Hope…
By Connie Ciccone ©Nov 2006
To those without hope!!
Hope is inspiration
Turned inside out
Hope is expectation
Of that there is no doubt .
Hope keeps us going
Longing for a better day .
Hope keeps us rowing
Life’s boat at work and play .
Hope helps us rise each morning
Looking for grace along the way;
Hope tucks us in each night
Praying we did His will Today.
Hope is God’s eternal carrot
The goal we all work towards
Salvation removes death’s garrote
As we reap our just rewards.
Hope is you will believe me?
And can see it in my heart eyes
Hope you come and join me
As we bask in God’s blue skies.
Hope your heart will soften
As you let His spirit in
Hope you will pray often
As we all try not to sin .
Hope we can pray together
To help all the world over
United as family, sister and brother
Content under God’s Holy cover.
A Crabby Old Woman
A Crabby Old Woman
When an old lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Dundee Scotland, it was believed that she had nothing left of any value.
Later, when the nurses were going through her meagre possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Ireland. The old lady’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the North Ireland Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on her simple, but eloquent, poem.
And this little old Scottish lady, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this "anonymous" poem winging across the Internet:
Crabby Old Woman
What do you see, nurses ? What do you see?
What are you thinking when you’re looking at me?
A crabby old woman, Not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, With faraway eyes?
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you’d try!"
Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe?
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse; YOU’RE NOT LOOKING AT ME.
I’ll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of ten with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who love one another.
A young girl of sixteen with wings on her feet
Dreaming that soon now a lover she’ll meet.
A bride soon at twenty - My heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five now I have young of my own,
Who need me to guide and a secure happy home.
A woman of thirty my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my man’s beside me to see I don’t mourn
At fifty once more, Babies play ’round my knee,
Again we know children – My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, My husband is dead,
I look at the future, I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own ,
And I think of the years and the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old woman and nature is cruel;
‘Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles, Grace and vigour depart,
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass A young girl still dwells,
And now and again, My battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I’m loving and living life over again.
I think of the years – All too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people, Open and see,
Not a crabby old woman; Look closer….see, ME!!
Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within…..we will all, one day, be there, too!
Who I Am!
By Izdehar Albowyha
Who I Am !
[Must Read To Know What is Hijab]
(An Excellent poem about the Muslim Woman)
What do you see
when you look at me
Do you see someone limited,
or someone free
All some people can do is just look and stare
Simply because they can’t see my hair
Others think I am controlled and uneducated
They think that I am limited and un-liberated
They are so thankful that they are not me
Because they would like to remain ‘free’
Well free isn’t exactly the word I would’ve used
Describing women who are cheated on and abused
They think that I do not have opinions or voice
They think that being hooded isn’t my choice
They think that the hood makes me look caged
That my husband or dad are totally outraged
All they can do is look at me in fear
And in my eye there is a tear
Not because I have been stared at or made fun of
But because people are ignoring the one up above
On the day of judgment they will be the fools
Because they were too ashamed to play by their own rules
Maybe the guys won’t think I am a cutie
But at least I am filled with more inner beauty
See I have declined from being a guy’s toy
Because I won’t let myself be controlled by a boy
Real men are able to appreciate my mind
And aren’t busy looking at my behind
Hooded girls are the ones really helping the muslim cause
The role that we play definitely deserves applause
I will be recognized because I am smart and bright
And because some people are inspired by my sight
The smart ones are attracted by my tranquillity
In the back of their mind they wish they were me
We have the strength to do what we think is right
Even if it means putting up a life long fight
You see we are not controlled by a mini skirt and tight shirt
We are given only respect, and never treated like dirt
So you see, we are the ones that are free and liberated
We are not the ones that are sexually terrorized and violated
We are the ones that are free and pure
We’re free of STD’s that have no cure
So when people ask you how you feel about the hood
Just sum it up by saying ‘baby its all good’
The Muslim Woman "Unveiled"
By Izdehar Albowyha
You look at me and call me oppressed,
Simply because of the way I’m dressed,
You know me not for what’s inside,
You judge the clothing I wear with pride,
My body’s not for your eyes to hold, I’m an individual, I’m no mans slave, I have a voice so I will be heard, "O ye women, wrap close your cloak, Oppressed is something I’m truly NOT, For God Himself gave us LIB-ER-TY, Behind the veil I am the queen.. My veil is my cure.. Behind my beautiful veil lies..
