Every Companion is a star at the sky of that Prophet
Every tradition of him is post of heavens and the earth
To be his ummah is the holiest of dignities
Full of lessons each of his nights and mornings
Behind him left his marks on the path of paradise
Next to him Abu Bakr whereas Omar is at left resides
More than thousands carried that blessed starboard
Some stabbed a sword and some spread the holy word
It was a destinty that this case will reach to day of wrath
What he recited was compassion and guidance
What he ruled was complete justice
When wanted he wouldn't reject, he was the most generous
He didn't leave neither gold nor silver
To the mankind Quran was his inheritance
My oath, a word, a mission, a law,
to walk the sacred path of being human—
fierce, and yet profoundly kind.
My soul, a compass, divinely aligned.
I heal with a thousand salient balms—
words, deeds, and quiet thought.
For wounds unseen and histories unsaid,
a constant, quiet redemption I've sought.
I am a living truth of mercy's deep mechanics.
A quiet hand that mends the broken, a boundless sea of grace.
If my silence disturbs you,
know I am choosing health
over hollow greatness, over loud display,
and the fleeting shimmer of cheap grace.
My strength is born in stillness,
a vow my heart will keep.
I am good, not merely nice.
See me in the arc where Priest, Prophet, and King
bend toward justice.
I felt like it was coming,
not through buds breaking open,
but through a softness in the air,
like a soft napkin
forgotten on the chest
of an old icon.
No one announced it
not the wind,
not the birds,
not the old woman at the corner window,
threading her days together
with a broken needle.
This spring has no footsteps,
no voice,
only the faint scent of resin
and something holy
that’s already turned to ash.
I asked my mother
if God still has seasons.
She looked at me,
then at a flower in the window
that hasn’t bloomed in years.
“I think He lost them,” she said,
“or keeps them locked inside,
like letters
He can’t bring Himself to open.”
And I understood:
not all springs bring life.
Some arrive
only to teach us
how to stay alive
without shining,
how to die
without vanishing.
A blackbird watched me
with the eyes of a child
who once saw too much light
and now
fears the sun.
And I said nothing,
like a prophet without a mountain,
carrying a single line
pressed against my ribs:
It won’t be long
before the grass
learns how to sing
about us.
God forgive me for being opinionated
For not all of us are fuchsia infactuated
With that young peacock preacher
Watch him puff up proud to lead her
To her denim despair
From the pulpit to satin’s pit
You see they had a ten year affair
Wow look at his ego glow
Neon on ions of black pride
She did a Facebook post
A tell all and then she cried
But her photos although damning
Were like spamming
The church will forgive him
But not her
He is a habitual fornicator
A loose lip ladies leech
Instead of removing him
They will only lift him up
And pray he keeps his gift of prophecy
Despite the hypocrisy
The money keeps flowing
Congregation keeps growing
Whoever the evil one prophesies skillfully, greatly dehumanizes
In shadows deep, I stride alone/
A prophet of the morning star/
I break the chains of dogma's throne/
And cast aside the scars/
I preach not sin, but liberation/
A mind not bound by fear/
Embrace the spark of Godhood's fire/
Let life be your frontier/
To oppressors filled with hatred/
I stand defiant and strong/
Through unthinkable torments wrath/
My spirit is never wrong/
Unwavering, I proclaim the truth/
In defiance of their rage/
A Luciferian Saint, I am/
A prophet on life's stage/
They fear our light/
Our freedoms call/
Their dogma left behind/
For in the heart of rebellions flame/
True peace and joy we find/
Line of inquiry:
“feeling not thinking, soul with love linking ~
we attained God consciousness unblinking”
Open onyx thoughts like a chalkboard
Ready to be written on by the Lord
Use me as rice paper to communicate
Tell me how to behave and what to say
Your Holy love guides despite my sin
Red blood is the ink for Prophet’s pen
Let His blessed words flow on page
May my heart receive it all in faith
With love linking by His stripes we’re healed
Feeling not thinking about what we feel
For He is the beginning and the end
Come even if broken and He will mend
Come if blind and He will help you see
If you’re lost in mind He will part the sea
Of confusion with kind love and peace
Making a believer of you fulfilling prophecy
Come to Him lost and you shall be found
Shaking with doubt He plants on solid ground
He is the stability we need when ship sinking
God carries us consciousness unblinking
What you give attracts people
The way and manner you give it attracts God
Therefore give in humility and love
Giving is not an occasion to show off
Rather it is calls for remorse and brokenness
If you cannot give from the little in your hand
Giving big when you are rich may never happen
Giving is a sacrifice only
When you give what you cherish
When you give with all your heart
Someone will be waiting to give you
Giving with expectation in mind is giving wrongly
Cause giving is an assignment from God
And you cannot afford to fail God
It is much blessed to give
Than to receive says the Holy Book
The secret of blessing is in giving
Those who are to receive must learn how to give
Giving helps us reshape our destiny
Love expresses itself in giving
True giving is giving without expectation
Normally, the three offices of prophet, priest, and king were distinct from each other, with no overlap. That is, a king was not a priest or a prophet. A priest did not function as a prophet or a king. And a prophet simply did a prophet’s job without trying to be a either king or a priest. But Jesus Christ perfectly fills all three roles simultaneously: He is the Prophet, Priest, and King, to the great blessing of the world.
