"Bob, track some mud on the carpet"
Words from Johnny Cash to Bob Dylan, a nudge to take risks and leave a mark.
“You are the light of the world…let your light shine before others.”  Matthew 5.14. Words from someone who knew how to leave a mark. We can do the same.

I
Have you left some mud on the carpet?
When did you last leave a stain?
Do your words make an impression?
Will you risk sounding insane?
How will you best be remembered?
How soft are you tempted to tread?
How long will your footsteps echo,
in the years after you’re dead?
Why do you think you were here?
Why do you have breath within you?
Why do you have all these questions,
when there're answers that've always been true?

II
Created to be the creators.
Gifted to speak others' minds.
Your art is a voice unspoken.
A light to open their eyes.
So next time you walk in a room,
look for the ones in the crowd.
Those who show recognition
of the things you don’t dare say out loud.
These are your tribe and your family.
These are the ones you can trust.
Together you might find a way
to help new life form from the mud.

She lived safe and sound without showing up even a hair
Donning in the body, are the flesh and bone Earth's own?
She didn't want to take that with a pinch of salt,
Fathima, the first spiritual woman
rather touched down on earth with her own!
Lived in Makkah and Madina a secret wonder
No trained eyes nor born savvy nature could uncover!

The earth, hand on the heart, never did it air,
a name she lovely held close to her chest
The mass didn't know time and again
she approached mathematically but stuck
360 degrees away behind Fathima
lived in rigid encryption!

The earth turned her mighty math most fluid
threw her mammoth weight zeroing in thin and thick
only gently as 0 and 1 rubbing over this encrypted wrap-
happened to be on her own flower bud!

Closer she pressed to propel into an opening code
revealed a solid hub, the Moon shines on her forehead,
it's on her grip but into a deep base she couldn't bottom in.
It's more airy, a pure stack of rhythms, nightingale sings,
blossoming fragrance, melodious whisper through the air
singing birds returns “This way” on every new day,
ever more time and space angle in golden spiral
in this lively one-line circle home, but not yet done
one is myriad more spiral in circle, songs in fragrance
and golden ratio dance in blossoming flower.
So revealing the code a dream never been realised
Living Fathima thus behind her intact veil showed up!

Oh more, the sun too teamed up
raising the candle from the east to the west
Even went to the length in the memory lane,
striving to remember her pristine mirror
that Fathima only once exposed
long before the heaven was born!
But none could draw a sketch of it
not in the dawn cracking fast light
nor in the mid-summer's full moonlight.

The sun went on playing chiaroscuro,
the earth's beans split,
stars leapt out off her wonder bags
on the meadows and beyond the rainbow’s end.
Yet with their enduring painting in light and dark  
let alone connecting the dots they couldn't bag
her footprint even at her death.

A millennium and half has passed masses still wish
spotting her grave is seeing the earth painting the wind.  
Not a firefly nor a butterfly in Medina knew it where
yet a name generation after generation is still a buzz!
Sayeedatun Nessa, the feminine Queen in Paradise,
Fathima shifted the feminine mystique from Earth
enwrapped it back into heaven veiled and intact
the wonder is now paradise’s gold dust!

a falling boy's
measured out footprint,
slipping in vain search
for a breadcrumb of solace

lost is spring, and green,
and bird nesting,
lost is his mother's smile,
he breathes in deeply

a memory of trees,
an afternoon sun
emptied of fertility:
a high wood on its last, teetering legs

urban air is everywhere
and wishes to be free,
but we are all carbon emissions,
separate living-dying pieces

polluted hieroglyphics
with nothing to convey,
fragments of a prayer
with nothing left to say

I want to sleep closer to the sky,
Mark my footprints in the clouds,
Live my dreams without a reason why,
And hold you closer than my thoughts allow.

There was misery and agony all around,
Everyone was crying the blues with hands clasped,
With body trembling, heart palpitating.
Everyone was trying to engulf the grieve of the loss,
Of the total loss of a loved one.

His spirit is going to meet the deity,
He is going to heaven leaving this mortal bulk and
The thirst of abundance of wealth.
But he is leaving all the unforgettable relationships,
leaving all the immortal memories,
going to last till demise, with all of us alone.

But why to cry, when a loved one is going
To meet the enormous supernatural being?
When his spirit is going to meet the almighty,
When he is leaving all these venial desires, all these Mortal thoughts, leaving this ill world.

Whether to cry our eyes out or to be full of the joys of springs?
Whether to grieve or to rejoice on this event
Of bonding among the spirit and the almighty?
Whether to follow footprints or to make one?

Banal breathes,
why must I pressure myself
to do cornfed motions,
                           that serve as life...

I held you in,
tried to suffocate your existence.
But self preservation
          is an inhalation of regrets.

We rob the planet, feeding it our exhaust,
                    a carbon footprint
better off with out..

Sometimes the day to day
                                  bland reasoning,
  out ways the necessity of us.

gliding and sliding  
between two sheets of slippery translucent paper
no friction, no traction, no adhesions
no trace or footprint
closing behind you as you pass
you can live a whole life
striving and trying but
it's as if you were never there

One day, in my travels, I found a monument to the forgotten.

I found footprints there, and though they fit my feet, I had no memory of being there before.

One side of the monument was blank, full of words that could not be read.

One side was burnt, and ashes twisted in the mourning breeze.

One side was covered with a sheet.

One side towered high, yet was gone before I fully looked away.

And all around, footprints.

All of them mine.