My veins are
The rivers of the earth
Surging violently into
The ocean of my life.
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Emre Kuzu from Pexels
#micropoem #river #life #ocean
Tag: poem
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Procrastination
I seek to seek
my life
not get caught on
distractions
It chokes my flow
numbing my direction
that’s procrastination
This crisscross road
is debilitating
I stop and stomp
my feet, in the center
Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!
until something snaps,
clears the path.
I will stay here, at this
center and decide
which way to go
until it hurt so bad
truth hemorrhages
through my ears
My teeth
My eyes
My mind, will strike
to seek clarity
Unveil the complicated mess
inside me
deep down
I am steeled
in fear
of wrong ways
long
drawn out days
Indecisions,
blistering
bruising
incisions
On my soul
skin
Frantically stitching
the fray, of
frazzled
frenzied
forays
dead ends
leading astray
My life decision
do i go, or stay?
Creativity withers away
as sand slips on bay
melts in the dawning
of every naked day
Scratching
Raw
Red sore
Unsure
Saltwater pounds
against
wounds
Sting
Burn
Soaked
Sun on skin
Dry bone
of death
creeping around
the edges of
Mindscapes,
Soulquakes
Puts out sun
scorch
box clouds
Gray
blown away
Out takes of
Dreamscapes
Dreams escape,
Seeping through
My third eye brain,
To beat this day
I shout out
grinding word meat
to fill stomachs
with soul food of hope
and tasteful palates
of beggars dope
Bright high sugar air
devour this den
this procrastinators lair
Unfold the sun,
shake out the moon
Sun glare streams
down
on pulsating
veins
Sweet-ness of faith
burst open the bonds
and bones that rattle
with deaths
unnerving chatter
This battle that circle-cycles,
blows in the wind
battling uphill, then
downward spin
tosses the balance of centrifugal
force, contorts the soul with
tender strength remorse
Make-believing life
with crippled toys,
trotting gleefully
on galloping
armored horse,
leaping at life
with bold bare
torque.
Trying to capture
what?
I’m not sure
Leap of faith?
Faith leaked out.
On days I procrastinate,
I reek with
doubt
My mind map
misplaced,
my faith
zapped out.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo Credit- https://freestocks.org/photo/sea-beach-sand-in-a-hand-closeup/
#spokenword #longform #life #poet
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Crowded Room
The wretched racket of quiet
has entered this room
dancing mockingly at my gloom
I laugh backfor I am in love with solitude
little had they knew, I relish and catch-up
on conversations I started with myself
by clear water lagoonsthey had forgotten
I passed many a moon
Still the dancers, erect ears
set on doomI tap on their shoulders
for a spin about my room
laughing playfully
they thought they couldgrate my ears with
their crackling croon
of quiet performances
bowing down at my gloom.©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by davide ragusa on Unsplash
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How Do You See Me?
How do you see me?
With light or with dark?
I am neither,
I am both.
I am everything.
I see
you
Beautiful
Beauty!
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash
#Micropoem #Wordsmith #Poet
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Faith
Sheathe thine eyes
with the light of faith
And, peace be unto those
with the courage to heal.
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Sam Kolder from Pexels
#micropoem #healingwords #yoga
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Feast
Your not suppose
to wrap yourself
around my heart.
Do you see me?
Or, do you just enjoy
feasting on the flesh
of my heart,
as the devil enjoys
feasting
on one’s lost soul?
This heart, is not
on that menu.
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Kaboompics .com from Pexels
#micropoem #heart #lovepoem
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I am the Marrow in the Meat
I am the marrow in the meat
of the bones you eat
I rumble in the clouds
then shower down
you will find me languishing
in the synapses
between your skin and teeth
I am the sound in your sleep
I waft through your nostrils
while you shiver and moan
my tendrils tantalize and tingle
the upside of your toes and
cling like snakeskin
to the soles of your feet
I am the excavator
of the patchwork
imprinted within the hills
and valleys that imprint
your skin
Remember me always
akin akin
I am your lover
deep within.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
#micropoem #verse #poetry
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Beeswax Neighbors
the man down the alley and across the street
is my guard, my night owl who beckons the night
a lamp-post squared and watching; the neighborhood
his cigarette glows, he puffs
with nary a ruffle of his body he sits; perched
in the early pitch of morn’
as i walk khalil, my fearful chocolate lab
past the obelisk monuments
of beeswax neighbors
sleeping with solid vacancy
they are resting now
while the streets hum quietly, expecting their return
a distant lowing bark, muffles the gray black dawn
my heart races, moves me along my routine path
allowing khalil to sniff briefly
at the sleeping earth’s musk
marking his scent upon its’ dew
and as the sun’s messengers begin to call
i retreat, while suddenly, silently, one by one
they awake and attack daybreak.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
#bees #neighbors #dawnbreaking
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A Cat Ran Across my View While I was Thinking About You
And the sun and the moon
kissed hello and good-bye
Everyday they meet
one greets the other
while waving to each other
The sun said, “Why do you
keep following me, wherever I go?”
