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 your lost soul?
This heart,
is not on that menu.
©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Kaboompics .com from Pexels
Of sin Of abhorrence Of bent and, Of broken. In the dry bough wooden and drifting. Pretenses and pickled mouth Besieged by pines and corked by ...READ FULL POEM Many thanks to Lucy over at A LITTLE WRITING WORKSHOP OF HORRORS for publishing my poem THE WRETCH. I am honored to be selected by her, and Editor Mark Borne, for publication on their amazing blog.
Forever by day
words rain
like a roar
though soft
and still-like
your world
rememberest
forever
the change
the laughter
deceased.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by omar alnahi from Pexels
Dabbing and jabbing
colorful words grabbing
the canvas
conceiving
relieving
my creativity reliving
the experiences
of my life
dropping
hitting the paper
not stopping
mixing and blending
intensity
sending
messages
retrieving
memories pretending
too vast
fast
slipping into the past
never too late
hit the page
in great feverish debate
depicting
pictorial landscapes
to date
poetry, painting
swirling
slanting
dream catching
panting
utterly entrancing
dancing
upon the plate
glass-
scraping
screeching
brush rotating
sweeping
great strokes
of colorful words
straightening
the canvas
stretching
reaching
for thoughts
escaping
then enlightening
words soaring
heightening the fury
circling the canvas
completing
but,
never leaving.
This poem expresses the feelings and thoughts I often experience while I am in the creative process of painting, or writing poetry.
This painting I did was sold at an auction to benefit a coworker who was diagnosed with breast cancer.
It is called, “Abstract Divide” , oil on canvas. Since then, the friend is doing wonderful, is happily married and has a little boy.
Art and Poetry © [Jay Mora-Shihadeh]
Well, it’s five’ til three
and wow! The sun’s gone
the skies lit a powdery solemn
gray with a silence that haunts,
as a scream of sirens sound off
in the distance.
The calm before the storm is here.
A midday thunderstorm is forecast
for Florida today, not unusual
but still ominous. The smell of humid
sidewalks and tarry macadam
waft in the front door.
Acrid at first but swiftly replaced
with life-saving oxygen, in between
the toxic fumes that mingle in
the breeze,
ahhhh I breathe
slow and deep
Boom!
Thunder strikes!
And,
I lose my breath once again.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Raychel Sanner on Unsplash
#Poetry #Storm #Freeverse #Poem
“In this time of a virus roaming methodically across the earth, infecting the earth’s population, this poem centers us in the natural world, and declares a healing. I imagine the voice of Earth speaking the first stanza. The Earth, and all beings, are always moving toward healing. This poem reminds us.” PARIS REVIEW
“The Delight Song of Tsoai-Talee”
I am a feather on the bright sky
I am the blue horse that runs in the plain
I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water
I am the shadow that follows a child
I am the evening light, the lustre of meadows
I am an eagle playing with the wind
I am a cluster of bright beads
I am the farthest …read full poem
I’m excited to announce my poem, IN THE HOURS OF CARE, is published in MasticadoresUsa today.
I want to thank the editor, Gabriela Marie Milton, for selecting and publishing my piece in today’s post. It is an honor to be part of this publication, please make sure to stop by and give them a visit.
IN THE HOURS OF CARE
in the hours of care
a rabbit dodges a shooting
and hobbits
into a hole in the ground
grasses burn and pencil a path
crooked footings land
grounded in sand
sun crescents the…read full poem
Assumptions-
arrogance and gumption.
They walk in before all
displaying their gall
destroying all grace
leaving beauty out of place, hurting feelings
contriving, depriving, cut-open and dividing
boundaries widen to try and swallow
their conniving, sniveling embrace
only to choke on …read full poem
There are things that seem
to never get done
but who cares when
I’ve waited
for you to finally come
back to me
never knowing when
that moment will arise.
Blue jays screech
in the background
reminding me to do the laundry
sweep the floors and
wash the breakfast dishes
as I teeter, on this precipice
this crazy lit up place
clinging to your essence
I won’t let you go, just yet.
chores can …READ MORE…
Love is to the spirit what a moon beam
is to the night
A smile so bright
that darkness hides
under a rock
defeated by the brilliance
of the white-hot light
Dancing on the stars
staying awake all night
darkness runs
to the corners
of the earth
escaping the wrath
of its competitors heart
Love is to the spirit what a moon beam
is to the night
Reflections of galaxies
upon the oceans bright
mirrors of adoration
adorning faces despite
the darkness that challenges
loves white-hot light.
Original Post– Revised 6/8/21
Art and Poetry ©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
You won’t get what you want
from those who believe
love is cheap or sell their souls
for a knock-off of self-esteem.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
The melancholy of sweet depression
like Poe and Vincent Van Gogh,
those who were fraught with despair
have created haute cuisines
of flesh, of reds, of spleen.
They’ve picked up their brushes
their pen and ink
and palette’s exploded
fit to repair,
splayed open wide-
their vision
their loneliness
and,
the haunting beauty
that possessed their mind.
