The Art of Michael Christmas

Am I wrong? For loving this strong, and not knowing how living can continue without him? Am I wrong for seing him with eyes of a child, fascinated like in a fantastic realm, taking in every bit of what he is, my deadly tease? For finding in him treasures hidden so deep, gems so brilliant, fruits so sweet like never touched nor tasted before? Am I mad if I crave for some more, and for feeling such steam? For loving me through his gaze, and the beam in his eyes? For wanting to be his pride and his rise? Is it arrogance to fight for keeping my emotions alive, dreaming of his cuddle, and the way he used to kiss my hands and my forehead, or caress my thighs? He gave me oh so little of what he hides, yet so much more than I’ve ever dared to dream; I was too shy to believe I could surf such tides. But now that he opened my eyes, I want to explore the majestic world that he kept secret for so long while waiting for his dearest to give her his all. Even though I know it can’t be me, is it wrong if I wish I was? He’s my heart and my soul. He’s the most. I wish I was black, smooth chocolate skin like dark roasted hot coffee bean, so fragrant and precious that none can be lost. Am I wrong? Does my blood not carry oxygen through my arteries anymore, just because I wasn’t meant to be what I wanna be? ….. I’ll always love him for all he is, not for the way I wish he was loving me!

A crackling lightbulb fizzlesand flickers. It sounds likea flame sizzling on a thinstring of wick attached toan explosive dynamite stick.This scratching noise slidesacross my eardrum with anelectric itch. Now that I thinkmore about it, its swirling tickresembles the scanningfrequency of a radiationinstrument; Made toread toxic waste.The screeching of thiselectronic pulsation alsoreminds me of a teacher’snails, scraping against anold green chalkboard in aclassroom without thestudent’s full attention.Strange indeed to seethese similarities fromhearing a loose wireswitch trickle a formality.

                                        THE CHEF AND THE TWELVE COLOURS         Long live the CHEF who teaches of the twelve colours..! Over his favourite green juice and pink cauliflowers..! A CHEF who’s rarely amused yet laughs for hours.!. Who said; “You won’t always be right, like January’s WHITE.!.” So like February be BLACK & stay true to the facts.!. Like his teachings are right but he swears he won’t write.!. And March never marches, just  follows the next fellow.!. Who loves that he’s YELLOW but is scared as he bellows.!. Now that April’s estranged, to its deep-love for ORANGE.!. And May becomes BURGANDY, to suupport their uncertainty..! Of June-BROWN’s John-Brown, claim’N; “We all came from the ground..! Where we all fear to fall, yet so many are bound.!.” Until July as some say; “J’ui suis desole.!.” As the scene seems less GREEN, from day to day.!. Like holiday beaches covered by bodies under the sun..! YET August remains GREY, for better or worst til his day.!. Making September as RED, as the coals that baketh the bread.!. And October truly BLUE to every word that is said.!. Hence why November refocuses the mind, like the vine link’D to PINK..! Leaving December a glittering GOLD, from the heart that touches the soul.!. As CHEF too would agree, to a slice for you & a slice for me.!. Since only half the truth’s ever told in every sold story told.!.         #SKS

He has the repertoire of a troubadour and the mind of a good hearted soldier. War isn’t always on a field in a foreign land,it can be in your own home or maybe at a neighbors. Life doesn’t need to go according to plan, as long as it is moving forward. Circumstances can get sloppy but if you are equipped with a good head on your shoulders I wouldn’t be worried. Care for the zealous amber thats glowing in you and watch it shimmer. ©  

Fom within this room he designed the perfect cocoon. A safe place where idea’s can roam without being harpooned. His precedence is cloaked by credence  which in turn, supersedes the confidence to pay  what is due. While entrenched deep in thought he surrounds himself with false presumptions about  the world he once knew. Dreams cause a ruse in the existing reality built by strangers who follow  rather than lead into a better tomorrow.    