You must speak to my mind, not my feminine mould,
It’s Allah’s pleasure that I only crave,
For in my heart I carry His word,
So you won’t be bothered by ignorant folk",
Man doesn’t tell me to dress this way,
It’s a Law from God that I obey,
For liberation is what I’ve got,
It was given to me many centuries ago,
With the right to prosper, the right to grow,
I can climb mountains or cross the seas,
Expand my mind in all degrees,
When He sent Islam,
To You and Me!
I have a body that nobody seen..
Many people think I am oppressed-
And wonder how I got myself into this mess..
And makes my heart pure..
It earns me my love from Allah my Lord..
And makes me strong against any sword..
My saviour from the temptation of guys!
‘Behind my veil,’ I begin to say..
‘Is where I shall forever stay!’
The Knots Prayer
Dear God:
Please untie the knots
that are in my mind,
my heart and my life.
Remove the have nots,
the can nots and the do nots
that I have in my mind.
Erase the will nots,
may nots,
might nots that may find
a home in my heart.
Release me from the could nots,
would nots and
should nots that obstruct my life.
And most of all, Author Known To God
Dear God,
I ask that you remove from my mind,
my heart and my life all of the “am nots”
that I have allowed to hold me back,
especially the thought
that I am not good enough.
Amen.
Beautiful Poem on Lady Fatema (AS)
Author of this article: Masoumah Murphy
Brandishing their torches
They stood outside her home
"Come out; plead thy allegiance!"
We want power for our own.
The assailants pounded even harder
And against the door they thrust
Between the wall and entrance
Our flower, she was crushed.
The assault, it wasn’t over,
Of that lady, mild and meek
The enemies of her husband
Struck her hard across the cheek.
She cried out loud, "O Father!
They’ve snapped the stem of your bud!"
She miscarried her unborn infant
And fainted in her blood.
Her health rapidly diminished
Our lady grew quiet, pale.
She knew her time was coming
She ached and she was frail.
She later called upon her husband,
"Ali, stay by my side.
I have some things to tell you.
My words you must abide."
"One request that I have for you
Is that once again you wed.
My niece, who loves my children,
I have chosen in my stead."
"Heed these words of mine, O husband!
Please don’t let them attend
My funeral – those who’ve done this –
When my life comes to its end."
"O Ali! When you entomb me,
Don’t dig a lonely grave.
Dig several all around me
So they don’t know where I’m laid."
"And, husband dear, you wash me
And wrap me in my shroud.
With your two strong arms embrace me
And lay me in the ground."
"Once I’m there do not forsake me.
Sit by my lonely tomb.
As my soul, like any mortal’s,
Is fearful of its doom."
"God’s will, you cannot alter.
I entrust my children unto thee.
This, maybe, will console you;
Of this world, I will be free.
She asked for her new garments
And camphor her father had given;
The scent of Paradise that Gabriel brought
As a gift to him from heaven.
As her strength subsided,
And she knew her time was nigh,
She made her ablution
And towards the Qiblah lay, to die.
She addressed her companion, Asma
On her lips, a secret smile
"I am fatigued and want to rest.
Call me in a while."
After an hour, when Asma called her,
Silence was the reply.
She knew her desert flower
Had wilted and had died.
As the news spread through the city,
Wailing women gathered near.
And men, impatient to carry the body,
Of Ali’s Zahra dear.
Abu Dharr called to the people,
"Please, in vain don’t you wait!
Today her body won’t be buried,
As it is very late."
Then quietly, in the moonlight,
With the chosen by his side,
Silently, they bore the coffin
Of Ali’s holy bride.
And as Ali lowered her body
To its final place of rest
Two arms just like the Prophet’s
Gathered her to its breast.
Inconsolable, grieving,
Ali’s courageous heart then broke.
And he gathered his motherless children,
All tearful, beneath his cloak.
At the break of dawn, his house grew silent.
As promised, he didn’t disclose
Nor answer any questions
Of where he buried his Arabian rose.
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