I gave up the caring mind
it felt boring and wasteful
Do you ever feel me?
I feel you, and I left.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
#Micropoem #Poetry
Category: photography
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Migration #Poetry
They gain speed in formation
energy propelled the cranes
in Vee shaped line and winged
frames, they seek like missiles
sinking their target, deep
battle born and bred
to flock the planes, side
by side they fly, steel girth high
gathering strength in stride
mission miles marked by wind
rain, clouds by day, Sand Hill Cranes
biplanes, gunpowder haze, steel blue
skies, blue-gray powers their flight
Vee formation, carries weight light.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Santiago Lacarta on Unsplash
#Sandhillcranes #Thegreatmigration #Poetry #Freeverse
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Storm Brewing #Poetry
The storms brewing up a big downpour
Odd encounter with the inside of my skull
Cranium matter knocking at my soul
The waves batter violently, nausea, ad nauseum
Takes control, Lost to an apathy a listless inner
Sanctum possessed, crawled like a beetle
in gestation, worm-holed larvae, no rhyme
No reason strikes to the far reaches, inside,
calling my name outloud, small little voices,
drown, drown, drown this storms battering like rams
swinging hammers, pounding viciously
At the gray matter.
@Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Matt Hardy from Pexels
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Legs #Poetry
Photo by Aleksejs Bergmanis from Pexels I first published this poem a couple years ago here and recently recalled what inspired me to write this, back in the day.
I used to huff it to work by foot every morning (very early) and had to walk a good distance along side a very busy route, with LOTS of traffic; with mostly no sidewalk and at times pretty dangerous. It was a bit grueling and Mondays were always the worst, after a long weekend of rest.
Happy Monday!
Legs
Legs burn muscle
over hills and byways
highways stretching on the horizon
teeming with cars
hell-bent on winning the race
the race of human want
want that crashes without brakes
still, I beat the road
pounding legs on shoe rubber lanes
racing the clock
to stay in the game
gridlock metal that knows
no shame
refusing to budge, I remain
leg-muscled-highway
drive through wind and rain
all steel and rubber
screeching in pain
the race of human want
futile gain.
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
#Poetry #Rhymes #Poet #Ratrace
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Brittle #Prose #Poetry
BRITTLE
It’s the brittle parts I abhor. These are the parts that are so old that I can’t recall why we don’t talk anymore. And, I loathe them for that precise reason. The years roll by like storms on waters, oceans, rivers, high tides, racing to shore, lapping away at the sands and surf, years gone, wasted into the ancient earth. The living are dead and the dead live forever. I sometimes find reasons why before it slips on by, subsiding into the low-tide.
Stewing in this moment, I search to feel an inkling or a twitch of emotion. I stop. It’s fruitless, but hangs heavy. No stated recall. No intended intent; just satiated denial and dissent. Fractured reasoning, no doubt. Broken connectivity lost to history that fatal reduction of a lost story. It seems clear but is muddled in every direction.
Roiling on the waves for introductions; introductions to the memories that portend. It fairs well when this dream of time spent didn’t end in some calamitous hell. As it always has. But, I saw the truth and truth is light, so it is said. Give and take, is what you get, if that’s the only reason to forget. What kind of life? What kind of dreams get told? Focus for now, on what you can control. Brittle reasoning falls apart, like rock candy on hardened hearts. Control the beast, emotions depart! I bite down on the brittle parts.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Norbert Kowalczyk on Unsplash
#Memories #Poet #Prosepoetry
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Cat. #Poetry #Prose
The cat perched high on the limb. He sits silent and grim. No birds or geckos can capture his attention. He sits frozen. Unwilling. Hunting seems all an illusion. The feline lost his reason. Knowledge and instinct traded for what looks like confusion. The cat stares off into another dimension. Could there be? Beyond here, this kingdom. The cat stepped out of the veiled protection. Into the abyss, the fifth. The place of no return. Off to seek, to see what exists, behind the vapor, the light, the mist.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Jan Huber on Unsplash
#Prosepoetry #Cat #Writers
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Endless Talk #Prose #Poetry
There are days where endless talk just stops. It quells the spells of bickering in the house. The moon waits for curtain call to unveil its presentation of the blue, the harvest, the wolf, the red, the many moons above. Love lost on the moon, unimpressed with the fray. Day lingers, seamless gray. Attention brought eyes to stray, the burnt grass, the brown, the solemn day. Fickle he is to fitter away the black oceans, the starlight, the peck peck pecking of flamingoes, in the gulf’s bay. Moon oh moon! Star oh star! Frighten me not, love far. Dry grass and pavement clayed, broken, shards left to shambles, in disarray. The macadam in ruins, the buried graves. The endless talk breaks the day.
