Jared Morningstar is a contemporary American poet and writer who masterfully blends deep thought, linguistic beauty, and human emotion. His poetry explores modern struggles, love, memory, and existential questions in fresh and original ways. He views poetry not merely as an arrangement of words but as a reflection of lived experiences and emotions. Morningstar’s works often employ simple language, yet they carry a philosophical depth that resonates with readers. His poems inspire reflection on self-discovery, relationships, and the meaning of life. That is why he is regarded as a unique voice among the new generation. Today, we will read some of Jared Morningstar’s poems.
Thoughts When the News Dropped that After 43 Years of Waiting, We’d Finally Get to Hear Springsteen’s Electric Nebraska
It’s hard to be proud
to be born in the USA
when you finally realize that
barely surviving the American Reality
is more commonplace
than living the American Dream:
the day when you lose your job,
then your home,
and you know that there is no escape,
not even the bottle,
because it’d bring a rage out of you
similar to what it did to your friend Ralph
who shot that guy at a gas station
in a drunken stupor
and completely out of character,
a moral code that was broken
the day the auto plant shut down
like any hope he had
for a white-picket fence future,
and you understand your own days
are doomed to being proud
to drive used cars
while praying to any higher power
who will listen for a lottery win
that’d finally give you the chance
to own a Mustang or Challenger
that you could use
to outrun state troopers
who you just know have it out for you,
but look the other way
when owners of manors and mills,
high on speed,
zip by like bats out of hell
with no caution or care
for anything in their way.
the moment you understand
that the mansion on the hill
you’ve admired for years
will never be your own,
that your life is relegated
to glancing at the rich and famous
from a distance, above you,
living like ancient gods on Olympus,
while they preach
that you should live like Jesus
(the carpenter, not the king),
to be humble,
shut your mouth,
man the machines,
feed their wallets,
and if you dare try
to jump on a Greyhound Bus
on a last prayer,
en route to help others break laws
that have brought you more harm than help,
they have a cross waiting for you, too.
the guilt your neighbor feels
because he survived a war overseas,
fighting for a nation
(that only remembers his name
after he was discharged
when taxes are due)
while his cousin,
another vet who lived through
his tour of duty,
lost the battle at home
the night he lost his mind,
killing another man in a county-line bar brawl,
just as he had done to enemies in combat
in the name of the Stars and Stripes
that did not even care enough
to give him what he needed to heal his brain
once they no longer had any use for his body,
that caters instead to silver-spooners
who helped their sons dodge the draft.
the second your brother knows
that all of the time he spent in church
praying that this would all get better,
all of those calls he made
seeking the promise of salvation
from gospel radio station preachers,
that, somehow, someday,
his time driving trucks day after day,
mile after mile,
doing a job that kept his bosses wealthy
and his wife waiting at home,
hoping he’d keep his promises
that he’d be able to settle down soon,
be the present father their kids needed,
was all for nothing;
he’ll blame himself somehow for his sins
when, out of desperation,
he drives up to that home of the Holy Father
one last time
only to find that no one by that name
lives there anymore,
that Uncle Sam had forced Him, too,
into foreclosure.
and when it hits you that
your children’s certain unalienable rights
don’t actually exist,
that their liberty to live
and pursue happiness
can be taken from them
in a whirlwind of blood and bullets
by the hand of a fellow countryman
with a Charlie Starkweather mindset,
attempting to compensate
for the meanness in this world
by punishing innocent others,
some who are barely old enough
to pick up a pencil
and write their names;
ones that soon will be forgotten by history,
a narrative that instead celebrates
politicians and propaganda
that push harder for freedom for guns
than freedom to breathe.
But, then, you feel the breath in your lungs
and your heartbeat under your shirt.
It might be the only power you have,
but, damn it, you’re alive,
and, by God, you’re an American:
it’s in the blood
that flows through your veins,
but quitting isn’t.
You stand up
and look down life’s ribbon of highway,
straining your eyes to see visions
of diamond deserts and golden valleys,
hoping like a man standing over a dead dog
on the side of that long, lonely road
that it’d get up and run,
hoping in the absence of hope
that you will find a reason to believe.
