jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

the curse of the new moon


morning light casts long shadows
where trees amass and grow wild
harboring mere mortals
savoring newfound secrets

at work in the dimly lit night
werewolves trail the slender moon
digging out curses buried
deep along the way

on the outskirts of the city
early morning trains whistle and
howl and slowly garner steam
hauling away memories that
never truly existed


october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

none of this land is ours


we climbed the hill in laughter
losing our lunch boxes along the way
certain we’d be able to
find them on the way down

once on top we jumped at
pretend stars shining so bright
shouting into funneled hands
for the gods to strike us down

imagining owning all the hills
as far as the eye could see
the bad guys appeared out of thin air
and sent us tumbling
all the way back down


october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Streets of Saint Petersburg


Lost inside Saint Petersburg
I travel by foot toward the river
church bells ringing silently
deadened by the dank air
creeping down my neck

I swear I see your pretty face
among the many gathered
‘round Palace Square
faces reddened by the wind
or wrapped in woolen scarves

Just as metallic music erupts
below the darkening clouds
young souls scream to life
and storm center stage
like a swarm of angry wasps

Lost inside Saint Petersburg
I blow on my hands and
stuff them inside my jacket
my feet taking me closer
to the river and back to the
University where I belong


october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

wormwood


hurtling through space indefinitely
it was only a matter of time
before wormwood
reached the outer edges
exploding into a colorfully
destructive rainshower

up above trumpets sounded
and incense burned
angels huddled together
compacting balls of fire
and hurling them onto earth

though many on the surface
perished from such punishment
it was wormwood
that single-handedly wiped out
a third of all living things
both on land
and on sea
and below the sea

and though dust consumed
a third of the sun’s light
supersonic blasts
broke through the haze
telegraphing without question
the worst was yet to come


october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

familiar is the silence


those voices inside his head
at times went missing for days
sometimes for weeks or longer
each time promising to never return

but the voices never really went far
and he would run into them
at the supermarket
or movies
at the bowling alley and speedway
fast food restaurants
and convenience stores

weeks went by and then years
the songs of his pluperfect past
fading in the background
like little birds left behind
whispering apologetically
pleading to be taken back in

safely inside his warm bed
he pulls a blanket up to his chin
and waits in silence for the
voices to return


october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

good riddance to october rain


I don’t remember autumn being this wet
she said

I blinked my eyes and looked outside
thinking to myself what an
absurd thing to say

it’s not that wet I said it’s just an illusion

it’s wet enough they canceled tonight’s
baseball game she said

real men play in the rain I said

you’re an idiot she said and walked away

I raised my glass and made a silent toast
to rid the world of absurdity
and rainy october nights


october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

where the trees had fallen


taking trails less traveled
led me to where the
trees had fallen
where horses long ago
abandoned the woods

falling to my knees I
listened ‘neath the silence
felt inner earth’s heartbeat
inside my very bones
faintly alive and hurting

lost generations remain
charred in this place
recycled into ghostly ashes
reshaped into
ever-changing apparitions

silence ensued and robbed
me of all my thoughts
leading me to believe
the only way out was
through my imagination


october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

finding your way back home


friday night limousine riders
speeding some seventy
miles per hour
cut up lemons and dispense
margaritas without rocks

outside airport secret police
intercept intelligence and
issue search warrants
briskly escorting illicit riders
to a flight of their life

dropped behind enemy lines
grown boys sober up quickly
burning camouflaged parachutes
and skirting the edges
hoping to find their way home


october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

tightening the grasp of my amulet


I’m afraid of losing it all
one day waking up discovering
I don’t have what it takes
to reach the next destination

Sometimes wish I could just
curl into a ball and
forget about paying attention

Sometimes wish I could just
venture out alone and
walk away into the winter sunset

I’ve been down this road before
but always found the
long way out
my misguided angels
eventually finding me
a new shiny amulet

Walking closer to the sun
I lighten my load and
tighten the grasp
discarding all regrets


october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

who’ll stop the charade


there is a storm brewing
simmering in a big black pot
stirred by faceless warlords
pretending life
doesn’t matter much

high winds blow madness
into the next town
precisely honed strikes
wiping out historic deception
as new chief lays down
new laws

war drums beat relentlessly
inside children’s dreams
bringing showers
to the desert and
drought to the streams
turning camels into arks and
temples into zoos

from the beginning we are told
there is no time to write home
there is only more life
and more land
to claim for our own


october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

the seven year period


the world paused in shock and awe
before assessing the worldwide
infrastructural and
virtual damages from the initial
mind-blowing strikes

communication channels changed
word of mouth traveled at slower speeds
while new intermediaries
were reintroduced into the mad scene

one hundred forty-four thousand in total
the twelve tribes reconvened
ventured out twelve thousand strong each
sent to evangelize the
four corners of the world
using every language in every nation

while the living continued making reparations
the millions of non-believers
(those who had turned into believers but did
not survive the rapture)
stood before the throne
dressed in white and waving palms branches
worshipping and singing praises
ever thankful never to hunger or thirst again

back on earth millions upon millions
were welcomed into the fold
their totals exceeding the sum of
all previous human history
hopeful but uncertain and
unknowing the middle ground
would completely disappear
ushering in the next era
the most perilous times ever


october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

my misbehaving poetry

by Daniella Sciuto & J Matthew Waters

a mess of discarded words
surround the waste paper bin
a screwed up frustrating mishmash
of misbehaving poetry
sent to Coventry
the current state of affairs
keeps missing the mark
ideas bouncing off rims in silence
not even a dead klunk
to rattle my soul
to let me know
if I more accurately honed my aim
matched that rhythm zigzagging
in and out of my own personal alphabet
if I took an occasional Z
rhymed it with W instead
attached it to an A, B or C
would poetry suddenly
work for me

exhausted I pause
stare deep into the double-hung window
a handful of flies
trapped between the panes
gasping for fresh air
crawling and buzzing
schizophrenically searching
for the only way out
watching me in a frenzy
weighing up the worth
over-thinking the import
of a few lonely words
which my pen decides
to frantically override
in indigo ink

the day turns to dust
water turns to wine
turns to blood in a trice
I raise my ancient chalice
toasting and praying
to the poetry gods on high
for an ounce of inspiration
as I drift into stars
the night showers reams
of words falling free
my pen and my paper
and my mind all three
collaborate with the gods
to write dream poetry

in the morning I awake
feel the words as they bleed
dead flies on the sill
empty paper
empty pen
an empty state of mind


This is the third poem in a series of three originally published by ArtiPeeps in their “FreeVerse” Section

october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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