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Shofi Ahmed Mar 2018
The body is for life but must die—
yet there is an exception: not all is linear.
There is a feminine who momentarily dies
upon her unique creation—only to revive
before her Most Able Creator.
For her, no more death on Earth.

She was there before the first matter—
it was in the making before her most beautiful eyes.
The first and foremost luminary feminine
moved heartily, panning flawless flow,
aligning into the finest angles of the first matter,
across the nadir to the zenith.

Fathima's gaze shows it a mirror,
as matter takes shapes and forms.
But for one feminine true masterpiece—
she stands without a mirror.

Arts on the go—Fathima moves on.
Praise be to her Lord, who made her to measure—
mathematically perfect by birth—
gave her the Pi.

(Pi tends to circle the blank space within — feminine—
while the circumference of the circle — masculine.)

She can budge equally in light and in shadow,
in patternless pi decimals and in the open,
in integer and into a whole full number!

For 'the All'—the absolute One, Allah—
time and again she steps up but finds no floor.
Her measured steps, by default, turn 360-degree circles,
scanning everything on the go—still finding no bottom.

The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him),
the first luminary masculine, looks into the open.
Fathima takes the veiled angle—
looking through the evermore pi-decimal micro-hole,
witnessing the first matter: a water-drop,
surfacing up without base or roof.

It follows—truly a copy of the original feminine,
softly springing around serene water paints
all the matters to be created from within it.

Pious Fathima withdraws,
veils her reflection in it.
Instills a fine chip with her hair lock, and plots in
conceptual design: countless conditional Boolean gates,
preventing intersection between two circles—
her original and its congruent first natural matter.

The cosmos has not yet forgotten—
it still follows suit.

First, a star was born, stepping into Fathima’s shoe.
It tried—so did the full set of galaxies—
only to disperse into profound constellations,
never finding the bottom.

Amidst this water circle floats the first clay soil—
Allah SWT called it His House,
the first creation from it.
Every planetary orb pilgrimages around it at the core,
named the Ka'bah, rising up to the heart of the Earth.

Following the first masculine in the pre-design,
Fathima—the first feminine—
pilgrimaged around it,
not in the open,
but strictly under the patternless pi veil.

Nature is never uneven in the hand of the uneven pi;
every little fraction, every smallest decimal, counts—
connecting to the dot,
showing pattern or not.
Long live—the digital charisma is on the rise!

The sun rises and retraces back in the middle lane;
the black box scores at the end of the day—
it’s only a dark chart.

The Moon is yet to moon over an unturned sublunary dip;
it pulls the seas—the mighty watermass—
yet the Earth cannot sync fully into the feminine water cycle,
save only one—
with Fathima, floating out of the box, beyond reach.

Like millions ever wonder—
where Fathima’s grave is:
the Earth strived, too, to the death-bite
to print her footprint—yet could not.
Most of the mass visiting Medina look too see the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been a tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown. Reportedly she wanted her grave to remain unidentified.
Shofi Ahmed Oct 2017
Shining upon the rose,
lovely, the sun rises
over the midday sky.

Without a second thought,
the brightest one steps forward,
bends an ear to the ground.

The Prophet Muhammad’s (PBUH)
wife was waiting.
He was walking his way home.

Maybe—or maybe not—
one revives from the death-sleep of night.
But hearing the sound
of the beloved’s foot returning,
one cannot die.

The blessed lady heard
the sound of a foot,
and was sure it was his:
“This is it—it’s the man, it’s him!
He is coming home.”

The sun is walking toward the rose;
it will show up
in no time.

Ah—but only to discover:
it was Fathima walking
to her father’s home!

She—a woman—
had the foot sound of the man,
the greatest of all!
The very one no other could imitate—
for he was the masculine original.

Because from the one,
the same circle came
the man and the woman—
maybe with a little gap,
spilling infinite pi decimals,
new days and new nights.

Still, all is but the show
of the one Moon and the one Sun.
Shofi Ahmed Jan 2020
(0)
Fly perfectly straight and high, and show the fly
out of the fly-bottle on your way.
Rise to victory, far above the blue sky,
Reap the reward: the opening of paradise!

The road ahead is clear and open this way,
with things small and big growing and disappearing up this way.
You will see sunrises and sunsets waxing and waning,
with mention of the moon and stars in the dark.
Be mindful as you sway, it's got to be laser-sharp.
There is no hard shoulder on this highway,
miss it by an inch and risk losing everything forever!

There is hope, there is light up high
pick up your paintbrush, just like the sun does
goodness knows how it sneaks in, right in the black
canvas of the night, painting the first light
lo, it shows up in heaven, the candle of the daylight.

As long as there is a man and a woman,
never give up, our canary bird can fly
rosy or not, the nest in every morn nets a sunrise!

(1)
A woman indeed plucks up the courage
she never had to look up to the stars
be it for the guide or the light in the night.
Fathima herself was the full Moon every night
is thanks to her Godsent innate light.

With it, she can bask in the full spread of the pi
on top of its short decimals mounting high
constantly as if countless stars in the sky.

The time and space under the sun
and that under Fathima's light
are far apart from each other
yet they coexist side by side.