It’s hard to be proud
to be born in the USA
when you finally realize that
barely surviving the American Reality
is more commonplace
than living the American Dream:
the day when you lose your job,
then your home,
and you know that there is no escape,
not even the bottle,
because it’d bring a rage out of you
similar to what it did to your friend Ralph
who shot that guy at a gas station
in a drunken stupor
and completely out of character,
a moral code that was broken
the day the auto plant shut down
like any hope he had
for a white-picket fence future,
and you understand your own days
are doomed to being proud
to drive used cars
while praying to any higher power
who will listen for a lottery win
that’d finally give you the chance
to own a Mustang or Challenger
that you could use
to outrun state troopers
who you just know have it out for you,
but look the other way
when owners of manors and mills,
high on speed,
zip by like bats out of hell
with no caution or care
for anything in their way.
the moment you understand
that the mansion on the hill
you’ve admired for years
will never be your own,
that your life is relegated
to glancing at the rich and famous
from a distance, above you,
living like ancient gods on Olympus,
while they preach
that you should live like Jesus
(the carpenter, not the king),
to be humble,
shut your mouth,
man the machines,
feed their wallets,
and if you dare try
to jump on a Greyhound Bus
on a last prayer,
en route to help others break laws
that have brought you more harm than help,
they have a cross waiting for you, too.
the guilt your neighbor feels
because he survived a war overseas,
fighting for a nation
(that only remembers his name
after he was discharged
when taxes are due)
while his cousin,
another vet who lived through
his tour of duty,
lost the battle at home
the night he lost his mind,
killing another man in a county-line bar brawl,
just as he had done to enemies in combat
in the name of the Stars and Stripes
that did not even care enough
to give him what he needed to heal his brain
once they no longer had any use for his body,
that caters instead to silver-spooners
who helped their sons dodge the draft.
the second your brother knows
that all of the time he spent in church
praying that this would all get better,
all of those calls he made
seeking the promise of salvation
from gospel radio station preachers,
that, somehow, someday,
his time driving trucks day after day,
mile after mile,
doing a job that kept his bosses wealthy
and his wife waiting at home,
hoping he’d keep his promises
that he’d be able to settle down soon,
be the present father their kids needed,
was all for nothing;
he’ll blame himself somehow for his sins
when, out of desperation,
he drives up to that home of the Holy Father
one last time
only to find that no one by that name
lives there anymore,
that Uncle Sam had forced Him, too,
into foreclosure.
and when it hits you that
your children’s certain unalienable rights
don’t actually exist,
that their liberty to live
and pursue happiness
can be taken from them
in a whirlwind of blood and bullets
by the hand of a fellow countryman
with a Charlie Starkweather mindset,
attempting to compensate
for the meanness in this world
by punishing innocent others,
some who are barely old enough
to pick up a pencil
and write their names;
ones that soon will be forgotten by history,
a narrative that instead celebrates
politicians and propaganda
that push harder for freedom for guns
than freedom to breathe.
But, then, you feel the breath in your lungs
and your heartbeat under your shirt.
It might be the only power you have,
but, damn it, you’re alive,
and, by God, you’re an American:
it’s in the blood
that flows through your veins,
but quitting isn’t.
You stand up
and look down life’s ribbon of highway,
straining your eyes to see visions
of diamond deserts and golden valleys,
hoping like a man standing over a dead dog
on the side of that long, lonely road
that it’d get up and run,
hoping in the absence of hope
that you will find a reason to believe.
The Fight of My Life
The day I turned 21,
someone rang the bell,
and I wasn’t ready.
Before I could gather my thoughts,
9/11 coldcocked me;
first tower, right hook to the face,
second tower, the left,
Pentagon, cross body,
and Flight 93 leveled me a low blow
(one that the ref didn’t see, of course).
I couldn’t even catch my breath.
Brain fog set in;
the crowd chanted “glass jaw,”
or was it “Glass Jared?”
I didn’t know,
and it didn’t matter;
my naïve belief in safety
was violated.
Round 2, started college,
facing a barrage of stick and move,
a new student loan here,
an exam there,
papers due at midnight,
and the loneliness that comes
from being hours from home.
I should have been ready for this;
what did I do wrong?
I could rope-a-dope
with the best of them,
but the jabs, expectations, responsibilities
kept coming,
and it left me asking
how long could I stay on my feet?
Only the onslaught wasn’t over in the 3rd;
I just moved to the opposite side of the ring,
to the other side of the classroom podium.
My opponent didn’t pull its punches,
and neither did my students:
“Last year, writing mattered here.
Morningstar? More like Morningshit.”
So many corkscrews, so many bolos.
Am I bleeding?
I certainly was fading.
The bob and weave wasn’t working;
my haymakers weren’t landing.
By the time we were sent to our corners,
I wondered if there was anything left
in the tank,
if my puncher’s chance
was now only a distant memory.
I gathered my thoughts and senses
and found my footing
by the start of the 4th
when I heard “I love you”
repeated from the sea
of suits and graphic tees,
alcohol and Cracker Jack,
that surrounded us.
She loves me?
It made me feel
like a contender,
like I could go the distance,
hell, like I could maybe win this thing.
Adrenaline started pumping
and I suddenly stopped feeling
the sting from its fists.
But the bastard wouldn’t fall,
and soon, I could no longer hear
my lone fan’s affection.
Perhaps she’s fallen for my foe,
or the popcorn salesman,
or maybe now…
maybe she just doesn’t believe in me.
Then, a hard uppercut to the chin
from out of nowhere
had me on the ropes;
a few more slugs
and my poor carcass hit the canvas.
