I’ve got a sad story to tell those people who have tied themselves to the lie known as the “Great Replacement theory” … the replacement has already …
The Real “Great Replacement” Already Happened — Filosofa’s Word — Barbara Crane Navarro
Tag: poets
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The Real “Great Replacement” Already Happened — Filosofa’s Word — Barbara Crane Navarro
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POEM UP at SPILLWORDS #poetry by Jay
My poem published at Spillwords today, celebrates an old favorite poet and early influence, Pablo Neruda.
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Poetry Shelf conversation: Sarah Scott on paintings and poetry
Here- A great interview by Paula Green, on the unique interplay between Poetry and Art, and some really beautifully written poetry as well. Enjoy!
Poetry Shelf conversation: Sarah Scott on paintings and poetry
http://nzpoetryshelf.com/2022/05/03/poetry-shelf-conversation-sarah-scott-on-paintings-and-poetry/
— Read on nzpoetryshelf.com/2022/05/03/poetry-shelf-conversation-sarah-scott-on-paintings-and-poetry/ -
INSTAGRAM STORIES #art by jay
instagram.com/stories/jaymora_art/2811922280674792977
Happy Friday! ✌🏼🇮🇪 🇵🇸
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On March 13, Poems for and after Mahmoud Darwish
The great Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008) was born on this day in al-Birwa. Here, we gather a few poems inspired by Darwish or dedicated…
On March 13, Poems for and after Mahmoud Darwish -
PUBLISHED #poetry by Jay
My poem “You Will Go” is featured on Spillwords Press today. Thank you to the editor, Dagmara K. for publishing this piece.
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AVOID- #haiku by jay
dastardly hyper
avoid as- poison viper
escape mad people.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Etienne Marais from Pexels
#Haiku #Viper #People
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There are some things a poet cannot accept
There are times when a poet must make a stand and say, “This has happened without my cognisance and I will not accept it!” Today has not been the …
There are some things a poet cannot accept -
Lone Duck #Poetry
bird duck
flip dip flap
through clouds
one not flocked
by friends
merely skipping down
pond to pond
cloud to cloud
lone duck bowling pin
flappy winged fowl
out of synch, out of step
no rhythm, to be found
awkward, imbalanced
a lone waterfowl
squawk squawk
squeak squeak
duck beak chatter
flip flap hovercraft
the hunter’s mallard
bird duck bowling pin
splash crash sound-
Boom!
a cannon shot landing
webbed foot, gliding down.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Christian puta on Unsplash
#Freeverse #Poem #Mallards #Rhymes
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Locked In On Sunshine #Poetry
locked in on sunshine
forgot the day was beautiful
clamped inside like a turtle
that hides in his shell
I cast away the chance to ride
alongside the butterfly flying
and the pelican gliding low
to the shore, planing the surface
for a delectable score.
I cast aside on purpose, the beauty
of the tide, to lap up the sun
and hold it close to my tight cheek,
hopeful to rest free, the tightness
that resides between my brows and teeth,
a pointed tip of concern to get all this shit done
fragile in heat, in quicksand I run,
I retreat, I cast away the belief
of the day, that more of the sun’s begging rays
call to me, to play with promise,
without delay, stricken without purpose
like a fricken- viral virus,
waiting it out to receive the call, the call
to hither, to yonder, to run for the vaccine gun,
in quest of life lived without purpose
and fear, to get locked in on sunshine,
on a day that holds everyday in captive repeat,
I release like the butterfly from hand to free hand,
to freedom sweet freedom, oh’ to sing like the free
locked out of fear of a virus sinking down,
sinking down like the sun,
sinking down on me.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo credit- https://www.pexels.com/photo/tall-building-near-trees-1798687/
#Poetry #Freeverse #Sunshine
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A Bite to Love #Poetry
Sad day when the only communication ends in misunderstandings,
circumstances aside, this betrayal of the tongue is a bite to love
wouldn’t you say? The human circumstance to hear an affront in
front of the love, of life, instead of an assault on your one-self, seems
a condition I can’t help you with. Rather, that is to say, go bother another
loving soul who’s only enjoying this beautiful day. I am busy loving life
in all its colorful array.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Hernan Pauccara from Pexels
#Poetry #Micropoem #Life
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Poetry For Sleepless Nights #Poetry
Again, this book continues to inspire me, over and over. I first posted this blog post back in, December 2018 and then reblogged it again in, August 2020. Today I’ve added a little poem to it, from this book, as I feel it applies to what many of us have experienced during this pandemic.
A poem by American Poet, Weldon Kees,
” If this room is our world, then let
This world be damned. Open this roof
For one last monstrous flood
To sweep away this floor, these chairs,
This bed that takes me to no sleep.