As she points out,
"A circle is masculine
while pi is feminine."

Pi forms the circle with fine prints,
decimal dots continue to spring,
sprawling trillions of new digits,
the bandwagon is still increasing.
Connecting the dots is an untouched dream.

The full moon pi picture is veiled,
unseen at large, yet in short, 3.145 it can live!

(2)
Fathima flies her lock of hair
in the lurking air of the transcended pi
the primitive feminine does that,
no wonder she is God's secret feminine opus!
An immeasurable black hole lies in between
the short and transcended pi, running like a river,
dancing anew on every riverbank
in the many curls of Fathima's jet black hair.

She lent out a hair to the planet earth
and crossed over like a silhouette
without spilling out the colour
of the transcended end of the pi.
The earth takes it in the core in her heart
as if it would keepsake it forever.

Weaving the pi in Fathima embeds two hairs ties one
perfect circle at the back and one at the front of the universe.
Inside each hair the earth is finest fluid in the core
none is as deep as high as proportionate a perfect flow.
No time is as revealing no music is as sweet in this orb
no force is as mighty nor as prevailing a true giant
causing gravity and the heat at the earth's core.
Matter and spirit mix free in the play both wax lyrical
thanks to the pure resonance of 'Qun Be' the word of God!

(3)
The way to the earth's core is exposed to none other
save the Angel of Death the lucky one.

See both sides of the one lofty sky swathed in countless stars  
but the day and night render through still remains an unseen one  
Terra is shalet zeroed in Fathima is heaven on earth!  
Up in the sky-high bank turning the starry bowl upside down
Fathima took no star nor a pearl diving deep down the Arab water,
the brightest luminary came after Muhammad (PBUH),
in veil from the Night of Measures and into the flipside in the night
she's gone without lifting the veil but left her penetrating mark.

Few could find the shortcut contemplating on a blank canvas
the Moon looks down into the abyss down the sea eyes on far
for a mirror in the bottom on the as above so below matter
since Godsent Fathima touched on the all-inclusive primitive water.
The sun gets caught up in the very water dew she raised in the sky
the ancient fold of time still unfurls with the sun-kissed flowers
for the new hands yet the fingerprint on the sun remains only her!

Azrael heads to Fathima around the year 632 after death
touches down in Medina on his usual thin earth he steps.  
But this time a little mundane dust couldn't be thicker
he keeps descending deep down to the earth's centre
following from Medina but the angel locates her
inside the perfect circle a closed geometric figure.

(4)
Fathima is the female headline her secret is not all known
when she used to visit the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)
he would stand up for her hold her hand and kiss it
and seat her on his seat, she would do the same to the prophet
when he would visit her like they did know each other
in and outside the spheres of heaven and earth!

She is the embodiment of the infinite feminine variations
the first spiritual woman created following God's word Qun.
Her is the mother tongue of the ever diversified feminine lingua
no one woman on her own can rhyme with her alone
she has no peer her rhetoric is unique like none other.
The galactic run from planet to planet up on the starry ladder
climbing high up the mountain heaven yet streams out like oval
off their rock bottom stone until that unleashes the final run
in perfect circle delving into the rhythm of the loop at the centre
made of Fathima's hair charged by 'Qun' God's uncreated word.  

Prophet David can sing on the bank of the river
and can see the fish are jumping to him out of the water.
The masculine is open form, eye on everywhere,
but not her the woman is in juxtaposition her
all-inclusive schema supplanting the details rest only on her.
She is the unseen world within the world at best imagine her!
Guess, through this inwardly open door who might disappear?
It's nature before the scientist on ultimate discovery of the matter!  

Aligning with her down the rainbow up high the land absorbs
the grooming sky looking on the running rivers within her.
Her words spread through like the smart cloud that flies far
over the lands and valleys but not even the wind none other
gets a sniff of the potion and melody it caries until that rain down
without a hurdle without a visual she moves on at the target
such a soul needs no after death lift from the angel of death.

Before Azrael Fathima loses an arc of the circle then and there
so not the earth but giant Azrael can take the pressure!
Marked by a fluid discharge since then she is cooling this fire
In Shaa Allah God willing when she ajars it, it will be elixir!  

(5)
Draw a straight line, but it won't be perfect
it keeps bending, fly straight touching the sky
the flight path won't look like a straight line
it would be like the crest of a crescent moon
like curve touched the sky, like climbing up
atop the pyramid is not going high straight on
it goes up from the widespread seked slopes.

Moves in golden ration 1.618 not the full two
and gets the designing formula flawlessly full
micro to macro all levels all the way to the true north!    

Fathima being the original feminine eyeing at her
she can tap in the knowhow of naturally feminine nature.
And discovers the immanent pattern - the world
is pre-designed and measured is never a coincidence.
The creatures' creativity, scientist's science
is to follow, discover working formulas like phi and pi.

Play along it works until an unknown hour strikes
comes with accurate knowledge dead on time
numerically correct never miss taking a life away
as if it was calculated beforehand before the birth.
A newborn is born for a limited time
already set but no one knows when it goes up  
is a deadlock clock but it isn't so shrouded
in the blueprint of the creatures' grand design
there the clock ticks safe and sounds it never dies!  

