Judah Mahay, Author
  • Poems,  Works

    Waiting for the End

    And here I stand Open Hand The heavens bleed on my palm I wait The burn I sweat Life verified by this heat My mind seared with opiate memories I pace Embittered, waiting for death Stalling till my last breath Epicurean termination, my fingertips tingle The void nears I halt Place my hat on the wicker chair Do you have a dime to spare One last cup of coffee is all my care Let the ashen sip singe my tongue I spit Because I like to.

  • Featured,  Poems,  Works

    Chasing Snow

    Caught with fingertips Into droplets, These streaking diamonds Recount memories That can never be reclaimed. The banks besmear In dirt and dust, Render to mud What the past Recalls pristine, Maybe even divine, In its blinding sheen. I run from that which Chills with a remembering warmth. Now settling into a world Mired with discomfort But one I sought to claim At this zenith I know I shall prevail. Let this snow part In mystical ways On these slanted hills So I can see the crystalline Multiplicity of the days ahead. Let this snow part . . . To enrapture me In its blistering light. Sometimes pain Is the only…

  • Poems,  Works

    An Idea of Tomorrow

    Pencil drop,A teacher providesOut of pocket.It’s their own dime. Yet, passed amidst discord,She cannot see nor sneerUpon such meager coin.She holds too dearWithout fearHer own dime. Now is the timeTo live…WITHIN our timeTo see that which plaguesOr fellow’s friendAnd to welcome thoseWho learn strifeIs always the days bitter end. Why not be better?We are better. Open our arms.Open your arms.Do not let inequity ruleNor the golden houseOnce white fallTo this gilded flameOf populist rancor Fueled By a divide bled between us. Remember first who we are.American First?That is the nearest forethought? We are better than this What else have we forgotten,But ourselvesThat can soak up this bloodThis fractureIn this beautiful country So…

  • Poems,  Works

    When a Bullet Strikes the Rain

      Vanishing, one following the next Eyes squint at the dark Droplets sizzle with staccato Speed equates to the sear A path laced with intent Quaking, she envisioning the casket Finger flicks from the trigger Fabric unweaves with requiescence Choices lead to outcomes Are all paths laced with intent Shattering, both losing the memory Air blasts from lungs Skin rends without discourse Pain asks what is between What paths are not laced with intent Hating, he admonishing the regret Pistol falls from grip Lead digs without remorse Fragments dissolve to void Intent pervades even after death