settling the score


There’s scores yet to settle with myself,
for now, there’s another breath,
another heave,
another mouth to feed,
and dusty, they’ll wait patiently,
amongst collections of poetry,
preferably,
on the highest shelf.

How to settle a score with yourself;
give it what it needs,
then demand of it what you need.

I haven’t the time to deal with myself,
and I haven’t found a person,
save for my teacher who is thousands of miles away,
to have enough to offer me,
both in sincerity,
and in complexity,
but in utter ability,
and ironclad conviction,
to show me the miseries,
and realities,
of me.

Alas,
procrastination is a middle man,
a soothing hand,
a woman on demand,
a balm of crux,
if ever there was a dichotomy of reconcile.

It is genderless,
one minute savage,
the next, tender.

How did I arrive,
at loving and hating myself with such fervor?
How did I become stiff,
how did I contour?

The paralysis,
my nemesis,
seems to be all inside of me,
and I won’t let anyone in to see.

W.E.

hear no, see no, feel all

It owns you.

Play pretend until your last breath,
but you’ll forever be it’s slave.

One sin, two sins, three sins four,
soon, you won’t feel,
you’ll just want more.

Five sins, six sins, seven then eight,
try to pay it off,
it will be too late.

Nine sins, ten sins, and on it goes,
before you can pay it off,
you’ll be someone you don’t know.

It bites, it gnaws,
it’s the cracking jaw,
it reminds you with every chew,
of the reality of you.

The bite that can’t be digested,
purity gone,
by your own hand molested.

W.E.

I’m amazed (and laugh inside) when people take the wrong things they do so lightly, not in mock or jeer, but in pity for the ignorance of what they will inevitably be indebted to. That stuff doesn’t just go away. Try as you may to pretend your conscience is switched off and it doesn’t bother you, deep within, it haunts and chips away at you until it manifests in other ailments.

Sometimes it takes time, but it lurks and waits for the opportune moment to collect and when it comes knocking, there’ll be nothing you can do but admit your folly, your arrogance and ignorance.

Sin is glorified, like one can raise their head in pride for the shit they do, for the hurt they cause and parade themselves as being honest, bludgeoning the word, the meaning, bastardising it and uprooting it from it’s intended purpose.
‘At least I’m honest’, they mantra like being filthy, being vile and being loaded with immorality is pardoned by a simple admittance. Shame? What shame? Shame is ridiculed to the derelict corner of uncool. It’s cool to be a piece of shit these days and wear that like a badge of honour.
You may hear no evil, you may see no evil, as you’ve shifted the metrics of measuring evil, but you’ll feel it all, eventually every last bit of it.

W.E.

dear grief – 20

 

You’re an air of musk and liver halves ,
a stench of decompose,
mould stained etchings on epitaphs,
just thorns, with no rose.

Autumn crisp and winds snappy bite,
crows gawk and stare,
grass blades, stones and sunken sites,
they make you self aware.

Feet that echo from earth to ears,
I feel swollen with heat and regret,
flame of guilt and acid tears,
this grief just will not let.

Gnashed cheek sidewall,
chewed lip flesh sprawl,
bloodied nose freefall,
oh grief, I’m in your thrawl.

W.E.

The truth about my insides #Syria


I’ve found hypocrisy in a mouthful,
guilt in a morsel,
sin after sin, mindful,
and strangely, conveniently,
forgetful.

A satiation of sorts,
severed from thought,
the interstitial,
the residual,
carnal taunts.

Prodding whispers,
and gallant replies,
ego servitude,
smothered lies,
here I am,
there I’m not,
a slave of evil,
matter how hard I try.

As long as my children are safe,
as long as their bellies satiated,
I can mourn in the morning,
and feast in the evening.

And why am I so,
wavering in and out of states,
a haphazardous molotov,
of grief and joy,
sinister ploy,
ignorance and enlightenment,
reconciling at the pull of social deploy.

Here is the battlefront,
the war that rumbles and pulls on desires,
here is Syria,
welcome Wesam to hell,
your insides,
an ever kindling fire.

W.E.

dear grief – 19

dear grief,
you’re an echo of abandonment,
ever reverberant,
lasting permanence.

Just when I think I have found my nest,
you’re the wind that reminds me,
nothing is permanent,
what appears full bodied and pertinent,
is just effervescent.

Ahh there goes the nest,
there goes my residence,
you take everything,
storming turbulence.

W.E.

Adhan


Oh Bilal,
I wonder,
if that stone placed upon your chest,
an act of barbarity,
to stifle your tongue,
from mentioning The One, The One,
to suffocate your breath,
didn’t in fact give you lungs,
didn’t in fact expand your breast.

