The best of Creation - our beloved Prophet Muhammed peace be upon him

Allah Most High created everything.
Allah created humans to be the divine agents on earth.
Our purpose is to worship Allah.
How?
By serving His creation and carrying out His commands.
How do we know the commands of Allah?
Through the prophets, upon them be peace and blessings; the last of these Divine lights was:
Muhammed, peace be upon him.
Our guide to the Divine, the door to reaching true happiness and contentment.
by following his example, his actions, silences and spiritual states, we draw closer to our Creator, become beloved friends of our Lord and freed thereby from all other cares.
Endless poetry has been written in praise of the Prophet peace be upon him. Here is a sample from an American muslim poet, Abdul Hayy Daniel Moore (from his website: danielmoorepoetry.com)

MAN AMONG US

Muhammad whose genealogical tree went right straight back to Adam,
who said he was a prophet when Adam was between water and clay --
how can we properly praise him, surrounded as we are by madmen
who think they are sane and saviors, but who shrink from the light of day?

Muhammad, who at six was an orphan, and whose darkness was removed by..............
angels,
who entered the valleys and date palms burst into fruit above him --
how can we possible taste that quality of his wisdom
when oceans of plastic silence fill our ears with their deafening din?

Muhammad, who grew to be trustworthy, even his enemies trusted him,
who waited for three days on a corner to pay back a debt he owed someone --
can such honor be followed, in a world so ethically stifled,
when the very foundations of trust have been laughed into mud and ruin?

Muhammad who stood on the mountaintop and saw the sky fill with angels
but distrusted such visions as raving and was afraid his mind had snapped --
how can we see such stillness in the pool of his heart so thunderstruck
when our own streets are hallucinations like savage animals trapped?

Muhammad who let the Truth lead him, and his moon-like light filled the tents
of the people whose hearts were empty but open as sky,
how can our people be touched by the stature of such a being
when most of them are full of sickness and most of them want to die?

Muhammad whose talk was like mountain streams clearly crossing rocks
and splashing into pools of clarity where we could finally see our light --
how can this thick time know him? The doorways are filled with ghosts,
the dumb are leading the eloquent, the leaders are fearful of insight!

Muhammad who went through the heavens on the back of the lightningbolt mule
and whose gaze was steady and true face to face with the Face of the One --
how can mechanical thinking or the heart like a clock face in ice
begin to glimpse this other world with its other moon and sun?

Muhammad who led the armies with nothing but banners and trust
against mercantile idol-subscribers with the weapons and wealth of kings --
how can simplicity make sense to us, so overpowered by the magic
of High Technology's sorcery which clots up our senses with "things?"

Muhammad whose victory just humbled him more than he was before
so that thousands finally accepted the worship of Allah alone --
is it the same situation now as then for us, hard-hearted people asleep
who'd rather sit in a stupor and worship bits of wood or stone?

Muhammad whose Gate-Opening crashed the iceberg rock right open
to let us enter a world where actual events shed light,
how to sit or go through a doorway, drink water or lie down to sleep,
how to face absolute Oneness without losing balance from fright.

Muhammad, peace of Allah be upon you, Prophet and Messenger of Light,
the figure you made among people put love in their hearts for the Truth --
how can the graveyard society we live in possibly hear your heartbeat
when their drunken hearts drink darkness sold at the tyrant's corner booth?

O Prophet, O man among us, O light that goes ahead,
who gave out the last coin left to you when you lay on your first deathbed --
how can such stark reality reach into us when the air is so filled with lead
and such mention of life only bores the snoring multitudes of the dead?

O Light of the human touch in everything, Praiser and Praiseworthy in one,
we are naked before Allah at last, and we need your enlightening sun!

Hope - Emily Dickinson

For everyone who is feeling a bit down these days, a poem of hope:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Powerful Poets: Langston Hughes

I remember in high school reading my first Langston Hughes poem and realizing that all poetry wasn't incomprehensible nor ridiculous. Here are some of my favorites:

Dream Variations Langston Hughes

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me--That is my dream!
To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

Dreams Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.


I, Too, Sing America Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed-- I, too, am America.



Let America Be America Again Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

Revolutionary Rhymes

Poetry is powerful. The great poets were feared; at times they were almost considered magicians so drastic was the effect of their words. They could make one feel invincible, or they could cause you to wilt and shrink and slink away in shame. A poet could put in words, intense enough to echo in each human soul, even through ages, the emotions of experience: Pain, lost, love, salvation, hope.
For the eloquent Arabs, many battles were fought with words; each clan sent their best poet to recite, without practice. They would compose odes full of praise for the nobility and loftiness of their own clan; and they contrasted it with the baseness, weakness and despicable nature of their enemy. Such "battles" could continue for days until one poet was able to destroy the morale of the opposition tribe with their words; these poets literally left the enemies speechless, utterly unable to respond.
A true poet was a master of her language, all its nuances and inflections. She knew how to shape her words, meticulously select them like diamonds, to cut through rhetoric and verbosity to reveal the Truth in all its cutting, piercing clarity. A true poet's words echoed in the mind, clearing away fog and confusion; it reverberated in the soul, shattering illusions and returning one to the clean, purity of truth.
Such is poetry.
Poetry has been dumbed down now, especially in America; made often to be merely nonsense or ridiculous. I will admit I can like a funny or amusing absurd poem. But these don't last, they don't make a difference in how I perceive words or the world. They don't fire me up against injustice. They don't cause eyes to weep at hearing your pain echoed. Unfortunately what's taught in school is either the obscure or absurd so that students are either turned off or they just find it all silly. Of course this is the desired outcome for then we don't create and nurture any new poets to proclaim the Truth in the next generation. However, truth is never silenced so don't give up hope. A never ending lineage of poets continues...
Still, we need to reclaim the revolutionary power of words. Raise up the banner of the poet of truth, who cries to humanity to raise up and stand firm for Truth and for Justice. We need to teach true poetry and learn about the great poets. We need to train ourselves to use words properly and powerfully.
I'm not a poet unfortunately, but I've taught some poetry and I know it can be learned.