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.
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.
My watercolor is available in this updated version that has been tinted blue and toned down a bit in its color palette, evoking a calm muted landscape.
Buy it in framed prints and limited home decor, like this great looking throw pillow, to accent your living room or living space. Giving your home decor an artistic designer look.
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,
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!
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.
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.
Good times! Rethink the traditional timepiece as functional wall decor. You’ll love how our Artists are converting some of their coolest designs specifically into Wall Clocks. Constructed with premium, shatter-resistant materials, with three frame color options.
Natural wood, black or white frame options
Dimensions: 10” diameter, 1.75” depth
Choose black or white hands to match frame or design
