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poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the category “Poetry”

practicing the art of peace


we believe in the art of words
realists with a biased agenda
embracing a not too distant past
when freedom superseded profit

trading weaponry in for pens
and ammunition for paper
we recreate a new world order
based on a peaceful tomorrow




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

powerless


I feel feverish and contagious
and utterly powerless
like a little boy with no place to go
superman cape
hanging in adjacent closet
I sit all alone at the foot of my bed

do I dare slip under the covers
and fall fast asleep
knowing I may never awake
or do I simply recite every prayer
I’ve ever been taught
repeating one after the other
until the morning light




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

some fifty years later


mysteriously curious
I am unloved and underfed
walking along
so many fine lines
in and out of these city limits

acquaintances
may come and go
regardless if dead or alive
leaving me pondering
what the morning will bring

when the sun reaches out
touching me genuinely
I am reminded how
beautifully tragic we are
even though we have
more lives yet to live




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

from the ghost of houdini


oh there I go again
creating something out of nothing
like some kind of lesser god
attempting to imitate mortality

yes I’ve been playing with rope again
learning all sorts of new knots
but that’s all it is ~ playing
like an actor on a stage
constantly coached by sophocles
or shakespeare or beckett
as if I’ve no training at all

all I want is one last chance
to perform a one act play
one in which I can prove once and for all
I’m a force to be reckoned with
that these simple tricks up my sleeve
are actually true magic
graciously handed down to me




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

the first snow


everything slowly becoming obsolete
like telephone lines and hand-written letters
it’s impossible to count
all the snowflakes falling from the sky
let alone the days until eternity

now you see me and now you don’t
sleight of hand and deceptive shadows
street lamps illuminating
every single snowflake falling from the sky
children dancing with open arms

nothing lasts though everything comes back
be it flower or bee or reincarnated deity
returning back to earth
like snowflakes falling from the sky
[once again] for the very first time




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

once arriving at the summit


I’m lost like never before
song playing with my emotions
supplanting me to places I knew
existed but could never quite reach

I’m supposed to get dressed
for a funeral or wedding or baptism
but deciding to wear black or white
or something in the outer spectrum
seems to require more thought
than I care to admit

either this slightly haunted house
keeps growing or I’m slowly shrinking
some days taking me hours
to reach the top of the stairs
leaving me questioning my next move
once arriving at the summit

what I’ll always have though is song
one playing after another
ever familiar and streaming live
on these barely visible airwaves




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

one percenter for a day


flipping castles in the clouds
cruising the skies in private jet airliners
destination calmer waters

diving off sixty-foot yacht
deep below mysterious ocean bay
kicking and breathing effortlessly
all the way back to the top

back home money tree orchard
blossoms all year round
the little ones learning at an early age
free lunches are made for the poor




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

gas powered chainsaw


it takes some doing getting the motor going
pulling the cord countless times
fits and starts and sputtering dead
once and for all humming along
the little devil screaming and screeching
its angry teeth having its way with the
trunk of the fifteen foot crabapple
efficiently felling it straight to the earth




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Adrenaline


She knows my name though
we’ve never met
sprite or phantom or angel
whispering in my ear
saying things only I should know
desert spring or april snow

We’ve walked this path before
but it was centuries ago
strange how some things
never change

When I need her most
she’s far beyond my realm of thought
traveling by the speed of light
most likely saving someone else
leaving me breathing heavily
and spellbound




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

sunshine almost always


I could die before you
oh how would that be
how the tables
would have turned
whatever in the world
that means

we’ve talked about this
off and on again
names and numbers
as if really matters
keys and combinations
holding our collective breath

I could die before you
or vice versa
oh how we’ve talked
until the sweet sweet sun
rises and falls
far beyond our dying days




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

ever since I was young


there is much to remember and so much
more to forget
how we pick and choose what we will
butterflies in nets and fireflies
in mason jars
making sure they breathe
long enough to remember
this is only the beginning

old photograph in hand
it’s as if it was yesterday all over again
a moment in time immeasurable
in any earthly language
especially when considering
today might possibly be
the start of something beautiful

I’ve been here so many times
I’ve lost count
each time seemingly starting from scratch
a stark reminder the past
builds upon the past
while the present builds upon
possibilities




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

not a single one


november beckons differently
than all other lunar cycles
there are no lions or lambs
just sheer madness
whether it be for better or worse
or ‘til death do us part

there may be anniversaries
or birthdays or holidays
they take a back seat
to the reality of november
its unpredictability and certainty
of death and sex and taxes

not a single one is alike
varying by degrees immeasurable
even the moon knows not
what to do come november
either boasting pure beauty
or bashful like a hungry child




october two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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