(6)
Fathima hailing from the other side of the pool
eyes on the ever live pre-design side of the creation!
Then its corporeal face was only a water drop,
the primitive one looks see-through it has dead zero
knowledge of its lively other side of the pool.
She comes closer and perfectly mirrors both sides
that shines through on her reflected face on the water.
An absolute new image that livens up the dead part
Bang - Big Bang! The corporeal world gets the spark
explodes out from the very first drop of the water!

Fathima's appearance was miraculously instrumental
God reveals nature the finite and infinite, 0 and 1,
future in the present and the death and life in play!
Nature follows suit it just saw the perfect role model
banged out but only to its corporeal set
it aspires to be with its infinite reality yet!

Fathima leaves the door open constructing a perfect circle,
hardly straight, took the mixed bag of countless variations
she zooms into the abyss irrational portion of the first matter,
the primitive water drop and aces the circle with her hair
that nothing can equate throughout the corporeal world.
Done the math discovering the zero starting point at the bottom.
The ocean of digit numbers, the DNA of all things material
banged out of it, still, the zero is numberless irrational!

(7)
All things, within oneself and in a set constantly vibrate,
strive to align with the enduring reality of itself.
The atom vibrates to reach out to its immortal portion
that doesn't die and is in the know of its lower base.
The planets are in a defined circular orbit, accurately measured
just the apex on top of their dynamic pyramid the pyramidon
is tucked away; they too have an irrational portion in the circle.

With the finest spin, they zoom in the spacious universe,
in part and like the sun outside the constellations round they go
never miss a target line yet to re-discover Fathima's perfect circle
the origin of their digital essences' breakthrough
the door to their transcended destination de jour.
Lo the matter turns the last stone pulsing across the cosmos
the mortal horizontal spread, the spirit returns home.

The earth has a line in its swansong it has a place in paradise
it's not here to stay for good neither to perish forever!

Matters form and break without losing the rope,
it's not to paint the shades of the eternal blue
but to ace an irrational portion in the circle
at the heart of the earth, as above, so below.  
The deep the high the perfect circle
up and down the centre of gravitation for all!

The matter at even or at odd the vibration within is fluid
somewhere is parched there the arch matter must make a splash.
Far away on a dark beach, the sea of the matters goes all in all
the most glowed up physical firefly rises deep from the bottom
pouring billowy potions the moon roams at the the front!

(8)
The seven seas swell up smoothly into the moonlight-dip
oh, the waterless Moon at the core is still fasting.
Led by time the sweet swan punting along the waves
streams down the watery inner circle of the planets.
Until stuck in the Moon no water in the last waterfront
but paradise is on the other side of the pool!  

The sun dips away into the night
while the eve baths in the shades of pink and gold,
the dazzling hues soon turn to taupe.
Drawing down painting the picture in full colour
only to find the time is up on the halfway,
yet to print a colour copy of the night!
The other unseen half is passed down to the Moon
tiptoeing in slow motion in the depths of the night
barely keeping the head afloat in a fathomless ocean
of shades of black hails from where knows no one.  

The sun enkindles the moon half-lit keeping itself away
amid shadows as if comparing the shades now it knows
a Mehrem a veiled female is ahead not to look on or
compared to that the sun has no light or true are both.

Wrapped in the eternal night beneath its black mole
once the moon on the front approaching most close
directly down to the centre of the earth eyes on
over that inlaid string hairy black perfect circle
never did it turn back the same gaze is still on
orbiting around the earth in synchronous rotation.

(9)
The never-ending night is becoming a night indeed
it's coming to an end so soon in our time.
In Shaa Allah I will see it with my eyes before I die
in the Night of Measures in an odd night in Ramadan
Fathima from the transcendental end of irrational heart
will turn on top of the curve opening for the first time
a 9-degree angle in the circle at the centre of the earth.

Instantly the leading force, time will get the first sniff
of the other world, so peaceful heart-melting serene.
Rapturous time feeling an ounce of the enduring peace
for the first time cutting all the corners with ease
will be propelled into its yet uncharted golden mean.
Scurrying to the peaceful abode time will be on its wings
across the globe, people will be stunned seeing
how first the times pass from then on incredibly quick!

Fathima, the first spiritual woman on duty, will start
pulling her hair back off the circle at the centre
Juxtaposed in between the worlds of here and hereafter.
She will take back every inch of it, the heavenly bodies
will feel the pinch of her every little subtle pull
that too is a boon helping them perfect their circle.

(10)
Soon she opens it just 9-degree wide at first
the Moon will see a glimpse of the first drop of water.
Without it, it's living perched without the water of life
that's destined to rain down soon and the Moon
back into its original pond shall revive!
Mapping the pi's whole infinitesimals playground
finally, Fathima will turn the circle upside down
on the dot the stunned sun shall rise in the western sky!

By now under Fathima's hair's shaded closed circle
it must have sailed far over the blue sky in the other world.
Billowing with the breeze over the sea of uncharted water
and stacking to the brim with all that it could discover
humbly stood like a cloud in that corner of the sky.

