have sponge brain

Not a communicable disease, but a talent no less,

Who yap with accents that can make even cockneys cringe.

A true impressionist would use delicate colour 

But in this drear city what better postcard can I offer

That captures this venture from the new world to the old. 

(C)

Shafeesthoughts 28th January 2018

MS BACHELANI 

A London Cabbie’s passengers story. 

Scorched Remains

Scorched remains 

If the sky had eyes, it would bleed salt tears

If the earth had mouth, it would tell inconsolable truths 

If the sea had it’s way, what could we offer by way of sacrifice?

Do we deserve to pollute the conscience of the World with our disharmonies? 

Do we allow these warmongers to innovate still new ways to decimate?

Who profits from war, but the military industry 

Are our lives, and our children’s, prey to their every product cycle?

Who justifies death in the millions 

How can you give a name to a product that burns people’s skin off

Torture to the death is not something that should be for sale. 

And they justify to themselves by their want for dominion 

But it is not theirs 

For no land, no sea, nor sky will bear them 

And theirs will be an end much worse than that they sold to men. 

(C) Shafeesthoughts 25th Jan 2018

😢 Feeling raw. 

Blossom Breeze

On a Blossom Breeze. 

Forget that we met

In the dire straights of war 

Where no man controls his destiny

Forget not what it was meant to be

At least for me, at most for us both

Thrown together, we were never meant to live apart. 

Forget my foolishness, when in my fear 

I  bit into you. Never meant to hurt you. 

And in my dreams you come to me on a blossom breeze. 

And we talked and we chatted 

As if there had never been

A time of sorrow, where our hearts bled never stopping for the morrow. 

But the memories of these dreams fade as if they had never been. 

A memory of a memory

That was never meant to be. 

(C) Shafeesthoughts 23rd January 2018

MSBACHELANI. 

unasked ruse

Unasked Ruse  

There are puzzles 

and there are games

There are ruses 

And conundrums 

And then there is this, 

That is all those cubed. 

There are problems

That go unanswered 

And answers that go unasked. 

Then there is this

That does not ask to be answered

But begs to be picked up

Fumbled, 

Wrung 

Pushed and pulled 

Whilst it taunts you without so much as a word. 

Like a wad of gum 

That you cannot get out of your mouth 

Not for want of trying 

Infuriating 

And when you do 

And it’s thrown in a corner 

Or hid under a bed

You will always know it’s there

It beckons even then. 

And then you get those 

Know it alls

That solve the unasked question

A reflection of our soul 

When even they 

Cannot leave it alone 

And every day 

Try to beat it quicker 

Or in other multifarious ways. 

Whilst they are sitting

Upside down 

Or blinkered with monochromatic lenses. 

The unasked question

Seems even then

To be completely elusive. 

(C) Shafeesthoughts 

15th January 2018

On the Rubix Cube. 

Rain of Mercy, Rain of Flood

Subject : Rain of Mercy, Rain of Flood

Posted Date: : 10 Dec 2007, 22:55 MySpace

Thanks to my friend Conor, for the stimulation for this poem. I would never have contemplated writing on Rain as a poetic subject matter.

For Muslims, faith is between hope and fear. Hope of God's Mercy and Fear of HIS Wrath.

It is this fear that keeps us from wronging ourselves.

And it is the hope that is its life's blood.

Enjoy...

Rain of Mercy, Rain of Flood...

                                     by Shafees

The earth is parched, unrolled,

Patiently waiting, patently sighing.

My praying eyes look skyward, and behold.

The heralds pull and lift heavy water.

The ink wells fill with pure water,

And I see the cock swings, and does not falter.

Glad am I to see that sight,

That the condensate clouds.

And the pen is readied to write.

Me, and my people's fate on the land.

I sincerely hope for God's mercy,

But fear the wrath of HIS mighty hand!

What do we deserve, Mercy rains?

Or when we wrong one another,

Then possibly Judgment pains?

Will the rain flood?

As it drops,

Will our rivers run with blood?

However, God is not unjust!

Who sends us pure water out of the sea,

A reminder to cleanse from our hearts, it's rust.