Their art wild and wanton,
masterpieces of expression
born out of tongues
that spoke with hysteria
and sights of historical blessings,
that spoke about the Starry Night
of Annabel and The Raven’s delight,
that spoke of shimmer, shiver and fright-
of howling, wailing, wicked light!
The melancholy of sweet depression-
like Poe and Vincent Van Gogh.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
revised 6/1/21
Photo Credits: Vincent van Gogh and Edgar Allan Poe
Shakespeare was an insomniac
A maniac, word-slinging poet
who ate his delights, masticating
his sorrows, while feeding our
wide awake hearts
with his poetic desires.
Shall we in return dance tarantellas
to celebrate you and…( read more )
I go inside where rain pellets the skin
piercing and drenched
I recall, as I sit and feel the years
of despots and dictators reign control
my belly contracting like a beast,
unwanted and violent.
I recall my youth, the beginnings of me
I recall my innocence, I retract and recoil
the memory of despots and dictators
lurking around and about every corner.
Rough, tumble, soft,
plush innocence.
To un-know would be pleasure.
Yearning to un-know
that the absence of light
is black dark colorless
thrusting that back inside,
is all but impossible.
Yet, to be wild again
if I can for a minute,
even recall how that feels.
The un-infringed upon mind.
Freedom.
Yes freedom. Free-dom
Free dom dom
dommm…
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
The short tale has arrived
Hand feed
them
one
at
a
time.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh revised 5/22/21
Photo by Porapak Apichodilok from Pexels
“ I would like to personally congratulate you as your blog The Artist From The Inside Out has been selected by our panelist as one of the Top 100 Poetry Blogs on the web. “
https://blog.feedspot.com/poetry_blogs/
I’d like to thank Jaya Avendel for introducing me to FEEDSPOT and urge folks to give them a visit. They have many great sites and Poets.
Wheated fields
raging bulls
prairie natives
all roamed
a festive thriving
Bless-ed home
A bedeviled
creature
wasted
this throne,
Alas, not me
to never be,
If I were
a cowboy
I would poke
the earth and
straddle the
land, rock a
mountain on
rivers grand
A cowboys cattle
who knows
of no clan-
a buffalo, an eagle
or gallant man,
that would
battle boulders
thundering down
a canyon, a slip
knotted tightly
bound, to a falls
lying slantward
facing a steep drop
cliff,
a water-whittled
acrid,
dry drip
If I were a
cowboy, there
would be no
‘last stand’
no dust bowl
no famine
no tumbled
weeds rolling,
no smoked winds
blowing,
out of control
like a lost herd
or vacant soul
only green valleys
and rugged knolls
would blaze this
land of sacred souls.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh revised 5/21/21
Photo by Mahir Uysal on Unsplash
#Poetry #Rhymes #Spokenword #Cowboys
And so it goes, and it came like this-
you may like it,
or you may not…
The crowd stops and gathers about
He stands tall and projects
Do not forget from whence you came!
It may be a long away flicker- but it burns like the embers
in the fires of life!
It means, that we will not lay down and die.
” For what greatness does this betray to lie down and die? “
The greatness of our land
the beauty and justness in our being!
The great land we know in Palestine.
‘Oh the tales he weaves
the shoulders he stands on
whirling dervishly
he sings, he shouts…
Victory is on our horizon.
Palestine shines like the ripeness of the sun on our olive trees
It shines in the pupils of our youth, in the spirit of our elderly
Palestine shines! Palestine rises! Palestine lives!
As the crowd spun around
pinned silently to
this sacred ground
entranced by his
profound sagely sound
he continued
aloud…
Palestine is burning, it is bleeding
in the streets.
The people are rising up
to face their enemies
Almighty fighters
who sacrifice complete
Complete sacrifice…
Until the sun is shining again
over the beauty of our Palestine
Palestine complete!
And in a misty, subdued haze
the crowd dispersed
into the forward gaze
of a poet left
in an unshaken state,
stepping down, for now
until further regain.
that’s the story of how it came to be…
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
#Poet #Palestinian
Photo by Hulki Okan Tabak on Unsplash
Lately, since being vaccinated and also working on some other writing projects, I’ve taken some time to take stock of this past year and the immense gratitude I feel now, to get back to visiting in person with my mom, and some other outings we weren’t comfortable taking before the vaccine.
In that vein, I’ve been revisiting some older poetry I wrote, while reflecting on what’s ahead of us. This past year, as traumatizing as it was, has allowed me to shift my perspective to understand on a deeper level – what, where, and how do I want to spend my time moving forward. As an artist and poet, this is the “good” part where being alone and holed up can produce some good results, I suppose, in this collective trauma we faced/face.
The poem below was first posted to my blog August 2020, in the height of this pandemic.
I wrote this poem several years ago when I was still very much into handwriting everything. Things have definitely changed since those days. I can’t recall the last time I picked up a pencil to write any poetry or other writing, except to jot down some lists etc…
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 (Read Poem)
#Poet #Artist #Reflecting
I have never been so loved
then abused, then pitied
don’t confuse the two
love exists alone
take pity on none
walk home.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
#Micropoetry #Pity #Alone #Lovepoetry