The time is finally ticking fast to rain down with love
paradise's welcoming schema rendering in waterpaint drops
on the Moon over the sea of matters, that's most glowed up firefly
ah, finally can break the fast sipping in a drop of elixir!
It's their heavenly adopted, Miʿrāj performed, primitive water.
The Moon with the seven seas will leave off the corporeal shell
gliding gracefully with this stately water nymph as if it never dies
and will make a splash plopping into the pond of paradise!  

For the matter ultimately is water and its extent is sound
Fathima will fetch it the water of life and take it to the next life!
Oh, the matter shall do both die and revive with Israfil's sound
the cloud will fly out of the dead water on the ground,
like the earth with chorus songs of the rain revives.
When that a melodious nymph in the water makes waves
see paradise is here the Moon over the sea can't take off its eyes.

(11)
Hang on though they all set ready on their horizontal span  
to pull in such a fluid yet colourful descending like a rainbow swan.
First chaste Fathima will evaporate her hair's perfume away
that's yet lingering in the water warming it up to its premium
no crowd then can see where this heady, fragrant cloud will fly!
There are the momentum and delights where that will alight.

Israfil might then blow his trumpet swooning the world away
the secret will remain a secret exception is said in the Qur'an.
A strange sound will silence the chorus of the innate digits
collapsing the floating cosmos bubbling on their music.  
The corporeal circle will collapse as if there is no base no pi
the melody of the first word Qun means Be will still be loud
supercalifragilisticexpialidocious so how can we all expire?

Israfil too will play his reviving trumpet pure mellifluous
and In Shaa Allah numerically perfect Fathima will rise
amidst the resonant Qun as like she did in the beginning
when except prophet Muhammad (PBUH) there was nothing!
Now the earth once zeroed in beneath her hair will follow her
the stunned terra will discover Fathima took her hair away
only to shift the constellation up onto the upper world!

The old songs of the planets the chorus of the digits will revive
from the zero bases in the core the digital panache that dance
planet upon the planet as if they are always at the perfect hertz.

Indeed that is yet to come, the arts of the fine layers
opening from the irrational pi, the finest one is to flower
when Fathima will unloop her circled hair at the centre
piercing the very immanent irrational cut
that no creation can fathom only the loving creator Allah
will turn odd to even in between the here and hereafter
then the ocean stuck in deep salt shall turn to enduring potion!
The As-Sirat shall turn to be the bridge to paradise
the body shall revive with the enduring soul forever
and with ah Fathima couple shall enter paradise In Shaa Allah
with the rhapsody 'all praise is for Allah' Alhamdulillah!
Shofi Ahmed May 2018
Are you a witness of the precise moment
on that very proverbial, unpredictable day
when everyone did mind the gap
but the Ramadan moon took a step?

None could time it at first, as if it got out
from a black hole or an uncharted water well:
down the trail, who can tell?

Now a day or two is gone, has passed by.
The moon is in the fast lane soaring high,
and fills the orb with serene soft light.

Ah, buddies catch up, the suave fireflies.
Tons of these stay awake in the night.
Before they fly away, vanishing afar
into the epic portion of the night.
A confluence down the black moon,
only to catch a glimpse of any pattern:
a morning star or a forming pin bar,
a slice of light on a gingerly lit chart.
Premiering the Eid moon’s first blush.
Yet, if only one can time it, when will it flash?

Deep down a black moon, all eyes black out.
Still, how can one sigh though? Ah,
the unpredictable black moon, should it show
just a peek, showers the earth with Eid’s joy!

Will it show up in no time, far from the sight—
galaxies light up the shady nook of night.
A houri in the Eden rings the alarm.
The veiled bunch of fairies push the sky.
Every star throws its hat, only to tell first
when a crescent moon will crop up
And with the first spill of moonlight,
topflight it goes, pushing the boat out!

A walk down the black moon
without a light or water gone into the blue,
As though walking dead, blindfolded.
No pattern, decimals of Pi undefined by design,
but spot on gets to the apex spike!

There’s still an unmarked blank space
the light on this way doesn’t paint.
And this time, the time won’t tell
is there anyone who can is anyone’s guess.
So should the houri dare to run, then
cherubic she be on her flawless flaw,
rushes to ask the Queen of Heaven!

Oh, good luck to her, a wild one.
Time the black moon, its first glance
precisely when the Eid moon will crop up.
Enlighten us, we are more than curious.
Tell us, too—don’t just tweet it to the stars.
A poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Shofi Ahmed Jan 2019
Zero is enduring
zero is deathless.
Nothing is up to it
none can mirror it
though forever
it's an open case.
The eyes are yet to
see an open face!

Because like it's
nothing is in perfect shape
purely a perfect circle!
Nothing matches it
as like Fathima is none else!

Ever more sprawling pi decimals
never go unnoticed propelling
to the end surge before her.
Before the original one
Fathima is yet to be mirrored.

All the planets turn circular
before the unseen perfect circle.
Fathima nails it snapped it up
circled it with her hair!
Before the furthest sighted eyes,
the dot at the earth's centre
at its pool of primitive water.