Fom within this room he designed the perfect cocoon. A safe place where idea’s can roam without being harpooned. His precedence is cloaked by credence  which in turn, supersedes the confidence to pay  what is due. While entrenched deep in thought he surrounds himself with false presumptions about  the world he once knew. Dreams cause a ruse in the existing reality built by strangers who follow  rather than lead into a better tomorrow.    

His kid is hungry without a home to call his own.  The father works to keep what they have already but its not enough for them to grow, meanwhile his    bosses praise their wallets size and shop for new  materials. Employers withold insurance knowing  they are denying care and cursing their most    sacred oath. Surely this cycle of, “whats mine  is mine and whats yours belongs to me” will continue, until the oppressed vocies rekindle    a louder echo. Morals were once sacred  before the shameless tooke power, scattering all that was, into turmoil.   

There sitting at the kitchen tablenot knowing what time it isSuddenly surprised by an unrecognized voice,that of a young boyan age of eleven or twelve, I presume.I stand up quickly and walk to the sink,The boy’s voice loudly and confidently projectedthrough that of a microphone.His love of God I hear in his call, His love of God I hear in his voice, His desire to do something good I hear in his soul. His fitra (nature) unpolluted by the evil, by the gimmicks of an unruly environment.His innocence I listen to. His innoncence and sincere faith in God. His love of God making me cry.The most beautiful recitation of the Adhan (the call to prayer) by a youngster I have ever heard.His parents or another elder likely having brought him here.The boy’s call called me to my responsibility, to my duty. A very good thing the adult brothers letting a young boy call the Adhan.I want to meet this boy. I wish to know his name. Who is he? I want to find him. If I do, I’ll tell him, You did a fantastic job. God is proud of you. I think you’re near to Him.I cry now thinking of another young boy who doesn’t call the Adhan because he doesn’t know how. He hasn’t been taught how. He hasn’t been taught how by his parents. He hasn’t been taught how by the community. He hasn’t been taught how by his school. I cry but not long because like the young boy reciting the Adhan or calling us to prayer, the other young boy who doesn’t know how to belongs to God and is in His good care and God the Most Just, the Most Loving takes the best care of all of His belongings.I cry but not long because the young boy’s Adhan or call called me to or reminded me of my responsibility to the other young boy and…

Arising this morning feeling low in mood and motivation from my daily exposure to a culture counter to the one we were created to live in, and from my daily life and experiences with persons who contribute to the culture as it is, I did not want to do anything. I only wanted to be comforted. I just wanted to feel comfortable.Additionally feeling very cold from the frigid winds and trees blowing intensely and harshly outside a few glass windows I could see out of, simultaneously feeling strange from a time change by one hour, a time change having a hard to describe effect on me, I did not want to do anything. I only wanted to be comforted. I just wanted to feel comfortable.Sitting with my feet propped up for an hour or more, I sip hot herbal tea to simply be, warm my body, and nurture my feelings.In the evening feeling hungry as I ran a few errands in the city, I stop by a restaurant that serves Arabic food. Having made barley earlier and wanting to finish it, I order chicken shawarma to pair with it. While eating my meal, a group of three enter, two men and a woman. They take seats at a table next to mine. Enjoying the meals we were served until completion, one of the men escapes from the table and proceeds to the front counter. He orders and says to the waitor, zum Mitnehmen. A few minutes later he comes to where I’m sitting at the table and he hands me a bag with two sandwiches inside and says, This is falafel to take with you. I smile happily. What a surprise! Thank you very much for your kindness, I tell him.He will never know how much he helped me.   by: Najwa Kareem   mostly written on 10/29/17      

He offers them to all His believers Especially to His chosen last Prophet And His chosen last Prophet’s Family And His chosen last Prophet’s Companions The other Prophets, forgotten, Other people, forgotten, By golly, no   Five times a day at least, the three asked for In prayer, beeseched by millions for an extraordinary man In supplication, pleaded for by countless children for exceptional parents By loved ones for beloved family members By community members for His orphans and His Oppressed and for all His Mumins Asked for by one for another   Peace, Mercy, and Blessings   A Marvelous Three   by: Najwa Kareem