poem, Poetry, writer

Monastic Dreams

Monastic dreams

concealed love

there in the solace

an intricately inscribed quill.

©️Jay Mora-Shihadeh

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poem, Poetry

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

 

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poem, Poetry, writer

“Under the Lotus Moon”


Love is to the spirit

what a moon beam is to the night

A smile so bright 

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.


Art and Poetry by, Jay Mora-Shihadeh

© Jay Mora-Shihadeh

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Poetry

Fantastic Imagery here! I must share this post from Utsav Raj – “The smell of trees. — My Spirals”

The smell of trees. We’ve spoken about Agastya before, in this post – A new haircut. This poem is based on a very particular line that I wrote for him in that post. I hope you enjoy this! Do comment, a lot. Literally. “He missed his people and the way they smelled like different kinds…

via The smell of trees. — My SpiralsUtsav Raj

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book review, Poetry, writer

Poetry For Sleepless Nights

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 the 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, did I say 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.

  1. Elizabeth Bishop
  2. Joyce Carol Oates
  3. Dana Gioia
  4. Charles Simic
  5. William Shakespeare
  6. Umberto Saba
  7. King Tran Thai-Tong
  8. Emily Dickinson
  9. Robert Frost
  10. Walt Whitman

 

Jay’s Poetry Pick available on Amazon 

Click image to purchase

 

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poem, Poetry, winter

Cabin Fever

This small hut is closing in on me

anxious energy burning

within

the boring stale air

the household chores

contemplating the dirty bed sheets

that litter my floor

the broken record of weather, news

skipping, frozen in time

snowbound blues, all boxed in

not amused.

Over-consumption

stuffing my moods with

winter’s brew and howling winds

pacing this room, milking

the season, dry teats depleted

shriveled with fever

icy bones re-heating the leftovers

of last night’s abhorrent gloom

feeding my anticipation of

winter’s impending doom.

©Jay Mora-Shihadeh

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family, Memories, Poetry, Transgender artist

My Sister Thinks I’m a Freak

my sister thinks I’m a freak

since childhood

her coldness has wafted about

hung in the air

stench blank and distant stare

steeled  defiance

like the sharp pointed tip of a knife

her judging disapproval

stabs at the walls with a loud

screeching silence

fool-hearted and on the brink of

some kind of manufactured insanity

spewing and churning out

a patented righteousness

a seal that blights my world

with hopes to unfurl

that freakiness she finds so disarming

 

she leaves me wondering…

after all these years, how did we relate?

speechless words

grating gratuities

our bloodlines deflated, flattened

in fact

yearning for some elusive return

of a closeness never had

never shared

never spoken

yet, always wanted.

©Jay Mora-Shihadeh

 

 

 

 

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Poetry, writer

WORDS

write words

Photo by Ylanite Koppens from Pexels

Words

spill onto the page

with fluid abandon

 

Reaching

grappling

touching

delicate impressions

 

Shaping

smoothing over

astute interactions

 

Sculpting images

that emerge

unexplained yet

graceful

 

Suffering

knowing

 

you are almost there

 

Always.

 

©Jay Mora-Shihadeh

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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family, Memories, Poetry, Transgender artist

Poetry about my beloved grandmother, Tateh.

Poetry reblog from 2012 about my grandmother

The Artist From The Inside Out

Tateh and CeDe ( my grandfather) circa 1937

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 –…

View original post 263 more words

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Memories, Poetry, writer

Here I Stand On Torrid Land

 

Torrid land

Photo by FAICAL Zaramod from Pexel

here i stand on torrid land

my spirit wandering the dusty sand

of fig trees, khubz (bread) and floured hands

i stand just

foot driven deep

in the 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 (stuffed grape leaves) are stacks of cigars

stuffed, rolled, stacked high on big plates

the dawali grows high

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 headscarf my grandfather wore

in ramallah, the curious one that later became a halloween costume

worn by a 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

seemed 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] and [thepainterspalate.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 [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

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Artist, Memories, Poetry

Poetry about my beloved grandmother, Tateh.

 

Tateh and CeDe ( my grandfather) circa 1937

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

Yum Food!! Yum Art!!

 

 

© [Jay Mora-Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.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 [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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WOO HOO!!!!

Thanks to all my followers!

Inside the Artist's Mind, Poetry

50 Follows!

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Art, Poetry

“Angel”

Angel

I was thinking you might like this

the beauty in

this

the soft delicate mood

the colors crying out loud

etched upon the wall

scratches

to remind us of the light

and how it warms our cold nights

how the light dances

an easy slow waltz

smooth silk like ripples

across your body

fevered with green yellow

warmth

and cool smooth welcomes

of blue

welcomes of blue

serenade, saunter, slip

into your chamber

holding your dearest and deepest

friend

that fragile white shell

from the core of the ocean

never seen

by the cherry red that burns

across your eyes

sad, intimate, and surreal

the vulnerable crescent moon

drips

yellow-white webs

chords of

the angels voice’s

Sirens from the deep blue

green liquid

effortlessly pierce

your skin

waking your sultry heart

alive with

viridian nights and

the pink pale days

electric

and ice blue.

I have seen the angel

she touched my hand

cool, sensual and for long

I lost my breath

but for a second only

to taste the sweetness

of her touch

do you think she is real?

for real I thought it

not a moment

but a century of wars

could arrest this heart

be still

I am sure it will come

to be

in time, not mine.

©Jay Mora-Shihadeh

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Art, Artist, Poetry

” That Day “

 

When the light of day sits

pensive and dull

you begin to mourn the flowers

that yesterday sang

brilliant hues of red

and violet

and the spray of ocean waters

burned salt into your eyes

and you cried

not because you mourned the day

but because the sky was seamless blue

and the day held you suspended

in warm light

high and giddy from the smell

of the sun

you melt into the air

and fly away with the seagulls.

Art and Poetry by, Jay Mora- Shihadeh
© [Jay Mora- Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.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 [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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"Abstract Divide"

Oil on Canvas

 Painting and Poetry 

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

words

straightening the canvas

stretching

reaching for

thoughts

escaping then

enlightening

words soaring

heightening

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.

The painting I did was sold at an auction to benefit a friend and coworker who was diagnosed with breast cancer.

It is called, “Abstract Divide” ,  oil on canvas.  Since then, the friend is doing wonderful, living a full and enriched life!

© [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.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 [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Art, Poetry

For the Love of Art: Painting and Poetry

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“Universal Day and Night”  

( oil pastel)  

Tonight

grab a handful of stars

throw them into the wind and listen for your song

the twilight ignites

and dances a tarantella for you and your love

take note of their steps

for they are quick and burn fast.

by, Jeanette Shihadeh

© [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.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 [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Art, Poetry

“Tonight”

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