Photo by Jan Tinneberg on Unsplash
#Prose #Poetry #Verse
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The Western Flea-Market #Prose #Poetry
The disconnect in your voice speaks
to an agreed upon dysfunction you settled
for early on. The contract was signed years back
when hope still existed in your child heart.
I sidle up next to you cautiously, uncomfortably
as to not break the facade of your finely tuned
and measured responses.
As we saddle up inbetween this agreement and your
unfound desire(s), that you won’t speak in fluent tongues
about love, a love once promised to your young heart.
Conspicuously, we nod to the silence and the icy facade
as you butter your toast and then smear jam, accidentally,
on your most loved flea-market brocade.
Changing the subject to a better thought, and a better
series of events than this, I shift my attention to your
broken Television, for which I promised to fix.
Although, you ignore my questions and drift off
toward the sink, to wash the stain from your most prized gift,
a gift you bought at your weekly visit, to the local Western
thrift, the Western Flea, the outdoor market at the end of your street.
I fiddle about with the connections you’ve lost on your set
and hope for the best for this little broken TV.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Daria Shevtsova from Pexels
#Poetry #Prose #Freeverse
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In a Nod to Neruda- An Ode to Charcuterie
Juicy lips
tip,
full ripe figs.
Slate gray,
ashes on lips
Smashes sweet,
red grapes.
Glistening nodes of fat
lace and line the tips,
of your tongue’s
flicking tastes.
The bowls of your cheeks,
Protruding.
Prosciutto ham.
Juniper flecks imbibe
brightly,
the luscious lovely Speck.
A stately ham,
for vintners and glam
Ching Ching, Ching Ching!
A Cheer to Ham, Chorizo
and Man!
Spiced little devils,
eat hearty hard chubs,
red fans flaming, like petrol
on tongues.
Charcuterie’s fine purveyors,
slice it sweet,
my man!
Thin sheets with gobs of fat,
snuggled, tightly bound,
my friend!
Bring the cheese, bring the wine,
and,
some fruity jam,
you found!
Charcuterie’s journey
from hog to butcher,
to artisanal hands,
resound!
in love,
pound by pound,
and heaps spoonfuls
of essence, of sugared sweets,
like me on you,
our passionate embrace
our lovers retreats!
This tale, this connective tissue,
that weaves through,
all beast and man, is cave-aged,
dry-aired, fermented with care.
Some,
briny vats of supple pork,
encased, enshrined like tombs.
These priestly links, are longing for confessions
to cast aside their carnal sins,
their wayward possessions.
The meaty heathen’s heavenly ride,
charcuterie’s blissful,
subtle,
divine.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
One of my earliest inspirations, was Chilean born Poet, Pablo Neruda-
Pablo Neruda is one of the most influential and widely read 20th-century poets of the Americas.
Photo by Edi Libedinsky on Unsplash
#Meat #Charcuterie #Poetry #Freeverse
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Mangroves and Sludge #Poetry
The door shuts to the sounds
of buzzing motors, annoyed
he frets and violently shoves
the trash to the ground
Clouds hold heavy
the wet, the humid, the gray
sopped up blankets
waiting to break
Shifts in the sandy soil
dotted, speckled in motor
oil, he frowns about
the days ahead, to drown
This shit is real
as light is vacuumed
into the underground
seal, flecked with gold
Grates continue to hold
as gators mount and wail
beneath mangroves and sludge
fornicating in the deep saline mud.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Adelbertus Cahyono on Unsplash
#Poetry #Freeverse #Swamp #Mangroves
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PINK FLOWERS WITH BLACK HEARTS #poetry by jay
Pink flowers with black hearts
don’t be fooled by the beauty
petals forgone
Laughter insidious
forgotten sun
earthen wares full of gin
Sheer shuttled
niceties play
along your skin
Pink flowers forgotten
left handed fools
with right sided grins
Night shaves the dark
as pigeons prick and piddle
the legs of chicken skin
Poisoned pretty lady
ladles the night shaded
cupped and dripping thin.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Jeswin Thomas from Pexels
#Poets #Freeverse #Flowers
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Dirty Dog #Poetry #Prose #Writers
You think you over something until it turns around and bites you on the ass, that dirty dog gnarling right in your face, go away. Go away to some other far away place!
