Gratitude breaks the spell of Writers Block
Istiqlál (Independence), 14 Jamál (Beauty) 175 B.E. - Friday, May 11, 2018
"Know thou of a truth that the soul, after its separation from the body, will continue to progress until it attaineth the presence of God, in a state and condition which neither the revolution of ages and centuries, nor the changes and chances of this world, can alter. It will endure as long as the Kingdom of God, His sovereignty, His dominion and power will endure. It will manifest the signs of God and His attributes, and will reveal His loving kindness and bounty. The movement of My Pen is stilled when it attempteth to befittingly describe the loftiness and glory of so exalted a station. The honor with which the Hand of Mercy will invest the soul is such as no tongue can adequately reveal, nor any other earthly agency describe."
On November 29, 2012, my mother transcended into the Abha Kingdom. This Mother's Day, Sunday, May 13, 2018, will be my sixth Mother's Day without her. I miss her. I miss her smile. I miss going out with her to eat on Mother's Day. I miss hearing her chant the Most Great Name each morning. I still have her pink prayer beads and her rose decorated pill box on my desk. I thought about taking her prayer beads to the Baha'i Center and giving them to a new Baha'i, and I still may do that; I'm just not sure if I'm ready yet.
I know Mom is continuing to her journey toward God. I know her soul is continuing to progress toward the Almighty. I still want to cry because I miss her so much; however, instead of crying I say a prayer for the progress of her soul. The Alzheimer's disease cause the last few months of her life to be difficult, for both of us. I didn't like seeing her sat and stare into space, or cry because she remembered something from her childhood that upset her. Sometimes she cried because she missed her parents; she didn't remember that they died years before we moved to Las Vegas. Now she is with them. Now soul is in the spiritual realm, and advancing toward God. Now she is happy.
Her soul ascending,
advancing toward the Almighty.
The Poet Speaks3
In the twilight years of poetry
when the word lovers weep
for lack of rhymes,
when street gestures
and catacomb profanity
in the dictionaries
of dead civilizations,
when impoverished odes are painted
on enslaved eyeballs,
the poet speaks.
The poet speaks
vomiting stanzas across
the pristine streets of ignorance,
spreading the bacteria of knowledge
through unthinking populations,
and teaching the unaware
how to ask questions.
Poet's Note: ▼