The rust of ingratitude,

Of forgetfullness, full of sin.

But to GOD belongs every and all tribute.

The ONE who gives us without measure,

Whose Glories are independent of us all,

And whose mercies outweigh HIS displeasure.

Shafeesthoughts 

An Explanation...

Once again the imagery I use is Qur'anic.. see Surah 51, S. Adh-Dhariyaat.. The Winnowing Winds.

The Earth is a parchment, unrolled.

This imagery relates to our ages past... where we were highly dependent on the rains.

We are no less dependent today, although we forget!

The heralds are the winds that GOD sends.

But are they heralds of blessings and mercyor wrath and anger?

Anger for our corruption in the land, man killing and oppressing man.

It is the fear of GOD that cleanses the rust from our hearts, just as easily as the rains cleanse the dirt from the air and path.

But God's mercies abound, and even HIS promise of judgement is a Mercy, that keeps the mindful good, and sane!

See S. Rahman!

Peace...

Your Friend and Brother Shafi

Sent from my iPhone

Butters

Butters 

The silent gesture

That two fingered one 

Silent as captured in a Picture

Not dissimilar to our Bengal Tiger

Growl and Grapple, nearly all claws

Not subtle and smooth

But obscene and crude

But it gets its points across 

All the same. 

Without the noise of a foolish tale 

Without the heart of an English man

Whose deference an age ago has passed

And now he winks and grins 

And subtly uses it here and there

As if it were a vernacular 

Gone all native 

With those expletives 

And even now 

He simply says 

“butters”

By Which he doesn’t mean 

That which slips gently within. 

(C) Shafeesthoughts Jan 12th 2018

Having Some Fun 😂

I once knew love.

I once knew love 

____________________

She deserted me

Long ago

I did not know her name

For I was young

And beastly clad

And she appeared so tame

My heart did give itself up

But I knew not

Wherefore 

Why did I want to spoil

And yet keep her

All the same?

That clash of energies 

Near drove me 

Totally insane. 

And now that she’s left me 

I feel so desolate 

So poor. 

(C) Shafeesthoughts. 

MS BACHELANI 

10th January 2018

In response to +poetryline prompt. On Google’s Poets the Original. 

it begins

It begins

Somewhere in the middle

Flashbacks

Do they really heighten the story line?

Hypnotise

Maybe that’s why prequels are all the rage. 

Like a dancing cobra. 

Or Rudyards python that swallowed all the Bandar-log,

Rescuing our hero. 

It begins. 

Here in the middle

Maybe we’re all in need of being rescued

Like the man-child wolf-cub

Much more from the past

Why can’t we be free

To settle at the base of our tree

Haphazard 

We strain to escape 

When all answers lie within

It begins 

Shafeesthoughts 

(C) MS BACHELANI 3rd Jan 2017

In response to a prompt on Poets the Otiginal. 

Boxer

Boxer 

Who takes pride in a measley division 

No better than the miser who covets others provision. 

And he thinks that the power of quantity

The dumbing down of all and sundry

The mass, the rabble, with fierce names 

“Does not play, the cat and mouse game?”

That there will not come to sway over them

A lesser Napoleon, from a lesser tale

And laughs at a religion 

That makes the rich the brother of the poor 

That makes wealth not sought for.

A burden, more burdensome than the poor

What a perfect society, where there is no division 

No cat and mouse, counter revision. 

No proletariat- bourgeoisie schism. 

Just a people who revel in the giving.  

Shafeesthoughts 

troubles in toryland

Troubles in ToryLand

What it must feel like to be in government 

To appeal to people 

That we might be elected 

Elected 

With a dagger stashed in the small of our back 

How easy to play the card of our common interests

That the foreign foe needs a common front

That we would be the best to deal the death blow

The blow

That they never knew was coming back

We boast amongst ourselves at the bar

That we are colourblind 

That what we do to one, we do to another

Another

Never mind that they are our own people that now lie in the gutter. 

We are the people that laugh and joke

Our glasses filled with corporate glamour 

Our bellies with the sufferings of those others 

Others 

Whose voices will never be heard. 

Shafeesthoughts