Writing Allah Poems

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Details | Haiku |
Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Verse |

Sunrise, late winter
skunk smell
turkey flock
playful otter, too.

The white heron
a great blue,
white phase,
in the abandoned beaver pond.

Purple clematis
its long-awned achenes
in globose heads
spidery, fiery, extravagant fruit!

To identify or classify
birds by
the complexity or beauty
of their songs.

And so
what is over that
ridge or hill
a sink-hole, a sand dune, a steep bluff.


What must I do. Organize
the heretofore unorganized. The rabble
of unemployed child abusers.
Molesters of their intimates.

Are there dysfunctional bird families?
Simply put, they do not survive.
We have hope
that everyone alive is essential,

consequential. We classify
and specify.
The commonplace and everyday
is sanctified.

What happens everyday?
Morning is quiet, everyone at work.
Home writing, watching birds.
Afternoon, kids come back from school.

Evening, watch tv.
Scotch and Star Trek.
Captain Picard's problems eclipse
ours who stayed behind.


Pray to Allah
and maybe he will spare you
when he sets the world
on fire.

Where or with who
will I be on that day?
And how many people and adventures
will I find in the wind storm and rubble?

I may live, but will it matter
whether or not I help anyone else to live?
This is no Last Judgement.
Those who have learned or who still know how to live

will survive.
Nobody will go to hell, they will just die.
There is no limbo either.
Anyone who didn't find a way to be immortal is just dead.

So, what am I trying to do.
Organize the unemployed, the welfare mothers
and alcoholics
into a flying chevron of purposeful explorers?


The doctor's conscious, organized,
naive attempt to do good,
his legacy, versus the randomness
of the road and the war zone.

There his legacy is his rectitude and natural
rough compassion for the damaged people
he encounters. The difference
between planning a legacy

as if you knew enough to control events
and letting the legacy arise
from events themselves, controlling,
insofar as you are able, only

your own actions and reactions.
The doctor's leadership role such as it was
grew out of not his material possessions
like the car

but his mission, his personal quest
to find the young doctors he had naively trained
and sent into the war zone
where all died.


July-a cold city
not as great or as gritty
as I thought, summer theater left
the shoe shine bereft of customers

eyes cold as a bureaucrat's
except for our soles
and their leather. Sweat-soaked
girls, the beautiful ones left town.

Emotionless as a bus.
Sparrows, no chickadees.
All that's important happens indoors.
Exercise to philosophies.

You get what you see.
The panhandlers ask
just once, won't risk
friendship, justice.

No sale today
in the finite city
where, for the shoe shine,
pedestrians are infinite, times two shoes.


Faith = wait + trust.
But don't anticipate.
Popper prohibits prediction.
Niebuhr expects destruction.

I believe in God
doesn't mean there's a sketch
of a man in my head. It must mean
all will be well in the end.

Satisfied with snow
or summer. And now
with dying old or younger.
Gold or paper clips. Gulps or sips.

In the final resting place
in the city of the dead
are there all night card games
and sometimes open swims?

Each inch, square, or cube of Earth
brim with grasses and sedges, dragonflies and spiders, sparrows and eagles.
The tiger lily and the water lily and the lily of the valley, the calla lily.
When a girl on a bicycle smiles, that is a smile.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

Details | Quatern |
This is a script to read again Its wordings are clear- no blunder Each page on its own is a sane It has distinct words to ponder I’m yet to find its replacement This is a script to read again It’s obvious in its endowment A script fit beyond thousand reigns With what I've seen, I've much to gain Those about lives before our own This is a script to read again Can any author beat this Lone? In everything it’s just the star I think its lost can’t be regain It’s the same here and in Dakar This is a script to read again.

Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |
The Cowardice of the Taliban and The Silence of The Good Muslims.

When hot lead tears the flesh of a 14 year old girl,

ripping through her skull,
leaving her to bleed out and die,

does Allah not recoil in horror,

to see His child whimper,
to see His daughter cry.

Where is the indignation,

the anger that often boils over and manifests itself as flags and books and videos are burnt in mass orgies of hollow piety,

where are the voices that scream so loud,
that denounce all but their own creed,

where are the men, the impotent men who crave for nothing more than their fascist egos to feed,

where are the voices that so loudly proclaim,
enemies here and enemies there, always quick to condemn,

where are those voices when the enemy walks amongst them.

14 year old Malala Yousafzai was shot in cold blood,

her crime?

Advocating the rights of girls to an education.

Shame on you, men of bigotry and men of cowardice.

Shame on you, silent and mute accomplices in this carnage.