Fathima embeds in a loop of her hair
thus supercharges the water!
It finds the cut, the golden ratio,
constant continuity in her hair's inner flow.
And the Big Bang happened
there, their breakthrough!
The potential worlds to be
from the first drop of water
she gets them all buzzed out.
From down the rock bottom,
from the zero null
Fathima finds and raises the sun!

Nothing is comparable to it on the ground
nor up on the high, we only see the fire
of a heavenly phenomenon is beyond the sight!
Shofi Ahmed Jun 2018
Hold it with nothing
only behold with the eyes!
Lo, this crescent Moon:
The heaven's smile in the night!

It’s the discovery made
walking down the black moon.
Without a light in the sight
as if walking blindfolded
but didn't go into the blue.

Took a trip into the matrix
without squaring the circle.
With no pattern, no more decimals of pi
undefined by design but found the Moon!
The Cross, the Cross
Goes deeper in than we know,
Deeper into life;
Right into the marrow
And through the bone.
Along the back of the baby tortoise
The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge,
Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections
Or a bee's.

Then crossways down his sides
Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands.

Five, and five again, and five again,
And round the edges twenty-five little ones,
The sections of the baby tortoise shell.

Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone.

It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the living back
Of the baby tortoise;
Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet,
Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell.

The first little mathematical gentleman
Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers
Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law.

Fives, and tens,
Threes and fours and twelves,
All the volte face of decimals,
The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.

Turn him on his back,
The kicking little beetle,
And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly,
The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross
And on either side count five,
On each side, two above, on each side, two below
The dark bar horizontal.

The Cross!
It goes right through him, the sprottling insect,
Through his cross-wise cloven psyche,
Through his five-fold complex-nature.

So turn him over on his toes again;
Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb-piece,
Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing head,
Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all mathematics.

The Lord wrote it all down on the little slate
Of the baby tortoise.
Outward and visible indication of the plan within,
The complex, manifold involvedness of an individual creature
Plotted out
On this small bird, this rudiment,
This little dome, this pediment
Of all creation,
This slow one.
Hark! Take heed, for this cake be both mighty and magnificent!

1.75 cups flour
2 cups white sugar
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
0.75 cups unsweetened cocoa powder
1 tsp. salt
2 eggs
1 cup (as in 8 fl.oz/250mL.) strongly brewed coffee (make more and drink it!)
1 cup buttermilk (or 1 tbs. white vinegar+1 cup milk mixed well, blah blah)
0.5 cups cocoanut oil (or 0.33 cups basicallywhatever oil), a little less if ***
1 tsp. vanilla extract
OPTIONAL:
2-3 shots (60-90mL; 0.2-0.33 cups) black spiced *** (Kraken, if at all possible)
I also want to experiment with whiskey/burbon.. if you try it, let me know!

--Flour, sugar cocoa powder, baking soda+powder, salt mixed in one bowl
-- eggs, coffee, ***, buttermilk, oil, vanilla in another

Slowly mix the dry into the wet until as homogenous as possible.
I use an 8"x8" (20cmx20cm) pan @350F (175 C) for about 40 minutes, but I check on it at round 30 minutes because some variance may well apply. If you use olive oil, or avocado oil, or whatever other more fluid oil, I find a slightly hotter oven (375 F/190 C) can be advisable, but pay attention to your specific scenario! The worst that's happened for me is the top gets a bit crusty, but that pleasantly works with the overall moisture of the cake, especially with olive oil and the *** addition.
Do the toothpick test to see if it's ready!

Frosting is applicable, as well, because this Magical Cake is not horribly sweet for how horribly sweet it sure is. I usually just sprinkle some confectioner's sugar on it to make it look all fancy for my classy friends and band-mates.
ENJOY!
Bake responsibly, but have some fun.
Also, suffer the decimals!
This cake made my night, so I wanted to share what I can. The recipe!
Bet you didn't see that **** comin'! Hah!
Chemistry! Delicious chemistry!
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287

A Clock stopped—
Not the Mantel’s—
Geneva’s farthest skill
Can’t put the puppet bowing—
That just now dangled still—

An awe came on the Trinket!
The Figures hunched, with pain—
Then quivered out of Decimals—
Into Degreeless Noon—

It will not stir for Doctors—
This Pendulum of snow—
This Shopman importunes it—
While cool—concernless No—

Nods from the Gilded pointers—
Nods from the Seconds slim—
Decades of Arrogance between
The Dial life—
And Him—
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2018
Alexander of Macedonia this time
won’t U-turn from the might Gangaridai.
At the bubbling edge in the Indian subcontinent,
one would dare, taking his last plunge,
believing it here the proverbial Well of Life!

Yet Al Khwarizmi will discover the algebra,
drawing from ‘nothing,’ purely untouchable:
The Zero from the Indian pole.
Not a digit, not a number on its own, yet it’s all.
Every number jumps up in the zero loophole!
Then the whole number bows down into decimals,
escalating the hunts of the 1.618 golden ratios.

Plough through at your own pace
for the uncharted water, for ab-e-hayath.
Sip in a drop of elixir in this secured zone.
Sylhet is in the core, is written in stone.

