Pieces scatter
the earth
leaving the task
at hand –
With hand and heart
I shall sew a story
a tale to mend
your life.
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Amine M’Siouri from Pexels
#Micropoetry #Shortverse #Story
Tag: #Writers
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Witches Water #Poetry
I will walk this dry land
and bathe in the witches water
to quench my thirst
with God’s cup.
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Zaid Abu Taha from Pexels
#Micropoem #Verse #Poetry #God
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Icons
Our stretching souls
and empty spirits
wake as sunrise smiles.
TV’s click on
and children chortle
as icons display.
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Josh Willink from Pexels
#Micropoetry #Micropoems #Icons
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Ravaged #Poetry
That greedy glint
in the eye of the fooled
the eye of the lost
my heart left in the home of the tricked
What does it take for them to wake up?
To stop selling their fortunes
for the land of milk and honey
the land where the streets are paved in gold
the lies told to lure them
What will it take before the tales of fools
are replaced with the folklore of the ancient?
The contentment of the indigenous?
What will it take for the
Mad Hatter to end his greedy voyages
into the hearts of the innocent?
I am ravaged like the forests of the Amazon!
Ravaged like the tombs of Egypt!
And where do the tombs rest now?
In the land of the greedy, the violent
in the land of the weeping
I am the ravaged exile!
The ravaged land of the tricked
and the ravaged heart
of the fool.
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Free Creative Stuff from Pexels
#Spokenword #Ravaged #Poet #Lies
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Did You Know I could Stay Here All Day? #Poetry
Did you know I could stay here all day?
writing and wasting away
words keep coming
releasing a gorge
an orgy of thumping dancing syllables surge
playing on my tongue, jumping in my head
begging to display.
I love this feeling, intensity and healing
pleasing my body with lusciousness reeling,
bleeding from my mouth to my page.
Did you know I could stay here all day?
penning and pining, bated breath reclining
waiting, for something to say.
it’s nighttime now, but time is out of place
when images are flying, bouncing from space
to grace this page alive,
with such disgrace
emboldened, completely burning away.
Did you know I could stay here all day?
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels
Original Post first blogged on Feb. 9th 2020
This poem came up, when my wife and I were talking about how fast time goes by, when you are in that flow of creativity as an artist. And, I wrote this as an expression of that experience, and damnit, it’s hard to pull ones self away from that flow, to attend to the ever nagging “tasks”, that prey on me, on a daily basis. This will forever be my love and my potential demise, I suppose. arggghh!
#Poetry #Rhymes #Healing #Writing
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The Heart and The Stone #Poetry
I cannot explain to you the heart and the stone
they are configured different but feel same for some
cold smooth and hardened, a heart can become
the stone in the hand that bled out your soul
cast by judgement, by seaside you roam
the heart feels heavy like a weighted stone.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Ivo Raeber on Unsplash
#Micropoem #Stone #Heart #Judgement
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Living in this World Today #Poetry
living in this world today to wonder
about and pray of not dying
the living live in constant death
and of love and of fear intertwined
like a ball of yarn spun then dropped
in dismay.
living in this world today to ponder
away the life given in love and lust
and sometimes in rage, doped up
by the news bitten from hate.
living in this world today to squander
the love born yesterday to strangle
the innocence of nuance and play.
living in this world today to blunder
the blessing of angels and saints who
deliver from evil the human decay
‘a life worth living’ is what they say
however you cut it, don’t piss it away.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by sergio souza from Pexels
#Poetry #Freeverse #Life #Living #Love
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Saturation #Poetry
saturation comes in quiet realizations
blanketing the soul you left behind, in haste,
on annunciations of your lack of caring,
of giving a shit,
about the effect it had on you,
to jolt you like a
wicked bolt of lightning,
into a wreckless oblivion
a mainlining of pure rage,
into your veins, then lost
to that perpetual joke of a chase,
of the good life. hell-
the saturation blessed you,
it pummeled into you,
an existence of god. in your way,
slow, steady, feeling the pain,
not by happenstance, by southwest by 66
but by love, it saturated you like a slow-moving train,
an experience of electric shooting into me a wave
of enlightenment saturating my brain,
unlike all those moments
i neglected to care for,
back in the day.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Elia Pellegrini on Unsplash
#Poetry #Freeverse #Love #Healing
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The Dirt Amends. #Poetry
i’ve walked for days this wayward path
loving every minute we are apart
as if the final testament of our depart
will belie the torch carried
in friction and salt.
bones dried ready for mort
buried treasures, your hidden heart
gold ungirthed despite the fault
uncinched, unsettled
from knot to knot
to breathe, to relieve into the winds,
settling the dust,
the dirt amends.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Gabriel Jimenez on Unsplash
#Micropoetry #Love #Relationships #Longing
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Nothing! #Poetry
love lights the sky from the milky spirals
the galaxies full-throttle of radiance and smiles
fixed in time, not demised to banish these stars seen
for miles and miles,
to a black hole, gravitational pull, locked and sealed
with no room to shine on you or me or the heavens
seen, the light of love sucked backward through space and time.
a force of intense magnetic nothingness, no escaping, no way out
a compact mass of a magnitude blankness, no! there’s nothing!
nothing but this, nothing to see inside the spacetime abyss.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Bryan Goff on Unsplash
#Poetry #Freeverse #Galaxy
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Mahmoud Darwish #Palestinian #Poet
Two great Poems today- With a Highlight on Palestinian Poet, Mahmoud Darwish-
I periodically turn to poets from my heritage and am always reminded and delighted by the deep roots we have as Palestinian’s in the art forms of Spoken Word, Storytelling and Poetry.
This first Poem is one of his early ones, circa 1964 and the second poem below it, circa 2008.