Shame on me,
for my inaction,

Shame on us all,
who proclaim lofty ideals,

yet are conspicuously silent,

when a 14 year old girl is shot in the head,

by fascist fundamentalist bigots who only worship bullets of hot lead.

Not in my name!

Not in my name,
shall the cowardly men rain down abuse,

Not in my name,
shall the bigoted men light the communalistic fuse,

Not in my name,
shall Malala Yousafzai be shot in the head,

left to bleed out,
while countless mothers' tears are shed,

not in my name,
shall religious murderers,
be left to wander free,

not in my name,
for I dare all believers to open their eyes,
to see!

To see,
the innocence of a 14 year old girl,
wanting only an education,

as the men of the cloth,
prance around with their pathetic self-righteous indignation.

I write this today,
the anger raging in my veins,

yet I fear,

that I shall write more of this,

unless we stand up and say 'no more',

I fear that I shall be writing this again,

until we all,

reclaim the true principles of humaneness,

until we silence the voices of bigotry,
of rage,
of fanatical insanity,

I fear I shall be writing this again,


until the muck-ridden bile,
is not excised,

I shall continue to say,


Or else I shall have nothing,

but my unending shame.

(for Malala Yousafzai, 14 years old, in a critical condition after being shot in the head by the Pakistani Taliban, for her work as a young activist advocating the rights of girls to attend school)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
Changing my writings the first words written
 innocence  initially intended   
changing the format,  the colors 
leaving emotions openly displayed 
Changing the long to short ,  revising all thoughts
for it is left for the readers perception
always in changes one opens a door
through changing I will learn through a lesson
Is this poem worthy of mention ?

Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
I tried writing a poem tonight about the moon's brilliance. It was huge, as it was pale; hypnotic in its rise. The sun's reflection made me think of my own depression because I could see the moon's geography and its mountainous expanses. The darker shades of grey highlighted an elevation untouched by man's wishes. I had a sense of my own biology and its fragility. Like fine China placed in boxes void of upward pointing arrows, my warranty became null and void because of packaging and stacked in wrong directions. The molecular dust, mixed with rust, the ore and iron shavings, I could feel moonlight settle in my veins and I yearned to be a part of the universal order of detachment and attraction. Wishing ocean waves would wash over me as I fought the pull against my toes from lunar confiscation. A sea's toll, the sand that disappears from underfoot, admission into the deep. In my being, I felt all the knowledge Britannica had to offer, and then every answer fizzled away with evaporative tenacity and again I was left wondering about my place in this world, when a few seconds before; I swore, I was sure. The poem ended up being scrapped because no arrangement of words would've compared to witnessing the moon being painted on a deserted horizon and seeing His paintbrush come to rest on an easel.
No, my words wouldn't have been equal.

Copyright © TS Lewis | Year Posted 2015

Details | I do not know? |
>I do not know if this classifies as poem as it is slightly religiously, political.

Muslims here, Muslims, there.
From Turkey might soon be everywhere.
Will they be from that peaceful faith?
And full of love, full of faith.
Turkey, if such a nice place.
None would leave that place of faith.

I wonder if what I said is true.
And millions move towards you.
By you.  I mean in the EU.
I wonder if we'll be there too.
As Turkey Prime Minister said June too.

I guess soon they will be everywhere.
Spreading their peaceful way here and there.
Hope we keep our heads, so we can go.
Inhabit the lands they have left so.
We can enjoy the warmth from the Sun.

Of course here they can moan and groan.
As pay a fortune to heat our old homes.
We won't care, as we will be.
As warm as toast as Christians be.
As Muslims, none will be left there.

We had our wars I must confess.
But could inhabit the holy land, no less.
As all who lived there are over here.
So we could emigrate with no fear.
And be warmer.  Did you hear?

They will be warm in their Burke's here.
We could sunbathe with little fear.
They could blow their homes all up.
While we rebuild.  Nice ones with luck.
They can wail into the air.
We can sunbathe over there.

Christians where they ought to be.
Where Christ and his disciples trod, you see.
Muslims can be in the cold.
Moaning about it as I told.

I wonder how long it will be.
They will be crossing over the sea.
Taking back from us Christians again.
And we returned to Great Britain again.

No doubt we will have to rebuild again.
And clean up all the mess again.
Then bless in a two years again.
Start the whole process over again.

If I write again.  Any more.
I will explode.  I do implore.
Not as a bomb.  Oh, not like them.
But just with words from me pen.

I hope it's not too you know, for anybody.  (The mad author)<

Copyright © STANLEY Harris | Year Posted 2016