What do these mean? I too wonder
down the line, I was intrigued by the Arab
and Indian tectonic plates’ slow dance.
Both rolled out, hugging each other
Then the Makkan soil lying at the heart of earth
gets exposed, with Sylhet’s soil it pairs up!
360 Sufi dynamos, mathematically a perfect circle,
find the match giving a perfect heads up
laid on the nine yard show the whole box of wax,
simply inking the vivo jump on the storylines.

What’s under the tectonic-rug at the bottom of the earth?
Shush softly, whisper—the heavens might hear it out!
Hold on to the least bit, it could be all one wants.
The earth, the ocean, all started with a drop of water!
Let alone any well, which way did this original matter,
the first, primeval drop of water stream down
Has this alleyway been exposed here, or in Paradise?
Then how can we say we don't have a secret for Paradise?
Sylhet is regarded as the spiritual capital of Bangladesh.
Shofi Ahmed Sep 2018
Glowing bright in the dark
is the moon the half of the sun!

The sun from the heavenly blue
colour in the midday rose to bear the light
and basks into the other half of the night.

Goodness knows when but God willing
the ancient bird of time once will fly.
Numbering the numberless stars
filling the one halve the half of the sky!

Maybe each star is a shining piece
of one half cut halve that's yet to reunite.
As the cream always rises to the top
and God promised the believers paradise.

Perhaps then without cutting in a fraction, once
paradise is packed with the folks of the good ones
there will be no more partial decimals of the pi!

I wonder then how will it look, a full moon picture?
If then the forever intact paradise lends a mirror
of the ‘immanent feminine’ In Shaa Allah
God willing that will still be my better half!
I have to admit that I was only able to write the conclusion having a clue from my better half. Only the woman knows the depth of the enduring feminine mystery that they possess. That has a lot to do with nature and a primitive reason for the man's attraction towards the woman.
Shofi Ahmed Dec 2021
Pi, at the end of its endless decimals' grandeur,
meets a human being—who holds a mirror!
Until now, the number, knowing only sway,
has been lost in discovery’s polished way.
No more: it begins—on a human—in front of its eye.

Patterns and unique precision, patternless waves,
new math tides soar, pivot at the cosmos' height,
only to bag the ultimate truth:
Fathima—the first spiritual woman—mooned there first!

Fathima steps forward where nature falls behind,
across the dead end, the irrational chasm she strides.
For the cosmos' deep mind, Earth, the ocean is but a drop;
the rope to the top is the lead—the feminine Fathima’s lock!

Raw Fathima moves; in shadow, nature follows,
clustering atoms span between the two,
only to witness her encrypted, secured fashion—
intact, uncharted, yet fully functioning,
in Makkah and Medina, while she lived.

The red fairies at midday’s spot-on,
the black swans arching rainbows in wonder—
marvel how Fathima deduces, straw by straw,
the maestros’ dream of ascension,
potion-polished, taking Ma pauses in liminal crescendos,
between past and future, here and hereafter—a circular duo.
Limning out chiaroscuro in light and shadow—
nothing like it exists, in plain sight or the world in toto!

Rainbows shaded in, sparking out,
the scent of roses in her veiled black hair:
the cosmos anew glinting off her edge,
deeper quintessence than dark matter!

The blueprint, the intelligent pre-design, rests in her elements.
The breakthrough exponent—hidden in her eyes.
Yet beyond the masses’ gaze,
she remains Zahra—light upon the original way.

Truly, only one feminine form has reached across
the other end of the cosmos' endless highway,
zooming past nature’s hidden gems—the irrational Pi,
the complex chasm—a mathematical goldmine.

Beyond the masses’ eyes and their painted canvases,
shine the daylight and the glowing fireflies of the night.
Viva Mankind! Fathima is the Moon at the highest high!
aman raj Aug 2014
life is like maths
where joy is to add
love is to multiply and
sorrow is to subtract
feelings to be divide
when we have a joyful ride
fraction is the attraction
and to love animals is the decimals
the extra are the alzebra
at last life is only in maths
smallhands Aug 2014
The first one, all night-black and chalky, tumbles down the road as I have fretfully done since August and January and all the months in between
I travel alone
Muddled telepathy seventeen by sixteen years- we've designed this process, and how we despise every step.
A Mareship Sep 2013
Brushed-wet tarmac Tomcat

Coat,

Socks pulled up to the knee.

The sand went on for miles

Like pebble dash,

Ground to it’s golden *****

Decimals and

Packed tight between the

Bowed white legs of the cliffs,

Which stood with their feet

In the sea.

My Queen of Bracing Holidays,

Gemstone brooches, wet cafes.

