birds of all nations storm
war-torn suburbia
switchblades and derringers
concealed under wing
blanketing rooftops and lining live wires
waiting patiently for night to fall
predawn fog smothers the moon
and silences the stars
cloaking angels of mercy
and their effortless wings
zeroing in on and sweeping away
newly orphaned refugees
november two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
catbird chirps along stone walls
saying look at me
follow me
this way where the water flows
trim and proper in tailored suit
catbird mimics
moon walking
whistling across dance floor
tricks up sleeves and a beak
full of pranks
catbird screams
like a wee lad crying wolf
one eye on brighter side
falling sun
invites night flight
catbird chasing brand new day
august two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in your free time bright ideas
arise out of thin air
and fizzle into nothingness
more often than not
trial and error leads you
tossing your thoughts to the birds
and you wonder if they will feed on them
or regurgitate them like earthworms
but if you’re industrious enough
you can incubate them
study them
nurture them
transform them with
wood and glue and nails
on lazy weekend afternoons
you sit and listen to birds happily
singing to their little ones
and you realize it’s best
to deconstruct your inner thoughts
and rebuild them into something
better than before
july two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it rained all night
and while I slept sharks
swam in circles around my body
either protecting me from myself
or saving me for later
awakened by wind sweeping in
morning sunshine
I took to the kitchen
coffee maker abuzz
birds of the air outside my window
like chatty statuettes
swapping old stories
settling back into real-time solitude
I revisit casualties
both foreign and domestic
making headlines on print and
television and internet
their bodies dead or dying
my prayers hoping they find
doves soaring on the other side
unable to shake the current
course of events
I stare into my oversized cup
of morning petroleum
dorsal fins circling above the surface
daring me to find out the true
interpretation to my dream
june two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
bird of prey
invisible in flight
dies a hero’s death
rises on the other side
bird renewed
transgressing in time
dives past new moons
attacks as meteorites
bird of the ark
born inside a lab
circles among the clouds
destined to find land
june two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I love to play the piccolo
just before the birds awaken
my own imagination
enters their waking dreams
before the song is over
and just as the sun starts to smile
trillions of feathers
usher in the morning blue
november two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the bird in the stream
loves to scream at midnight
when deep in her sleep
she dreams of elegant legs
to-die-for tail feathers
and a graceful neckline
no longer interested in
fly-by-night playboys
she catches her limit
before the rooster’s crow
august two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the circle invitation
echoes from miles around
from a solitary flyer
high above the flooded
creek near oxfordshire
days of endless rain create
casualties on the ground
ripe for the taking
by just about anything
remotely intelligent
the size of the circle
grows wing by black wing
gaining strength and sailing
like a school of fish
in the overcast sky
once reconnaissance
confirms an opening
the dark circle transforms
into a ruthless carnivore
spiraling toward the earth
april two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
heartfelt thoughts
so lucid in my mind
seem to lose their edge
when transcribed
onto stationary
describing a loneliness
emanating deep
within my soul
cannot begin to capture
the sadness i feel
while you are away
i roll my emotions
using my fingertips
and tuck them away
into the dove’s vessel
praying she will find you
without delay
november two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
she found me weeping
on the river rock
my breathing shallow
my vision focusing
on distant memories
of an endless sky
i had no recollection
of the terrible beating
my body had taken
had barely remembered
how she lifted me up
and carried me away
she used her gifts
to mend my lonely heart
and tattered wings
restoring my will
to take to the sky
and find my way home
november two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
little bird with little love
sits atop a lemon tree
hopes to turn into a dove
and live his life with ease
little bird with little friends
feeds upon a giving heart
longs to soar and pretend
his tweets are like a lark
little bird with little dreams
slowly heals his broken wing
soon to feast on tangerines
ripening across the spring
september two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
i’m borrowing this rock
i keep in my pocket
uncovered years ago
when starting the garden
i washed it off
in the birdbath
dirtying the water
and giving it new life
for however long i can
july two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I spied a creature in the garden,
Its ugly legs and furry body
Not fooling anyone; its soundless
Maneuvers and cunning eyes
Giving me total recall
Of so many cowards.
After an unsettling night of rest,
I found myself in the garden,
Inspecting the damage the varmint
Had done: the imprints and droppings,
Stolen leaves and cigarette butts.
The son-of-a-bitch even etched
The emoticon semicolon pee
Right in the dirt!
For nights I scoured the web,
Matching footprints and scents
That plagued so many others,
Narrowing it down to a few
Who could be so clever,
Who could sneak into the house
And take sips of hummingbird nectar
Stored in the refrigerator door;
Help himself to a bottle of Bud.
What a scarecrow he would make
Once bagged and properly dressed;
What a lesson he could teach
His pathetic relations when impaled
So prominently between the lettuce
And purple phlox, the snide smile
Remaining on his face.
two thousand nine
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
a murder of crows
bide their time
on the outskirts of town
waiting patiently
as the virus
gripped the residents
with fever and fear
death by death
the murder grew larger
their calls becoming
creepingly human
their strategy
instinctively fine-tuned
and well orchestrated
the devastation
never aired anywhere
no mention of crows
nor intelligence
of any pandemic
ever germinating
in an alien field
april two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Sitting alone in the sunroom
I closed my eyes
and felt my body warming
one bright midmorning.
Getting lost in thought
an interruption soon sounded
with a thud against glass.
I blinked open my eyes,
glanced to the left,
found myself peering
out the glass door.
Knocked out or dead
I could not tell,
but a Black-capped Chickadee
lay on his back on the deck.
Move, I thought to myself, move!
Turn your white belly over
and raise your black chin.
As I reached for the handle
the little bird shook his little body
and shook it once again.
Within half a second
he sprang to his feet,
gave me a wink,
and off he went.
march, two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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
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