No stone, nor mountain,
would in future find more peace,
and tremble with love and awe,
than by hearing your voice,
And have your breath between them soar.

God made that stone and every stone, subservient to your Ruh,
your Reeh,
your zephyr that passes between your teeth,
from the well within,
far too deep,
for the materialist minds,
for the societal sheep,
to do anything but misunderstand,
but a thousand years and a thousand more,
still makes every believer weep.

W.E.

Bilal Ibn Rabah, was the first African to become a Muslim.
He suffered tremendously for his pronouncement of faith.
At a time where the Meccan dignitaries were oppressing anyone, be they of nobility or a layman, the punishment endured by Bilal was nothing short of an extension and proof of the putridness that lay within them, the barbarity and hostility they had towards anyone who professed to believe in One God.

Bilal’s would go on to become one of the most infamous rebellion stories.
A slave to wealthy Meccans, upon hearing the call to believe in one God, the equality of men and women before God that Islam espoused, Bilal defied his owners and would not whip Ammar bin Yassir when asked to make an example out of him. So instead, his owner and the rest of Mecca decided to make an example out of Bilal.

They whipped and punished him, dragged him around town with rope around his neck, even dipped him in boiling water, and still, Bilal could only echo ‘Ahadun, Ahad’, – The One, The One. Two syllables that would enrage the Meccans who wanted him to denounce one God and instead worship and acknowledge their many gods.

Umayyah ibn Khalaf, became enraged, being the owner of Bilal, he set about from the start to orchestrate all the punishment. Finally he had a stone brought forward which took four men to lift and placed it upon Bilals chest. Defiantly, Bilal would not succumb, ‘Ahadun, Ahad’, The One, The One.

It was at this time Abu Bakr, paid for Bilals freedom, when Ummayy had realised he could no longer have any use for him, he thought, being the materialist oppressor he was, that the money is better than a ‘useless’ slave.

Bilal was bought off and set free by Abu Bakr.

Upon hearing his story, the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) became extremely fond of Bilal.

Bilal would go on to be the official Mu’adhen (caller) to prayer. The Prophet Muhammad preferred him over anyone else because of his sincerity and piercing voice.

So here we have a man, thought of as nothing, a former slave who was persecuted and tortured by the Meccans, now calling the prayer for all Muslims.
His call, which he saw in a dream, has become the only call to be recited by all Muslims around the world 1430 years later.

Bilal lived out his life alongside the Prophet Muhammad and the companions until the day came when the Prophet (peace be upon him), passed from this world.
Bilal was making the call to prayer and upon reaching the part mentioning the Prophet, broke down inconsolably. He finally finished the call but couldn’t bare to be around the place where the Prophet’s scent still lingered, and joined the convoy of Muslims heading to Damascus and settled there.

One night, he saw the Prophet (peace be upon him), in his dreams who asked him ‘Oh Bilal, why is it that you don’t visit me?’ Upon waking, Bilal immediately packed his belongings and set for Madinah.

Upon arriving, he was greeted by Al Hassan and Al Hussayn (God be well pleased with them), the noble grand children of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). Bilal had a deep fondness for them, because they were so dear to the Prophet. So when they requested he make adhan for prayer, he could not refuse their wish.

Upon initiating the call, suddenly Madinah and all its inhabitants fell into shock. For a moment, they reminisced, they were all taken and thought that the Prophet Muhammad had returned and began crying and coming out into the streets, rushing to the central prayer mosque. Upon arriving the joy was apparent on everyone’s faces, it wasn’t the Prophet, but it was his beloved companion and preferred caller to prayer, Bilal. This was the last time Bilal would call the prayer in Madinah.

Bilal would eventually return to Damascus where he passed away.

His story reminds us today that no matter the persecution, God always has a plan far grander than any punishment oppressors can dish out.

From the chains of slavery, Bilal became the echo on every Muslims lips, five times a day at the minimum, reminding them of God, calling them to prayer, calling them to success, calling them to establishment and rectitude of their affairs, reminding them to reconcile, admit error, improve ones affairs and repent from evil or wrong doing. To ask for forgiveness, and to beg pardon. To have thanks and gratitude for fortune and misfortune, knowing well, whatever lay in stall for them, is of the wisdom and knowledge of their maker.

W.E.

*Ruh – Soul
*Reeh – Subtle breeze or zephyr

dear grief – 17


You’re the pair of jeans,
with a hole through my knees,
always comfortable,
never outgrowable
no matter what’s lurking beneath.

You’re the gnash of my teeth,
the weight in my feet,
the scar tissue,
dragging and chewable,
inflamed and raw cheek.

What ever do you seek,
preying on the weak,
crumbling hearts,
of people already apart,
left humbled, rubbled and meek

W.E.