Your face

Cut into coat of armour

Quarter colours,

Pink and white

And red and gold

Like a royal crest of sunburned summers.
Devyn Batchelder Dec 2013
Miracles lay behind decimals
In this domain of imminent decay
They tread drearily
Coming and going
But hardly making a difference at all
Dwindling happenstances
Going unperceived by untrained eyes
Ephemeral, glowing thoughts
That transcend into dull, mere materiality
But they don't really matter at all.
PJ Poesy Apr 2016
Frail demeanor of library index cards
packed with Dewey’s decimals
stared upon so many times

some of you stigmatized with graffiti
“Read This” and “Don’t Read This”
as if the vandal knows

I wish to ****** each one of you
good precise direction you give
care in punctilious hand print
of maimed athenaeum tenders
all with long stretched noses
bridging reading spectacles
eyeing out naughty gigglers

stigmatized themselves by
rolled up quaffs
with pushed in pencils
or retractable ballpoint pens

writing implements held so delicately
while you were ascribed

O index cards of my shielded youth
how you protected me, informed me

Guided me on treasure hunts
where my imaginings still take me
away, in isles of knowledge

information coded in numbers and letters

Yours is the power
Where have all the index cards gone?
Mitchell Jun 2011
One of the ways you lied was quite hard to describe
A riddle of ridicule laced with flaring shoe laces
***** nudist desires smelt of pure hash bury mayo
Feeling as if the end of the dawn would just be the beginning

To pleasure the thought of you was something I once liked to do
Now no longer
For the song bird can only sing for so long
Before their feathers molt to hear a call to move on

Move on blonde lady long legs
We are always meeting and moving on
Towards a sky which crashes silently
Quenching the thirst of many

So on a black rimmed earth a universe folds and folds and folds
Where men travel far not knowing where they go
Explore the neck of your lover to see that she has another
Each bell in the row rings as if it were the first time

Crack yourself up to hear the laughter that you hide away in your room
At first you may be surprised but the twang will not die unless
You
Will it

Night whistles through me
For I am not here
I am soon to be gone
But not to no grave

Each note guides itself upon a road that man must draw to understand
They take pride in cracking magic that laughs at our attempts
And our
Experiments

The word seemed to mean something once
People used to mean something also
Nowadays
All I see
Are comma break decimals
And funeral homes
Escaping reality is like
     Finding a spark          &
               Igniting a piece of yourself
        Illuminating
All the surrounding fog     &      trees       &        bike lanes
    To grasp a failure                           Is only a fraction
Of the hydrogen bomb         Created to give birth to all the mantis shrimp & orchids & deflated balloons
     "Our brains contain only a fraction of our being" she said
"&         we only use but a fraction of our brains"
                                       Fractions
               Decimals                   Numbers in the irrational thought            are like
           The exclusion of colors from world war 1
The absence of life at the bottom of the ocean
           So
                      We all assume
                                 presume
That our memories serve us correct
          That what we see is
                       In fact
                                     What we get
    When in the plane of our existence
                     We accept lies as truth
                   & truth as a harsh reality
Alexandria Loeb Apr 2018
What a tricky topic to write of
How does one encompass all that this is?

I could use numbers to speak of my love for you
With numbers that extend above the sky
and past our imagination
Intricate and never-ending digits and decimals
To show the amount of which
I love you
But even then
Infinity would never match
To the quantity in which I adore you
Because there is no quantity

Maybe I could use actions to show I love you?
Sing to you and hold your hand
Kiss your lips and hug you dearly
But then…
There are mute people
Whose love shows no bound
And the paralyzed
Who still love like there's no tomorrow
So then, actions can't express my love for you
Because actions are too simple
No matter how big they are

Perhaps I could compose letters and sonnets
Speak and have my words flow like wax
Type thousands upon thousands of words
Each meaning one thing
I love you
But I can't put how I feel about you
Into words that do them justice
No number of pixels on a screen or words on a paper
Even compares to the feelings
The complex and conditional emotion
I have for you

So, I say my dear,
My love for you is
More than a number any man could conceive
My love for you is
Greater than any action anyone could or couldn't do
My love for you means more
Than the books on the subject that have been written or will be
Because my love for you is
Bountiful
Unmeasurable
And so vast in its own way

I end this with three words
And I hope you think of them fondly
Yes, my one and only
I love you
Red numbers
Scribbled on an essay
Cannot measure
Your intelligence

White digits
Etched upon a scale
Cannot define
Your beauty

Black decimals
Printed on a paycheck
Cannot calculate
Your value

These numbers
Are not branded on skin
We are not
A statistic
King Bacon Oct 2014
(Litos)
Hey yo start the beat
I'm Coño mixed with “pardon me”
and part of me thought to see
the kid behind the harmony,
where’s the scholarly artistry?
you burn my chest so viciously,
Caught heart disease,
these bars, emcee
are so clogged into your arteries.

(Yeshua)
I know its hard to be
as raw as me
and still rap consciously

(Litos)
But your consciously
conflicted between honesty and modesty.

(Yeshua)
Well honestly
I'm probably a prodigy
just trying to make a profit
of this prophecy
so I can feed the body
of the God in me.

(Litos)
We stay calm
with made bombs
and grey palms
Im saying what I say, calm!
But know this is my song.

Your the kid by the bricks with his homies to smoke ****.

(Yeshua)
No! I’m the kid in the back of the class getting no sleep.

(Litos)
Same story different penmanship
but this sentence in irreverent
Your browner than the cypher.

(Yeshua)
I'm In tune with my sentiments.
sonically logical
grammatically accurate.

(Litos)
Quick the masking
get off that fashion
you know you have to be disastrous.