Time to get up, get up before you lose yourself, your dreams. Depression is ugly, it bites you on the ass and doesn’t put a band-aid on it. Depression is for the lonely who hides it from the world, from the people who claim they care.
Love? What is it? Is it for the lonely only?
Never sharing, always alone.
Where is my love? I’ve got dry riverbeds etched on my cheeks,
that have been burned there by my tears. Some folks call them wrinkles. I call them dried out river beds, creeks that have been etched out by the river of tears streaming down my face.
What’s this all about?
I burn for love
Wildfire through my heart
Causing an earthquake of longing, that rolls down my body
in an avalanche of pain.
Who wants this leftover, lukewarm love?
I,
Me,
The miserable one.
Why do I torture my heart
with this roundabout complaint?
Will I never find light to fill my heart with feathers,
instead of lead?
Who has darkened my soul to never breathe
sweetness, or to see sunshine again?
Why?
What have I done to deserve dire, dark and dread?
I’ve felt the dead, played
with the night-time way too long,
it is my closest cousin.
Now is the time to bring on the sun-
Enough with this gnarling dog!
You think you’re over something
then it turns around and bites
you on the ass; rabid, feral, and furious.
Who knows?
I just describe,
it’s all about what
resides in the darkest
depths of your mind.
I guess it’s like wanting
to be understood, heard
accepted, like “ah-ha, I get it”
How do you register it?
I can paint it in so many
different, similar, exact colors!
What the hell am I talking about?
This cauldron of fire churning my gut
has put me into this permanent rut!
You think you’re over something
’til your not.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by mark chaves on Unsplash
#Prose #Poetry #MentalHealth #Grief
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The Exiled Will Not Rest! #Prose #Poetry
My heart lives in the place of the exiled. The banished land, barren with burden, barren with anger, barren of hope. My heart weeps like them, the homeless, for a place to live. This place where maggots turn over the flesh of the dead is no longer their own. Composting the earth- they prepare for the return of the baker, the farmer, the mother, the father; the return of the exiled to their homes. Homes in this barren land that are not here, not there, where the sun shines ammonia bright and shadowless. I am from the place of the exiled, lost in this circus, this laughter of work, of clowns, of someone else’s life. Like them my heart bleeds, it bleeds as loud, as fast; I am from the land of the exiled, the land of nomads, roamers that return again and again, to that place that was stolen. Their hearts dry-roasted on the spits of their enemies. Here I am lost. Here I am raging, in there, with them, in this fireball of the sun and the cold dark heart of the enemies home, lost, lost, lost. Here I am burnished into the dry desert of stone, of sand, of heat. Here I am lost, lost, lost!
Peace will not come until they are home. The heart will not settle until they are returned. The maggots will not rest until the dead stop roaming, satisfied and at peace, home in their own land, home in their own hearts, home in their own confiscated beds. The exiled will not rest!
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Cole Keister on Unsplash
#Prose #Poetry #Exile #Disenfranchised
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Sir Robin, a poem by Jay Mora-Shihadeh at Spillwords.com #Poet #Poetry
Happy to announce my poem “Sir Robin” was accepted at Spillwords Press (NYC) for publication on January 30th. Stop by to read the full poem and visit some other great writers and poets while your there!
Spillwords.com presents: Sir Robin, a poem by Jay Mora-Shihadeh, who was born in the greater metropolitan area of Philadelphia, Pa.
Source: Sir Robin, a poem by Jay Mora-Shihadeh at Spillwords.com
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Longitudes and Latitudes
I trace the longitudes and latitudes
over and over
I pour fastidiously my attention
to the roar in the cage
as he furiously paces the floor
the corners, the bars, that trap him.