I was spitting blood,
seeing nothing.
All I could think about
was the towel I wished
someone would throw in,
the bottle of pills on my desk
I wanted to swallow,
so I could be put out of my misery.
As I heard the countdown,
and my battered mind
almost slipped from consciousness,
I felt the call to get up:
from my grandma who raised a fighter,
students who deserved an inspiration,
someone I’d marry one day
who’d accept me for me,
along with my wins and losses,
and babies who needed the father
I never had.
8…9…
And I lifted myself off the mat.
Life hadn’t found a way
to kill me yet.
Like Frost, I had miles to go
before I slept.
Too many years of taking falls
left me bruised but not broken.
Now, I’m recovered,
today, and always.
So, bring it on,
give me all you got,
and know that while you might
knock me down,
you’ll never, ever
knock me out.
Lost in America
Excuse me, are you lost?
Need a room?
You look like you aren’t from here,
deer in the headlights,
like someone who stumbled upon hellfire
while looking for heaven’s safe, open arms.
I understand.
Surely, the rusty sign out front is off-putting,
and the neon’s no good;
it hasn’t welcomed people in years.
But the beds are soft,
and if you find any stains on the floor,
know they are as old as the carpet.
Truth is, we’re good people here:
as good as the coffee
at the town diner is hot;
COVID and population loss
couldn’t close its doors.
It’s a survivor, for now,
and there isn’t a Starbucks
around for miles.
Good thing, too:
their nasty sludge
has no heart.
Oh, I am sorry if you like that place.
I am sure it comforts you
like how a baby sleeps better
in his own crib.
We like safety, too:
the kind that comes from home,
a home that is just ours.
Just like the park down the street.
The kids still have fun;
they don’t care if the paint is chipped
on the merry-go-round.
Like the local grocery store
with ancient floors
that we can’t seem to get clean.
Like the library,
yes, we still read here,
where we can check out books
about animals, the American dream,
about a time when our main street
wasn’t a graveyard:
abandoned storefronts
and shells of motor courts.
The bars and churches, we got,
but not much else since folks like you
stopped visiting.
Nope, all we have is the diner,
rusty amusements, high-priced produce,
and history books,
but most of all, each other.
We live together,
and we’ll die together,
but at least we know who we are.
So why don’t you stay a while?
Even if just for a night?
No, we don’t have McDonald’s,
Walmart, and no,
this place isn’t the Hilton
or even a Super 8,
but we have our souls,
and until this town finally dies,
that’s enough.
Besides, you can feel safe
in those places anytime.
You can find them
anywhere in America
off any exit ramp,
where a city looks
like everywhere else,
where your individuality is lost:
as lost as you look right now
in your own country
that you didn’t even know existed.
Make Art Dangerous Again
Like Twain roasting the KKK,
at the height of its powers,
calling them cowards
who only find courage
in a crowd with other half-men
under masks again.
Like Gilman and Chopin pondering
a world without men,
that greater happiness
and freedom could be found
when a woman
wasn’t bound to a husband
and his last name again.
Like Hughes, too, seeing America,
acknowledging what
Whitman wouldn’t,
and making sure the nation read
his page for English B,
that its blinders were torn off,
and that it had to admit
that Black people
were less free again.
Like Guthrie arming himself
with plain-spoken speech
against fascists
and greedy capitalists
who were willing
to let the poor starve
in alleys and ditches
just so they could
keep lining their pockets again.
Like Ginsberg howling
against conformists
to save the best minds
of his generation
from those who’d
crush their spirit and dreams
and keep them
imprisoned by rules
in a suburban hellscape again.
Like Hendrix setting
fire to his guitar, literally
and metaphorically,
when he blistered
“The Star Spangled Banner”
at Woodstock,
raising awareness to
bombing overseas and
injustice at home again.
And like Banksy, still creating
with a vilified medium
in the faces of
close-minded squares,
forcing them to look
directly at what’s wrong
with the world
and the authoritarians
who’d choose to keep
art in museums
and the public ignorant again.
So, pick up your pens,
guitars, brushes,
your spray paint,
keep up the good fight
with words instead of fists,
and let’s raise hell
so that we don’t
end up living there,
so we can keep
the promise alive,
so, one day, things will
truly be great again.
Jared Morningstar is a high school English teacher, adjunct English professor, a commissioned Kentucky Colonel, and a member of the Friends of Theodore Roethke Organization’s Board of Directors. He writes about his interests and observations of the world around him. Morningstar has published four collections of poetry and prose (American Fries, American Reality, A Slice of American Pie, and Lost in America) through Alien Buddha Press. His works were nominated by Skyway Journal of Literature for Best of the Net in 2024 and Alien Buddha Press for the Pushcart Prize in 2020. Morningstar lives in Michigan with his wife and children.