(Yeshua)
You know my life
we hold the mic
my flow is to bring the soul to life
I met faith face to face
and that's the reason I roll the dice
I’m prolific with the written
and that’s the way you know its me
perfect with the poetry
and we don’t need to know to read.

(Litos)
Hey yo Yeshua do me a favor and elevate those decimals
and watch those foot soldiers dismember your generals

(Yeshua)
You promise me you'll forget it
but the feeling is unforgettable
but now I’m trying to get it
cause you said I wasn't ghettoble.

(Litos)
But I don’t need a step up stool
to ****** you off your pedestal.

(Yeshua)
Shut up!
My mother use to make me eat knowledge
instead of vegetables,
but now I grab a fork and knife
what ever metaphor is right,
Don’t swarm me like locust
You know I really don’t like to fight
i’ll beat a dead pig to life
don’t catch my photons
you’ll burn with light
cause I have skills like your favorite Emcee

(Litos)
Before the Hype?
now the locust is scattering like roaches
guess they saw the light
make them look so bad
you think they would want to fight?

(Yeshua)
Cause' when they see me speak
they start to laugh at me a first
then they get shattered
and they beg for me to do a verse

(Litos)
Dude? Your brain is disproportion
You have three endorphin?

(Yeshua)
They work when I
write words
perform words
or record them
and do it with no sleep
and beat breeze

Don’t ask me what that **** means
its a riddle with a sick scheme,

(Litos)
So put me on your playlist
don't put me on your **** list!
If you are just in this for business
then skip this.

(Yeshua)
But soon all you fools
in this
just witness
that this kid is gifted
like rich kids on Christmas.

(Litos)
The sickness with which I'm afflicted
is lethal
Yeshua be careful what you shoot up
through that needle.

(Yeshua)
SHUT THE **** UP!

I don't give a ****
You won't win this fight
cause' I won this fight
get off my mic...
Battle between Me, Myself, and I
C A Oct 2013
Acrobats diving into a sea of exotica
Landing amongst the heroes and the renegades
They were equipped with the power of silence,
Subtle yet unafraid
And all disbelievers drown in decimals of a twisted maze
Were they casting  spells on the curious?
Or we're they the definition of what it is to be brave?
I wasn't ignorant
I was here to learn from it
It was force that lead me into the darkness just to find the light of faith and hope at the end of the tunnel
At the end of a race
After an avalanche of discouragement
I finally saw the weekly forecast of what it could be.
Partly sunny
Mainly rain
A light chill
Or a thunderstorm
I wanted more
I wanted everything
I wanted more
I had everything
I was dreamer drunk on dandelions only to find what couldn't be true
But I wanted to;
I wanted you
I was hopeless romantic with a bad attitude
With a delirious mind casting spells on you
I was entitled
You weren't having it
I wanted everything
But you wanted less from me
I was incapable, but you were everything
You had nothing
But you were my everything
She was
fascinated by the way the beard floated across his face and disappeared without a trace into his ears and thought it was a camera trick.

The camera doesn't lie is a lie, though we still believe what we can see,no longer polaroid the humanoid is now devoid of all reality,
the photoshopper shops and crops,lops the tops and bottoms of his pics,sticks in bits that don't belong,digitised, giving verbal to the lies in view and finding few who disagree with the elements,reformed and shaped, the new caped crusader,tints,tone raider,
I saw Douglas Bader with two legs but peg a negative and hold your tongue,I like to watch the colours run on the drip dry line,processing time.
I don't like the fact that numbers attacked this art in forms of decimals it makes us vegetables
relying on the cut and crop of photoshop must stop.

I told her that it was no trick,he had the beard but the camera was sick,she listened to me in disbelief and from her briefcase took out a camera and snapped a picture of his face,
and now I'm fascinated in a way as to whether we can photoshop a rainy day and turn it into something good
I wonder if we could or not,must
take a look at
photoshop.
In her room, she looked out the window
Seeing the evergreen tree swinging in the wind
The raindrops pelting the window
A few birds, swooping for cover
A little girl standing out in all the gray
Brown hair pulled into pigtails
Wearing bright yellow and red
With a blue polka-dot umbrella
Jumping in puddles
Not even using the umbrella
Unless she was trying to collect rain

Driving to a new state
A new home
Leaving friends
She watched as they drove through a puddle
The water collecting on her window
She imagined that little girl
Her pigtails drooping
Her umbrella dragging
As she walked through the muddy puddles

At school, daydreaming blankly
Looking out the window
As the teacher droned on
About fractions, and decimals
Equations and graphs
She imagined seeing herself
Jumping out the window
Into the puddle on the ground
Splashing water onto the grass and plants
She saw herself
Wearing her favorite yellow raincoat
With her shiny red boots
Her blue polka-dot umbrella
Filled with holes
That the water just ran through
Her hair up in pigtails
With her favorite pink bows

She saw herself as she used to be
Before school was hard
Before she moved
Before she got older
She wished she really could jump out that window
And relive those moments
Before she could dream any further
The teacher called her name
Yanking her out of her red rainboots
Leaving her pink bows laying in the mud
Sadness pulling at her eyes
As she was taken from her happy memories

— The End —