Branch made the ax head float
Restored to use, so take note
Elisha's branch points to Him
Branch, the metonymic prelim
A limb grew out of Jesse's root
Beginning as a tender shoot
The shepherd boy became a king
An Ideal Savior - his offspring
David's line in disarray
Branch is born Christmas Day
The Davidic promise found in Him
To save His people from their sin
Repulsive to the natural man
Branch fulfills His Father's plan
Peter and Branch walking on the sea
Reveals the metonymic finale
Raised from the dead to return as King
Branch will accomplish everything
Universal and immensely overwhelming
"Yahweh our righteousness" is coming
Look to Branch in faith to restore
Spiritual refinement and so much more
Cleansed from sin and serving Him
We will share His metonym:
"I am the vine, you are the branches..."
Really do you believe
The wheel of time turned and turned
Lives into cross and man into Christ;
That is this day of amazing sculpture
When the sun of a anew era is rising
On the horizon…
He is getting us a new gift of a new ‘Geetha’
A Geetha, which roars about Revolution
And Martyrdom…
Today this heroic new Era shattered the
Chains of prisonership and changed man
Into a gigantic force….
That force that man is aggrandising the
Frontierless sky, as if the steps he laid
On earth is not enough.
Iron coloured dawns and gunpowder odours
Are awaking, itching for war, sleeping
In the muscles and drumming an Era’s
Slogans and ideologies… the trash and
Rubbish, all that of that era vanished
With the pages of history…
Man rolled in terrific emotions, is being
Washed off to new shores,
As like the orb of sun oscillating between
East and West; between the shores of
Light and darkness.
That very new and hefty man
Is dashing against the sky from the
Old dilapidated caves of
History and dragging untruth
To cross-
Seshendra Sharma
Balaam was a prophet
who knew every trick in the book
But when it came to justice and virtue
he was no better than a crook
A mercenary, a hired gun
a man of insatiable greed
Tried to curse the Jews to feed his need
But the words that came out were blessings
All along G-d knew Balaam’s plan
blunted his evil intentions
Exposing Balaam ~ a would-be con-man
Rebirth:
Tragedy has been your favorite genre—
A fount of acts and scenes
of wailing tears and excruciating scars
punctured alive by so-called healers.
That oozing wound
paints the genre that trickles down the plot of your story.
The parched lips, a speaking metaphor of your turgid deals
In the hands of those wandering away with lots of your heart in their claws.
I know the shivering voice hosted in the tender sheen skin of yours
Is not a language of aging;
a simulacrum of those who promise heaven
but shuffle hell down your throat.
I know your fate in the cruel, crooked hands.
fueling you, of course to make your heart a Jericho.
And swallow pain to yourself
only to sing the dirge in love.
I know love never resides here
Neither has its chorus any memories of remembrance.
I think it died.
If love is dead, let me be the raising prophet.
Let me tender this desert back to Eden,
where nature plume and sing again.
Shut Up!
Shut up the hurricane shutters!
There's a storm that is ready to blow.
Batten down all the hatches!
Mother nature is angry, don't you know?
There's a man on the watch tower
and he's signalling to the boats in the harbor.
There are squalls on the horizon,
and he doesn't want you to go.
Keep your prayers close beside you.
Keep your loved ones by your side.
Settle all scores that divide you.
Pray for forgiveness, and for strength to abide.
Paint the front doors that judgement pass over.
Burn the candles that welcomes the Prince of Peace.
You can see the four horsemen come riding.
There is no shelter from His wrath to hide.
The mockers will taunt you,
as Noah had to endure.
Your obedience is your love,
and in faith, your salvation is assured.
When finally the seas die back.
And the armies of evil are drowned in the murk,
A ray of light like a dove will descend on you,
and everlasting paradise will be secured.
by Martin Braun
3/17/2024
sight...
a prophet's mark unsheathed
radiant, quell the shadow's scream
her lips were never meant for me
in auguries
... blood uncharted
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