I traverse backwards in time
to how pity is fed like a thick blob
of stiff porridge to your children
to satisfy an indulgence in self-annihilation
the failure in this, is proven by their repetition.
I remember the day you pushed me out the
door of abolition and expected the return
of some bogus genuflection, so bogus that you
and I and the entire clan held this as a checkmate
in some unspoken constitution.
I trace the longitudes and latitudes
searching for the treasures hidden deep
in riddles and rejection. The escape became
a well-worn protection.
A gladiator champion won the affection
of his heart, so see, I rise, I break free
Aye this warrior, this champion
let the dust settle and be.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Bruno Martins on Unsplash
#Poets #Freeverse #Travel #Maps
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The Big Heavy Weight
The big heavy weight is beating me down today, holding me locked under. Whipping at me like the hot sun on asphalt skin. I have nothing, nothing but a hole exists in my plexus. I’ve given my love, I’ve reached out and nothing, black, dark, night, vacuous. A vast nothing. I’ve done nothing. I received nothing. Where do I turn, how do I progress? I feel the torment of the crypt and the shrieking shrills of the ancient caves whisking me in. So, lift me to the heavens; and show me the heavens, because I need to believe it is not all in vain. This ending is not how I desire the world to change, after all, it continues to spin on an axis of pain. No not this astral plane they profit and gain, the headstrong fountains of spewing- the embattled and the insane. This beginning is not the end. I‘ve tasted freedom, I want more than this. Bring the honey, bring the flowers, bring me all the hours. I spare no stone, I give no harm. Only enlighten when I beckon a call. Finger me not your enemy but the one who always desired the heavens and stars and showers. For I see below, through, in and around, the creatures of dark, the light resounds. Today I pull and lug around my lagging but still standing spirit to the ground. The earth holds love, not the wicked shouts, sure to tug at bitter hearts that long for more and more, and more than this- hells bells sounding on distant, far and near, on all shores- clamoring like caws claws and carcass gulls. I fathom a blow of love today. Not the poison pills of no words that pray.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
#Prose #Poetry #Writers #Poets
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My Love #Poetry #Lovepoetry
I climb upon your
humbled breast
to listen to your
heart at rest
I whisper softly
an angels breath
and feel your pulse
of love attest
a heart so pure
in love
you’re blessed.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
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The Case For Clarity
The case for clarity
proceeds today
in no particular
order
Order!
Order!
Proceed please,
How many chambers
exist inside your heart?
Upon discovery of
fault, you uncover
a red burning anguish
unfelt before,
a fissure
runs through
your heart,
There, unseen
exists another
chamber,
another tomb
The case for clarity
Should resume
As exacting as
a mathematician’s
calculations,
an excavation
engineered to
logical persuasions,
as revered, as notated
as adhered to,
the case
for clarity Is clear
Open every door
every chamber
once ignored
The case for clarity
should be explored.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Ekaterina Bolovtsova from Pexels
#Poetry #Freeverse #Rhymes
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Eudocimus albus
I walk the day
into the night
The white ibis
they bicker
they fight
over there
on the grass
no food left-
under beak
nor brush, or
feathers fluff
ibis wings flutter
amass, pecking
at the withered
grass
order is lost
to chaos and
sass,
Eudocimus albus-
curved swords
clash, thrash
gnash at each
billed beak,
like hurricanes
they pass, to waves
that wade in high tides
and dry grass.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash
#Poetry #Freeverse #White #Ibis
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The Saint of Silence
It’s the Saint of Silence
that holds my confessions
in a cloistered room
I profess my secrets
and blessings
It’s the Saint of Silence
to which I unfold
a manuscript held
untold, in a heap
I lay bare my fold, of secrets
It’s the Saint of Silence
that calls my soul to an altar
I lay bare, no bones, no blood
no fear to share, as tears run
like water’s song, holy sung
It’s the Saint of Silence
that bathes my spirit, whole
pages that hold a lifeblood
a breath behold, my verse rises
unto a testament, ensconced in gold.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
#Poetry #Saint #Silence #Freeverse