Under the black sky of our circumstance,
Mumbling of wet barometers, I stare
At citied dust that soils the glass
While thunder perishes. The heroes perish
Miles from here. Their blood runs heavy in
the grass,
Sweet, restless, clotted, sickening,
Runs to the rivers and the seas, the seas
That are the source of that devouring flood
That I await, that I must perish by. “
I’ve had many a night duking it out with my bed. Insomnia is a problem for many of us, especially creatives. Often, I turn to the ‘tried and true’ book for calming my mind and seducing me to slumber. The blue light from my iPhone keeps me awake, so I prefer to go back to basics with an old-fashioned book.
Poetry is a great choice for perusing, as our minds are most creative in the wee hours.
I have several poetry books to choose from, however, this is one of my favorites: Acquainted with The Night, Insomnia poems.
Edited by Lisa Russ Spaar and published by Columbia University Press
This is a fine collection of some sweet-little-gems, by some FANTASTIC Poets. Some of them well-known and some a bit more obscure (well, at least to mwah)
Inspired by this little book, I penned this poem in the throes of my sleepless agony one night, or shall I say one morning!
Insomnia
My heart is racing
tap, tap, tapping on the moon
this night is a bore
the quiet stillness
I abhor
forget the blinds
up in the sky, pull-
pull them down
around, around
silly night, you cannot serenade me
seducing me into your spell
I fell-
I fell into my mind
to forget to sleep in time, not mine.
Forever, ’til the end
only this silliness
to contend
around, around
forever and more
the quiet stillness
I abhor.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Here’s a list of some of the Poets who reside under the covers of this sweet little book.
- Elizabeth Bishop
- Joyce Carol Oates
- Dana Gioia
- Charles Simic
- William Shakespeare
- Umberto Saba
- King Tran Thai-Tong
- Emily Dickinson
- Robert Frost
- Walt Whitman
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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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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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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 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
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Are You A Brand?
Are you a brand?
Do you market
yourself to the banal
and the bland
Are you retrofitted?
Fitted to appeal
to the masses
to the trends,
on trend
Do you know
who you are?
Do you care to
Know?
You know,
Trends come
and,
trends go.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by thom masat on Unsplash
#Poetry #Micropoetry #Trendy #Brands
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I Declare Head of Household
I am the product of pain and sorrow
The hurts so deep, where is my tomorrow?
I am the child who took off his suit, his childhood suit-
he took it off when he realized, he’d need to recoup
and put on the clothes, the garments, left behind
by his parents, his aunts, his uncles- and grandparents too
These oversized, baggy new suits, became his protection
no more fun, no more games, it was time to mend, to sew
to darn the socks of the broken and disengaged
You are the only one – the chosen one – to claim
to piece back this fragmented, shredded wardrobe
of family – ripped, torn, insane
Your suit, your costume was large, oversized
but you wore it well; this garment of authority
held in the swell,
of childhood fears, of childhood tears
of childhood stolen by a family that extended
a family who decided, it was time to check-out
to leave their belongings and vacate the room
they left you alone to stitch back together
the love of childhood, the comfort of play
I am the child-sized adult who became,
The head of household, the head of this state
For all the adults had ripped off their suits and hats
and took the next train; leaving you with your sisters
to pick up their mess,
to stuff the pillowcases, do the dishes
and straighten out their rageful beds,
I am the product, the prodigy
of sorrow and pain.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
#Poetry #Freeverse #Dysfunctional #Family
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Reset
A breath
A sigh,
Relief
Has come
Day’s of dark
Begin to
Light
Alas, my friends–
A reset
In sight.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Victor Freitas from Pexels
#Micropoetry #Poetry #Reset #Renew
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Look Toward the Children
Children instinctually
know who to avoid
It is often believed
they have a unique
relationship with spirit
A connection to the realm
from which they arrived
from recent, still lingering
in their present psyche
body, mind and spirit
They are unattached to worldly
possessions as fervently
as most adults can’t unattach
too lost from their own instinct
with remorse and regret
Look toward the children
for future calls to action
instinct for blood holds
no distraction
Call back instinct
your spirit claims
the children have
beckoned
in righteous name,
I instinctually feel
the molten burn of
energy that flows in
the earth’s crust below
the beating pulse of the skies
and the eternal mind’s eye
high above
I instinctually feel the hot skin
of the wind in the nether reaches
of my dreams – held in suspension
in a vast virtual, galactic dimension
I instinctually love deeply
those I know discreetly
the most precious I hold dearly
I instinctually run from the nether
to escape the hell-heat of others
The bled-out devil evil
of those with no colors
Intent on destroying
all the lovers and creatures
from animal to Kingdom,
they are death seekers
They play with people like
craven clawed raptors
lust-filled vapid
hungry infractors
I instinctually answer,
the call of the universe
the whispering tongues
of babies conversations
they speak of
an unbridled love
with no fatal attractions,
look toward the children
for future directions.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by samer daboul from Pexels
#Poetry #Longverse #Freeverse #Children
