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The Insane Saint
Author: Karima Osman
Two Things
I really like gold. I like to sleep in my gold, & to shower in it. Of course, that would then suggest that I’m practical about the amount of gold I wear. Dainty necklaces and rings suffice for daily wear, perhaps a bangle or two on days I want to feel more put together.
I only wear gold gifted to me. I don’t wear my pieces unless they carry sentiment. That isn’t to say I wouldn’t buy gold for myself someday, but when I do, know that I am celebrating some momentous occasion in doing so. I never wear jewelry for the sake of extravagance, I’m not so concerned with a reputation endowed by what dispensible wealth can acquire. I will not be like the aunties on wedding days who decorate their chests with gold heavier than the infant who must be fed. My jewelry must be as modest as it is beautiful. The question that then begs is why gold? Well, there’s no other way for the daughter of Munisa. I cannot be without my gold.
I also like the smell of burning charcoal. It carries me to the streets of Hargeisa, to my harsh ayeeyo, and to the goats that enter the open kitchen door. I remember smelling the same scent in New York, and another time whilst in Uganda. It is unparalleled. I wish I could leave a washcloth in Hargeisa’s streets and let the trucks run over it, or the people with sand buried in their toenails kick it out of their way. The cloth would collect all the filth and all the particles of burnt charcoal, the ashes of my people’s troubles. I would then guard that washcloth, for fear if the rain washed over it, the uncontained stream would redistribute the unsolicited dirt and tribulations among the people. No, I wouldn’t let such a thing happen! I would sleep with that cloth by my feet and smell it each morning to renew my promise to my people.
Peace & Blessings,
Karima Osman
Protect Yourself
Like the wood anemone that grows in bounty,
she widens her spirit with a rolling pin & throws it out the kitchen window.
Letting it roam vast oceans and municipal roads,
deciding for itself whom to love and where feels like home.
After days of unassisted travel, her spirit boomerangs back
& splats against the kitchen window.
She smiles, knowing that her spirit feels most honored behind the ribs in her chest,
not imprisoned, but guarded against the ills of the world’s unrest.
Peace & Blessings,
Karima Osman
V
how beautiful are the birds that soar in a V through the cotton candy sky?
how forbearing is the leaf that holds to its branch irrespective of the wind that wants it damned in flight?
what good are tears that don’t bring resolve or relief to the desiccated parts of the heart?
Stop expecting from them what they haven’t learned to give.
Don’t nurture another’s potential when you can manifest the validation you crave from within.
Peace & Blessings,
Karima Osman
Love Thy Self
This is a message by me for me.
One major disclaimer. If anyone in my inner circle listens to this and feels any type of way. Don’t! This is all about me being more intentional in showing up for myself and being accountable for my own emotional growth. Much love xoxo
And above all, I Love you Karima. (wow that felt weird to say, but it SHOULDN’T) lol
Peace and blessings y’all! 😉
(Beat by yonder)
The Pangs of Love
When the steed of my heart aches in weariness,
slit its throat with the sword of your tongue.
Move me with your wisdom, I can handle it despite that I am young.
Allow my blood-soaked sins to trickle into the river of purification.
Then bring your lips to the incision you made, and with your affection, make the pulsing pangs of this world dissipate.
You’re never too far for me to feel,
but if the cries of my steed prevent me from hearing,
call to the wind and convince her of all the goodness a union like ours could bring.
& if we are deserving, she will whisper your message to me.
Peace & Blessings,
Karima Osman
👁
In the desert of my soul, I know there is truth.
It may be hard to find, hidden in the sand dunes.
But if the wind that carries my faith is strong,
then the weighted grains of desires will fall,
leaving uncovered, the light that I’ve searched for all my life.
Now that I have it, my ankles shrink slim and free
from the chains of why’s and what is or isn’t meant to be
the clarity is blinding
…Now that I have it, how should I handle this?
The Observation of Shamsa’s Spouse
Every night, my dear Shamsa awakes from her sleep.
She does not leave the bed from hunger or an ill dream.
Nor does she speak to me as she untangles herself from the sheets.
Verily this is her routine.
She does not know that I see her in these late hours of the night.
But my adoration for her grows tenfold with the prayer mat she unfolds.
Never have I seen an insomniac so pure.
Never do I forget to thank my creator for a lover who lights the darkness with her noor.
Peace and Blessings,
Karima Osman
*sigh*
I hold back on writing to you because enough people give you praise.
What weight would my words hold? What difference would the ink of my love make?
I hold back on writing to you because I want from you the devotion I’m too tired to give.
At a command, a branch will not offer a fig. One must pull and work for it.
So, won’t you work for this?
I’ve already reasoned with your shortcomings.
New curtains have been hung, and the Turkish cupboard has been dusted.
For you, I am ready.
I would dream of you but the moon is a woman and she won’t let me.
I have learned not to rest in a home built from strings of words.
Periods prove no point, exclamations marks don’t excite me, and
a grammarian’s suitcase does not have enough commas
to embrace me when your promises fall short.
I hold back on writing to you, because your heart isn’t ready to listen.
The Ink of the heavens now rests, so when our timing is rightfully positioned, make an offering to me with conviction.
Peace and Blessings,
Karima Osman
(Y’all this shit right here is mad corny, don’t know what got into me)
Jazz Lady
She moved like Jazz.
Newspaper boy wanted her bad.
Upgraded his bike and basket for a caravan so he could show her that he was the man.
She didn’t pay him any mind.
He asked her why.
& she said, “When you depart from this world your caravan will stay behind
so what then is your worth?”
Newspaper boy felt her words
& started reading the papers he once sold.
He found what money couldn’t buy.
The fruition of the mind.
Arsenal of the soul.
The real power in this world.
The more you know the more you’ll soar.
He came back for the jazz lady,
not on wheels, but with new wings.
He asked to dance, and she looked to the piano man and told him to stop his song.
She told newspaper boy that she knew he’d return, for her intuition was strong.
She took his hand and said,
“Take us to the clouds so we can dance to what the birds sing, I want us to take from what we know and build a staircase onto the love our Lord ”
Peace and Blessings,
Karima Osman
Nomadic Intuition 