The moon said, “We’ll see about that
tomorrow I will trick you!”
The moon said, “oh yeah, we’ll see about that,
tomorrow I will hide!”
Sure enough, the next day
the sun said Hello!
and the moon waved Good-bye!
They both laughed and said
“See now, Who’s following who?”
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Timothy Meinberg on Unsplash
#Poetry #Thesunandmoon #Micropoem
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The Jackal Unhinged
Fatherless motherless
widower widowed
the boy sings
the jackal unhinged
A bastard, a wish
tobacco stuffed snuff
deep sniffles burns drips
rolls into the throat
like a knife tip
rips, hiccups hic-ups
The sweet burning
Cherry flavor
vomits – violence
erupts as the
toilet swisher
swishes
then flushes
and switches and flushes
some more
the jackal unhinges
the sky empties light
tossed like a pillowy
flower, into the night
the clouds bellow
the walls shatter
white upon white
upon white upon white!
No worries, no ways
to distance the rage
the jackal remains
unhazed, but crappity
crap, the boy shamed
tobacco burning
cheeks, Cherry red
Swisher Swisher
The cigarette is really
A Cigar –
really?
‘cause it taste like crap!
Crap upon crap upon crap,
Crap upon crap upon crap!
The boy sings-
Fatherless, motherless
No more, no more
the jackal unhinged
the boy implores
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Philipp Pilz on Unsplash
#Poets #Abuse #Mentalhealth
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Here I Stand On Torrid Land
here i stand on torrid land
my spirit wandering the dusty sand
of fig trees, khubz and floured hands
i stand just
foot driven deep
in earth’s crust
sure-footed grip of rocks and mortar
my soul ripped in two
by grief’s torture
small hands grasped lightly
by the remembrance of her
soft dough-baked grip of salt, of land
ancient yet present her cherub eyes danced
table-side love, she spoon-fed her clan
with grape leaves and olives
and not so dainty meat pastries
prepared from the vines, toiled by cede’s hand
his backyard bounty, his dreams — their dreams
of their homeland and my dreams of
hot cement days and barefooted children
pretending the dawali are stacks of cigars
stuffed and rolled, stacked high on big plates
the dawali grew higher
creating bigger heaps
of make-believe
fun time with cousins
longing for the smells of dusty left behind relics
that bespeak of them, their belongings
the hookah, the 8 track tapes, belting out loud arabic music
the robe and keffiyeh my grandfather wore not so long ago
in ramallah, the curious one that later became a halloween costume
worn by my childhood friend
and that old oriental rug beaten by history
splayed across the living-room floor, adding an air of the exotic
to their mundane colonial suburban sofa
the lamb and garlic stained air, smelt early at daybreak
always there, lingering about
oiled-hot-pots full, brimming with tomato broth baths
and grown ups lamenting the evening news, the war, the fight
for the return of their land, usurped by foreign man
those that had suffered atrocities of their own
have turned ugly, heaping nails, spitting bulldozers
claiming god has promised this to them
easily they slipped between tongues
english and arabic at once
they were here/there simultaneously
they had created a new language, one easily understood by us
and me, absorbing all this with my round brown eyes
unaware of my future task
silently inhaling the smoke of my
family’s lingering rage, the kind of rage
that clings to the walls, to the curtains, to the furniture, to me
to my stuffed pink panther
the one i loved so much for its unique shape and color
the color of bubble gum and pink lemonade — but the rage!
the rage had to be scrubbed off the walls, scrubbed off the furniture
scrubbed off my clothes, scrubbed, scrubbed, scrubbed!
and i
inherited this task unknowingly.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by FAICAL Zaramod from Pexels
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The Imposter
Suddenly he appears
slipping-slithering into the room
nobody knows he is here
playing, make-believing, as if he is real
calm and cunning he creates
tricking all within his reach
even he negates
that sickening feeling much too late.
Maybe you’ve seen him once or twice
acting out in spite of life
the imposter is real, in his mind
hiding out behind-behind
behind this melting facade
called, mine.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Tobias Bjørkli from Pexels
#Impostersyndrome #Poetry #Poets
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Your Stories
The days I turn wild and rage full
are the days I long to be with you
I long to see your glorious mind;
to hear your stories of lost time
The days I turn to madness are
the days I feel shackled
to the bonfires of my bosses
to the planks of these hallways
that lead nowhere
Daily I return, collecting paper
like ants collecting the sands
of the earth,
on their backs
I return
mad and burnt by the monotony
burnt by this never-ending trail
of the mad
of the stuck
of the gluttony
I carry, weighted on my shoulders
the dreams of others
I return
spent-out and burning
with this agony of longing
the agony, of agonies!
waiting to hear
your wonderful stories.
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels
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Not My Problem
Why should I share
my wounds with you?
Sure, my father left
a long time ago
only to remain, forever
in my skin
Sure, war wounds
they left,
no real reason
nothing really stable
anyhow,
Skin is beautiful
Skin is hardened
Skin is wounds
warrior skin.
One doesn’t mellow
like a fine wine,
how convenient.
