Journey of the Heart

T his poem is about the change love brings; how getting your heart broken is the most fruitful pain. When a heart breaks, it releases light, just like skies break and clouds scatter to let rays through, allowing the sun to shine after all. How a broken heart can become one’s greatest power, bringing one closer to The Lord:     Fruitful Tragedies   If you hadn't forsaken me I wouldn’t have won myself. Mufti Menk says: Any tragedy that brings us closer to Allah is a blessing.  This means that you're a blessing.  Well, more like you 'were' a blessing.  All the nights I cried and complained to Allah, All the days I lay on the prayer mat and screamed 'Why?' All the times I ran out of breath inquiring from holy people.  I had no right to ask from Him, but I kept asking,  as if it was His responsibility to respond. Then I realized that whatever situation I'm in  is because of my own psyche, my ego, my own wishful thinking. Allah had nothing to do with it. Yet, He s

  You Are Allowed You are allowed to take a rest to set your head upon your mother’s breast you are allowed the sweetest of sleep to be near me this close you are allowed to lay your body down near a river that sends bits of soft misty dew dispersed in the air to land upon your skin and soothe you you are allowed to slip into nothingness to listen only to silence and birds and gentleness to forget anything that tugs at you or torments you you are allowed you are so allowed the spaciousness you desire and more you are so allowed the forgiveness and acceptance to free your mind and body from this mire you are so allowed (This poem appears in the author's forthcoming poetry collection,  Careless Blossoming. ) Lana Maree Haas is a Poet, Songwriter and Sound Healer living in the American Midwest. Her poetry has appeared in journals, including Women’s Spiritual Poetry, Rebelle Society, Women's Inc. and LaBloga, and in the anthology Goddess: When She Rules: Expressions by Contemporar

  Hallelujah to My Legs    It has been too long a stretch of days  that I’ve been thinking this life  is merciless.    Then this morning I remembered  I have legs.    I was using them to walk the trail, alone,  when my muscles tightened and I remembered  wrapping these legs around your body, around,    around, and my god -  I had to    bow down to touch them  to thank them  for reminding me that I do - I do    believe in miracles.    Natalli Amato is the author of the poetry collection   On a Windless Night.   Her poems are deeply inspired by Lake Ontario and the North Country region of New York State. Her work has appeared in the Great Lakes Review, Blueline, Peaceful Dumpling, and other publications. Connect with Natalli on her website, here or via Twitter .  *For submission guidelines,  click here. *

T his poem encapsulates the essence of a trance-like feeling that one fuses into as one is bowing before Allah (S.W.T.) on a prayer mat. It curls from under and around the membranes of one’s heart as one connects with a Higher Existence that beckons your soul as you take a single step towards It. The word, ‘Sujood’ is a plural for the term, ‘Sajda’, which means to bow. The true art of expression begins when you feel that a Greater Power is with you (when not a soul is there for you), listening to you, as you bow to Him on the Canvas of Profundity – the prayer mat.    Sujood hush – darkness charges and comes to a standstill somersaulting into an ocean of Light, lashes wet like the bristles of a paintbrush, stroke the Canvas of Profundity here, I speak with my heart for my tongue feels too insignificant the darkest hour when all eyes smudge into a panorama of subconsciousness Allah still listens to me. In Sujood, you find yourself for the world crumbles under your feet as you gnaw at the

  My Biggest Worry               — The good not done, the love not given, time             torn off unused—         Philip Larkin, “Aubade”                My apologies to time for all the world I overlooked each second.                                                  Wislawa Szymborska, “Under One Small Star”   What do I most fear? It used to be death, not because I was afraid of dying, but when my children were young, and I wanted  to show them the world.   Now, I’ve lived enough to know with shattering clarity things as they are today will not always be. I want to soak it all in,  every moment of my precious life.   My husband’s sweet face as we sit talking at the table, my children when they tell me their secrets, my mother’s fine hair pulled into a tiny golden ponytail.   I remember.  I am present  for a few minutes.  I forget.  I remind myself again.   So, I’d say it’s a worry of regretting someday that I didn’t appreciate  or notice enough— a person, a moment, a place,  anything

T his poem is about the experiences a woman undergoes en route to her imagined destination constellating transcendental images and notions. It verbalizes the fragmented feelings and abstractions sauntering from heart to mind, and from the mind back to the heart. Pleading to the Soul   Like the starlit sky in the dusky nights, Glimmer in my haunting eyes. Like the mirage of a secluded desert, Lead me astray in your search. Like the euphoric herb, Elate me higher above the heavens. Like nirvana while meditating, Be the ecstasy of my solitude. Like the full-moon night, Be the howl of a lonesome wolf. Like the psithurism of Autumn, Be the crispy music in the hush of my world.   Hafsa Mumtaz   (she/her/hers), Aged 22, is a Pakistan-based emerging poet, a recent graduate of English Language and Literature, and a Muslim. Her poems have appeared in  Visual Verse Anthology , and one in  Rising Phoenix Review . She, especially, likes to write about seeking pleasure in memories, the issues women

T his is an abstract poem about the different ways in which a woman can reclaim her 'self' despite the insurmountable odds. Sometimes it is a conscious effort while other times it is an unconscious war between continuity and recession, like the ebb and flow of the waves. Towards the end, this poem reminds us that the 'self' is always present nonetheless; sometimes shrouded, sometimes fully revealed to us. The Vicissitudes of Self Coffee is cold, of course. Bedspread is ceaselessly rebelling against the mattress. Mirror is scarred with lipstick and foundation, speckled with loose powder, of course. Phone is forgetting the loops of this index finger. Body is unfurling inside a barbed wire. A punching bag is putrefying beside the book shelf, ‘EVERLAST’ is etched on its stiff exterior, of course. Body is made of the dust on a coffin. Junk food wrappers, cardboard cut-outs, cola cans; phosphenes in the dark, of course. Body is a charred mackerel squirming under the saran wra

Ghost Whispers I awoke upon my burgundy, worn sofa Having been up all night till 4 am again, In an unfamiliar state of mind,  Not knowing the direction or time.  Listening to YouTube somehow Tuning into, ‘’ Angels Among Us” by Alabama And “You were like my Mother” by Kellie Pickler. And many more thereafter. Sobbing in my sleep Salty tears run down my cheeks Listening to Heavenly Whispers From above, Pulling at my soul Bringing me to my knees. Rang up my niece On messenger, Reaching out to her. She said, “The message was very clear.” Grandma talking to you from above Reaching down with Heavenly love. (Giving me a much-needed hug!) Whispering, “I’m proud of you And your writing career. But I’m just a whisper In the early morning's dew.” Don’t come around much to see you! Letting you know now I’m right within your reach A song away, an ink drops quilled. I journey through your weary mind… Sending you my love with whispering songs Guiding you along to just the right ones, Messages fro

  A HOUSE - A poem for the stressed I want you to be a house, with a steep roof off which the rain can run. I want you to have windows draft proof to shield against the elements, and doors with good locks and solid frontages. I want you to have curtains and insulation, a fireplace, a warm soft bed. I want you to have mornings when the sun rises in full view of your front window, that you might stand and worship. And evenings, that the only lights are the stars and the moon. That the dark peace of stopping and resting may make of your house a haven of respite, a place to retreat. Yes, I want you to be a whole house stocked that you don't need anything. And that the centre of everything may draw you into safety, security. I want for you peace, that the house of your soul would serve as the battlements against the stress that weakens, causing you to doubt yourself. To curl in tight for protection. And yes, I want you to look in my eyes and see how you are loved. How everything starts