i am the bird
resting
alone on a wire
listening to the wind
and waiting
for something to die
i am the wind
blowing from the east
bringing fresh air
to a flower
desperate
for better days
i am the sunrise
on a cloudless morning
burning the sky
with intensity
and promising
life after life
december two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
This trail used to go deep
into the woods
where trees grew twenty stories tall
and wept at night
when the wind blew just right.
Exactly half-way in
a circular fire pit made of round stones
and built by natives
brought order and clarity
inside this forgotten place.
Whenever I lose sight
or long to reminisce
I close my eyes and dream
of the Indian Trail
I miss so much.
december two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Forgotten allusions
conjured at night
reappear when least expected
and make our lives
a little more interesting
like who we really are
or how we could be
Remembered dreams
either delight or haunt us
it is their inconsistency
or congruency
which lead us to accept
or pretend
not to live with them
nineteen ninety-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Whispers could be heard
Beneath the leaves
The ones fallen seasons ago
When there was no reason
To believe time would ever end
Softly worded thoughts
Seemed to travel close to home
Yet when trying to pinpoint
The source it became clear
It was something universal
Out of disharmony beautiful
Music seemingly appeared
Played by angels pretending
To be popular nestled
Comfortably in the backyard
On a cool autumn evening
march, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
A team of urban gauchos
surround a wandering cow
on a colorful street in Delhi
the sacred animal managing
to snarl traffic for over an hour
The arrival of city-hired cowboys
with their oversized truck
and ropes and bells
bring applause and protests
by the neighboring swarm
of residents and tourists
Calls of instructions compete
with the constant honking of horns
some warning the cowhands
not to harm the beast
while others suggest transporting her
to the nearest butcher shop
Eventually the cow catchers
convince their newfound friend
to mosey up the plank
and into the truck bed
casually whispering into her ear
the grass is much greener
outside the city
october, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I stayed in the house for four straight days
in mid December, discovered the world
did not miss me one iota, nor me the world.
To pass the time I would look out the window
each time finding something new: a bird, a child,
the wind. I would capture the images
in my mind, later jot them down.
When the telephone rang I did not answer
and one time when someone knocked
I cowered behind the comfy chair
until certain no one was there.
By the end of the fourth day
before I fell asleep, I created a list
of the things I would need
to spend the remaining days until Christmas.
december, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
The automatic garage door opens
Its overhead light merging
With the Audi headlamps
Pulling into the drive
Early Sunday morning.
The neighboring homes
Shuttered in darkness
Keep its occupants isolated
From the disturbance
Of mechanisms and motors
Nearly all long gone in deep sleep.
Upstairs, a mother and child
Turn their bodies in reaction
To creaks on the floor
Which subconsciously
Feeds their minds
With secrets and lies.
december, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Art the beautfiul pheasant
so wanted to be a partridge
dreamed of living
in a pear tree
on Christmas day
Boundaries kept him at bay
limited his Las Vegas odds
of surviving
Iowa fields
for another season
Art the beautiful pheasant
forged ahead in colorful pride
turned shrubbery
into a birdcave
and survived the winter
Such ingenuity and foresight
found favor with the gods
aided the bird
and his clan
to march further south
Art the beautiful pheasant
so wanted to be a partridge
but settled for life
in a sanctuary
on the Mississippi
december, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
Painting by Renée C Winkel (click to enlarge)
Plumes of smoke
escape the stacks,
entering the atmosphere
as chemical clouds:
a byproduct from the distillation
of corn and wheat
grown on American farms
and hauled to the factory,
producing foodstuffs
to feed millions wordwide.
Protesters outside
carry messages on sticks,
crying for change
and attention from a media
hungry for something new.
Meanwhile, the factory
continues to cook,
spending millions
on special interests
and scrubbing their clouds.
december, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
iphoneography by Arthur Weaver
From the highland region
Where the northern breeze
Brings inland the sea
Ancient trails once escorted
White men on well-dressed horses
Into a beauty called Bridgetown.
Besides its honesty, the grandeur
Of this place—wrapped
In ancient walls
And storied history—
Has little to do with surviving
Illicit trades or ugly slave wars
But in knowing the raging sea
Turns nearly empty dreams
Into untold realities.
september, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
cows in line
chewing the fat
talk about their day
without a care
in the world
kids in bus
ride out of town
bonafide field trip
learn a bunch
at the farm
lunch at noon
golden arches
where kids and cows
eat and teach
respectively
december, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Fire fighting aircraft
turn their bellies upward
as they veer away
from the blaze below
their waterbombs
struggling to penetrate
the conflagration
set off days ago
by a strike from the sky
blasting the Windy City
with wicked veracity
turning human ingenuity
into a flattening incinerator
filled with rubber
and concrete
steel and humanity
stirring dead souls
into vague memories
of eighteen seventy-one
october, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Rumors of his arrival circulated for days
before riding into town on horseback.
He slowed the Mustang to a halting walk
as both man and beast lifted their nostrils
and breathed in the dust and dead air.
The Zuni Indian, dressed in dark loincloth
and white headband, dismounted
the horse and entered City Hall.
Word quickly spread from town to country
of the prearranged meeting finally taking place.
In short order Main Street swelled with people
as if a holiday parade was soon to start.
When the Mayor and the Rainmaker
swung open the doors
cheers and gunshots could be heard
from as far away as the nearest clouds.
november, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
walking in i felt a presence
had just left
leaving behind a draft
coming from the return vent
a lone light shone
above the kitchen sink
highlighting the drip
that hadn’t been fixed for days
i thought i might find
a note on the counter
next to sunday’s newspaper
instead found a grocery list
along with a few coupons
the cat sauntered on the tile
and rubbed up against my ankle
sounding off in a bluesy way
somehow knowing
change was here to stay
december, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Diving deep inside your mind
I found the place
You speak about so often
Where laughter sounds like
Pretty cries and memories
Are but a movie seen
So many times
In this place I heard
Hummingbirds feeding
On red Bee Balms
And in the distance
Silhouettes walked
Into the falling sun
Along the coastal sands
In the background music
Could be heard
And after a while
I pretended the voice
Belonged to you
august, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Check out the YouTube video poem by clicking here
In my mind I draw a square
in the very center of the garden
From there I dig into the earth
using the seasoned spade
usually reserved for plantings
The hole slowly turns into a cube
as three mounds resemble
Egyptian resting places
Further down the soil
becomes hard and cold
the clay malleable enough
to mold eternal companions
Satisfied the opening
is mathematically sound
I hold the spade at my side
sweat falling off my forehead
silently instructing the child
to bring forth her loved one
to the newly built altar
november two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 