jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

I don’t want to die today


give me the gun
the lady with the english accent says
(demands actually) at the young person
pointing a finger at her

intermittent tears start to escape
from the corners of the young
person’s eyes
slowly creeping past her well-
defined cherry red cheeks
beginning to touch the corners
of her upside-down mouth

I won’t I won’t she responds
nervously but defiantly
you ruined everything
with your so-called utopian teachings

the woman with the english accent
begins to talk in a language
the young person with the gun
can maybe understand
non-threatening and nonsensical
yet sounding awkwardly comfortable

and as the sky begins to cry
ever so softly
the gun is altogether abandoned
and the world
(as fragile as she is)
is momentarily at peace




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

never waste a good crisis


I’m not prepared for anything
be it good news or bad
delivered by barefoot paperboy
or hopeless carrier pigeon

I understand chicken little
runs around with head cut off
half-baked and half-believable

on the highest branches
hawks and doves jockey for position
invisible wires coursing through
their leaf-like veins

eventually everything must break
be it wishbones or promises
whether made in earnest or haste

evening sky blows up peacefully
giving way to distilled silence
lanterns flickering far away
quietly ushering brand new day




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

pharmaceutical blues


concocted chemicals wreck havoc
inside transitory brain waves
slowing down destructive forces
or speeding up creative processes
depending upon time of day

though perfectly aware where I’ve been
I certainly don’t know where I’m going
any given day of the week

and the more I read
the more I’m convinced this world
isn’t meant for either you or me

rewinding and replaying scenarios
works just fine in cinematology
but back home far from big screen
there are no body doubles
capable of resurrecting dying roles




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

transposing public transportation


I am reminded of nothing
save shrewd tactics of those I know not
tearing and snarling and shredding
turning fabric into mayhem
like a mongrel in distress

leashless on the streets
roaming like a werewolf in london
big dawg strides unencumbered
attempting new tricks inside
buses and trains and taxicabs




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

mandolin blues


there’s no anticipation of any sort
driving down this rural rollercoaster-like road
emotions tucked inside glove box
top down and speakers outperforming
background warblers racing along
and singing gloriously

I’ve been chasing recurring dreams
for such a long time seems like reality
somehow though it never gets old
eclectic mandolin relaxing my inner ear
keeping my spirits perfectly in tune
with this endless country road




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

like wars fought near and far


I’ve been practicing my lines
sometimes while drinking
other times in my sleep
saying them out loud when
nobody’s around
whispering them under my
breath at check out lines or
while idling at red lights

though the world is dying
the coming winter should
slow the process down
allowing for pause
and consideration
whether well rehearsed lines
(like wars fought near and far)
actually require repeating




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

reworking reality virtually at will


there are no masterpieces
on my horizon
no one and dones
or one-hit wonders
only baby steps softly falling
taking me from this place
to the next
wherever that may be

when nobody’s looking
I dive deep into
a nearby galaxy
jotting down virtual notes on
similarities and differences
returning home and
reworking my memory
into everyday realities




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Southern Man


My idol died in a plane crash
(some forty years ago)
yet here I sit reminiscing
imagining how much more
should have been accomplished

Perhaps I’m thinking it all wrong
as I sit here backspacing
collecting dark thoughts
and listening to the blues

I keep telling myself I ain’t
going anywhere anytime soon
but truth be told my idol knows
much better than I ever will

Adjusting to continual change
(as well as latitudes & attitudes)
I stick with kentucky whiskey
reworking decades old lyrics
and booking chartered flights




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

A feeling of not being there


I didn’t tell you I was scared of heights
because I assumed you knew me
better than I knew myself

How wrong things turned out to be
soon after your star seemed to take off
now falling fast and further
than anyone could have ever fathomed

Clouds at ten thousand feet are much whiter
than they appear from the ground
and I believe you when you tell me
heaven is not any closer




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

white dove


stories we tell
sometimes disguised as poetry
reveal most everything
you need to know
about current state of affairs

tales from the jungle
always gives you the jimmies
yet you keep going back
somehow believing
the ending will be different

history repeating
always playing your part
sometimes like a tin soldier
marching in the fields
praying for winter to come




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

mourning dove


do not say a word my love
let this moment stay awhile
like a painting on loan
temporarily free for all to see

one night I dreamed we kissed
beneath artificial lights
our surreal solitary star
undetected yet pulsating

once morning arrives
I awake to singing voices
projecting shadows
on my wall of memory




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

my virtual valentine


I’ve been working on my buzz
ever since I got off medicine
be it session brown ale
or good old-fashioned sipping whiskey

I used to have this voice
but now all I have is electronic means
jotting down my lost thoughts
eventually cast into cyberspace

told myself I won’t cry no more
especially now that my beating heart
(seemingly stronger than ever)
belongs to someone else




october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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