They shrivel
They snivel
They redirect
They drivel
into drooling
pooling piles
of waste.
Regrets-
instead guilt
doubt, doubles down
left with nothing,
like an empty shell
Oh well…
Not my problem.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by ANKUSH CHAUDHARY ( ELITE ) from Pexels
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Bothersome Life
I could act like I don’t care-
this could be wise
put your mind to work
covering up your footsteps
your while’s and desires;
oh bothersome life!
I could put my mouth to work-
bullshitting out pellets of fire
that burn away this desire;
desire that has crept ever
so slowly, so cautiously from
beneath its’ cool resting place
crept,
after the squelching fire you have
so bravely walked through
this burning hell-pain of lost love,
lost desire, left lonely and lamed.
I could after all, pretend
pretend I am still in this
quagmire of pain, or
I could run straight into the heat,
the heat of this desire I feel, to be true,
to be real
to be alive!
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Ashutosh Sonwani from Pexels
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Conflate
Everyday I wake up and conflate
Today with Yesterday but it’s Tomorrow
What the Hell will my bed bring me now?
Dreams of better waking moments?
Maybe.
Perhaps not these non-contractual
dreaded components.
These dead-headed-droning-dictated debates;
dire complaints, these digital demagogues with no restraint
that wrap tightly around our dreams
clamoring upon our late-night screens
whispers, hushes and boorish
lushes, loud murmurs rising from the throats
of, well- you know, status-quo
all bound up inside the private confines
of our stately secured
homesteaded minds.
What the Hell will my bed conspire,
to bring me now?
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Ricardo Esquivel from Pexels
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This Pencil
this pencil is my savior, it is my voice
this pencil sings of lost love
of lost hope
the tree of life that grows
the garden of the dark fruit
this wood; it is my paint brush that
caress’s my soul, that soothes my heart
and whittle’s away my time
this pencil, this withering branch that
I sharpen and point toward the East
point toward the past and point toward
the gates of history-
it is my mast that floats erect
on the swells of the ocean
traveling toward the shore
lightened with buoyancy
lightened with poetry
this pencil is my savior, it is
singing my tales, singing my songs
singing my voices of hope.©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
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Crescent #writephoto
Crescent #writephoto is a photo prompt challenge, created by Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo
The Moonbeam
Kissed the Flower
While it was Sleeping
With its soft-eye-petals closed
the flower had a dream, that it fell
in love with the moon.
I sit under this tree
crowned by the crescent
watching the flower begin, to open
slowly falling deeply, in love
with its rising bloom.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
For visually challenged writers, the image shows the dark silhouette of a tree against a cloudy sky. The horizon is lit by the gold of dawn, while a crescent moon hangs above the tree.
Links to similar posts on this blog:
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Poetry about my beloved grandmother, Tetah.
Tateh ( grandmother ) and CeDe ( grandfather) circa 1937
Someone recently visited this poem I wrote back in 2012, about my feelings of missing my Tetah. It was a treat to revisit her again, thank you @Luisa Zambrotta
Our Storyteller
Upon the landscape of your face
tumbling from the folds of your laughing brow
and between the creases of your weathered jowl
I see the history of Palestine.
I see children playing under olive trees, and goats
grazing on grass. Your eyes sparkle and sing, as though
you were still a child running through the dusty
rock strewn roads of Ramallah.
You are laughing with your little sister, escaping
from the neighborhood boys you were teasing; taunting.
Perhaps one of them a young Hanna Shihadeh, our grandfather;
at least these are the stories you told us.
I delighted, relished every word you spoke
of your life. I saw magic in your eyes
when you enchanted our hearts
with your stories of Palestine.
You – solid, sturdy and present.
You – soft, strong and pliant.
You – heart, song and pleasant.
You – Tateh, our beloved link to our history, our culture, our people.
You were our land, our fig tree, our grapevine, our seed.
You were our small patch of fertile earth. You fed our souls
and minds with the world, with “otherworldliness”.
You fed our spirits with story, with beauty, and with freedom.
Your solid girth seemed rooted
deep in humanity, reminding us of
the vastness of love, when we became lost;
disconnected from it.
Storyteller of our bloodlines,
of our rich hearts
and our sad people,
tell me another story.
Give me a bone,
an olive branch, or perhaps
one of your two – eyed winks
to remind my soul you were real.
And that I am part of history; of an ancient great Palestine
that seems so distant, so foreign from me now.
Tell me again how you came to be locked in the landscape
of memory, of story, of history. Tell me again.
Niemeh Grace Shihadeh
Tetah tending to her grapevine, with one of her many great grandchildren. She loved making fresh Dawali (stuffed grape leaves) from her beloved grapevine. She is missed and loved very much. Intenie Bosa!
Yum Food!! Yum Art!!
Here is a link to another poem I wrote about my memories with my grandparents, enjoy!
© [Jay Mora-Shihadeh] and [artistfromtheinsideout.wordpress.com], [2012]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, artwork, or photo’s without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Jay Mora-Shihadeh] and [artistfromtheinsideout.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