Identity CardMahmoud Darwish – 1964
Write down!
I am an Arab
And my identity card number is fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the ninth will come after a summer
Will you be angry?
Write down!
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks..
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?
Write down!
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew
My father.. descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather..was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house is like a watchman’s hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title!
Write down!
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors
And the land which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks..
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!
Therefore!
Write down on the top of the first page:
I do not hate poeple
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper’s flesh will be my food
Beware..
Beware..
Of my hunger
And my anger!Credit- http://www.barghouti.com/poets/darwish/bitaqa.asp Who Am I, Without Exile?
BY MAHMOUD DARWISHTRANSLATED BY FADY JOUDAH
A stranger on the riverbank, like the river … water
binds me to your name. Nothing brings me back from my faraway
to my palm tree: not peace and not war. Nothing
makes me enter the gospels. Not
a thing … nothing sparkles from the shore of ebb
and flow between the Euphrates and the Nile. Nothing
makes me descend from the pharaoh’s boats. Nothing
carries me or makes me carry an idea: not longing
and not promise. What will I do? What
will I do without exile, and a long night
that stares at the water?Water
binds me
to your name …
Nothing takes me from the butterflies of my dreams
to my reality: not dust and not fire. What
will I do without roses from Samarkand? What
will I do in a theater that burnishes the singers with its lunar
stones? Our weight has become light like our houses
in the faraway winds. We have become two friends of the strange
creatures in the clouds … and we are now loosened
from the gravity of identity’s land. What will we do … what
will we do without exile, and a long night
that stares at the water?Water
binds me
to your name …
There’s nothing left of me but you, and nothing left of you
but me, the stranger massaging his stranger’s thigh: O
stranger! what will we do with what is left to us
of calm … and of a snooze between two myths?
And nothing carries us: not the road and not the house.
Was this road always like this, from the start,
or did our dreams find a mare on the hill
among the Mongol horses and exchange us for it?
And what will we do?
What
will we do
without
exile?Mahmoud Darwish, “Who Am I, Without Exile?” from The Butterfly’s Burden. Copyright © 2008 by Mahmoud Darwish, English translation by Fady Joudah. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press. http://www.coppercanyonpress.orgSource: The Butterfly’s Burden (Copper Canyon Press, 2007)
Photo credit- Wikipedia
#Poetry #MahmoudDarwish #Palestine
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My Fire #Poetry
two bodies
fighting on the grass
struggling yet loving
one strong and mighty
the other floating, resting
filled with angst.
they are dancing
dancing to the tune
of their struggle,
flames
flames of fire within
i can feel it
it’s there, see it?
it’s all around us.
why!? why can’t you see?
you are stepping on my toes-
my fire.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Jordon Conner on Unsplash
#Micropoetry #Fire #Silhouette
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Love Come Back #Poetry
Tell me all the ways to love you today
the bridal bouquet has stopped producing
the answers that feed your love lost heart,
unripened, fallowed, the veins filled with dirt.
How do I bring it back? Will blood run free
and wild again? The light evades dark and
berries redden their face in waste, as black racers
and woodpeckers attempt to invade.
Love come back and show me the way.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by George Becker from Pexels
#Micropoem #Love #Bouquet #Freeverse
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Poetry Reboot- A Chinese Moon #Poetry
A Chinese Moon
A Chinese moon revealed a
fools desire
ravenously my eyes bespeak
tranquility is
the ocean-bed
the flesh-plumes velvet
petals end.
I first posted this poem on this blog back on December 30th 2018, but I wrote it many years prior to having this blog, while my son Adrian and I, were deep into playing some fun poetry words games. Hope you enjoyed it!
Happy Monday!
Photo by Just Another Photography Dude from Pexels
#Micropoetry #Moon #Reboot
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
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Seeing is Believing #Poetry
there’s a soul
on fire
and the
forces
ignore
the reasons
why it blazes
through the
atmosphere
trailing the star
that fell
then lifted
to flight
again
the fire
the white light
hyperspaced
a line without
a trace
seen
but for a few
they saw
a soul
on fire
and they
silenced
the sight,
in heat
of ignorance
that forbode
a trail
never to
be seen
but believed,
as seeing
is believing.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Lukas Hartmann from Pexels
#Poetry #Sci-fi #Aliens #Space
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Lies. #Poetry
no, i have no taste for it
i breathe a slow breath and
you sigh into the balloon
it expands into a long winded
lie, a tale of deceit, a tattered
worn book you bought with a dime.
cheap lies, dirty minds, foolish
waste lingering behind. don’t
saddle me with this bullshit
you peddle to feed your feeble
spine, a load of bullshit in repeat
eating your young and spitting
out fire to your wicked inward denial.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Alexas Fotos from Pexels
#Poetry #Shortverse #Jackass
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I Left #Poetry
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
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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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Early Mourning in Palestine #Poetry #Art
Early mourning
in Palestine,
not an unusual start,
children proceed play
fledgling friendships
in mourn’ they depart.
The child an unbroken dove
white, purity, innocence’s laid
in a nest of love, a red
vibrance of love
The processional wailing
in protest, in the streets,
fathers, mothers
heads hung… beating
at their chests.
Early mourning in Palestine
not unusual, lay witness
the children of the morning
play with abandoned bliss
in forgetfulness of the dispute,
while our olive trees
weep their weighted
heavy fruit.
Children come running
home, to report
another hit,
a stray bullet
or perhaps, on purpose
in aim, to land
no claim,
to lay in prayer
in early mourn’
They came-
the washed out,
white’s hanging
like grapes on vines,
the demolitions proceed
to wreck their hearts
and minds.
Early mourning in Palestine,
not an unusual start.
Poetry and Artwork ©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
#Palestine #Children #Funeral
