days before the blizzard arrived
I noticed a small family of crows
visiting the neighborhood
leaving me pondering what on earth
they were doing here
having strayed from the larger gathering
that couldn’t have been that far away
—or perhaps they were scouts
in search of a protective copse
capable of holding hundreds
or up to one thousand of their kind
january two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
they say the eyes never lie
or so says the minor poet
himself lost in his ways
subject to his own deception
fear not the casual whisper
capable of filtering
into a softly-felt crescendo
or so says the minor poet
birds throughout the ages
are subject to the winds
or so says the minor poet
teaching a child to fly
january two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
at the bottom of the résumé
included the applicant’s hobbies
one of which was aspiring mystic
I cocked my head
and went back to the beginning
questioning my own judgment
—all of the mistakes made
my secret sins
the killing of so many possibilities
past & present
& future
how wrong could I have been
passing by on this piece of paper
as if it was as dead as those sea scrolls
(only to be revived)
as if once passing onto my desk
was most certainly destined for the fire
like a witch exposed
like a bird made out of clay
january two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
when I finished the book
I took it with me to the library
—they said they didn’t have this one
and I said now you do
the pigeons on the front steps
don’t know how to read
but if they did they’d quickly find out
it’s best to hang with the ducks
just a few city blocks away
I made my way to the lake
(which is really just a big shallow pond
w/geese & ducks & an occasional pelican)
a new book under my wing
something about angels
looking homeward
sitting down on a bench
I kept the book shut
watched the walkers & joggers
& cyclists going by
wings tucked under their shoulders
not a single pigeon in sight
december two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’m at a loss for a message
in a plastic coke bottle
afloat in the sea
cast w/no regard to whatever
bird or fish or mammal or
marine invertebrate
may happen to come eye to eye
w/the great artificial monster
december two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
what’s become of the deep dark state
that once help my grasp
a sort of given of a blacking out
for predictable periods of nightly reverie
once upon a time the creature of the night
dwelled in my dreams
today it’s a physical reality
scratching at the window like the wind
or like a raven tight walking the sill
indecisive in its next move
I am between subconsciousness & light
unafraid but frozen
I blink my eyes in a sort of morse code
the bird is unable to interpret
pacing back & forth
its eyes locked onto mine
as the latter flicker until the light of day
only then off it flies until the next affair
december two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
listless like a lemon tree
on a cool winter day
a little lonesome dove
sings her sad sad song
behind darkish clouds
a blue sky is hiding
the lonesome dove
wishes to change her tune
evening segues into night
now the moon is hiding
the little lonesome dove
longs to be a snowy owl
december two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it is peaceful
inside the war room
mainly due to the lack
of any military personnel
in front of the south window
a betta swims
in a heated fish bowl
while on the outside sill
a juvenile raven peers in
october two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
dead bird at the front doorstep
—a juvenile house wren
the cat’s at the back door
clawing at the weather stripping
as if it’s a sheet of rock
there’s a mess to be cleaned
[well below my feet]
either in the laundry room
or the opium den
door shuts
& I tell myself
the bird is probably just stunned
in the living room
my dead mother is reading a thriller
the rocking chair slightly
rocking
to give her more light
I throw open the curtains
october two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
where ducks once floated
now feed on algae-like grass
echoes in the valley
bounce off the bluffs & dissipate
into a stream
that once
was a river
raptors surveil from up high
zeroing in on the lowest denominator
—their symphonic wings
ushering in
the distant lightning
october two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
tipping points abound
like dress shoes on a clown
overpopulated ideas
doomed to fail
over a matter of time
we know this
because of history & science
and the indisputable fact
human ingenuity
knows no bounds
—as a collective
creating its very own
artificial demise
meanwhile the crows
keep learning
at an accelerated pace
conspiring to clean up the mess
once handed over the keys
september two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
diminishing but not beyond recognition
this stale state of mind
requires a new kind of wake-up call
one in which the soul within
is stirred but not shaken
a reminder there is more work
yet to be done
in the morning the radio & the sun
& the birds of a nation
reminds us there is good reason
to pause & reflect
to take one step backward
before taking two
into this uncertain future
september two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
discussions led to allegations
something about a lie
& how the street killer
is still out there
how many lives must perish
before the lie
is extinguished
before the silent killer
is exposed for all
the world to know
allegations led to revelations
of a lie within a lie
the killer carrying
a concealed weapon & silencer
taking pot shots at any
& all known stool pigeons
september two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
listen carefully my love
for I shall be whispering
the words that vibrate
through the air
shaped by the moon
& the crow
& the trees standing
tall on the boulevard
do not grieve my love
when the moon
loses its mystery
or the crow delivers
its last waltz
or the trees standing
tall on the boulevard
take their final bow
september two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
holding hands on a park bench
each looking out toward the river
neither saying a word
as if their thoughts alone
commingled on another plane
birds unseen but plenty verbal
hardly imitating but
participating in the vibration
witnessing & believing in
the power of love
september two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve been down this road before
but never alone
always before someone by my side
oh how times have changed
there is nothing bitter sweet
to endings & beginnings
—necessary cycles
in the grand scheme of things
you see that bird following me
has been there all along
lo these many years
only now have I taken notice
there is a certain style to her song
mainly repetitive but
occasionally improvising
as if to say see
you are just like me
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 