jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the category “Dogma”

wherever you may go


as much as I think I should
I don’t pretend to know you
stranger in the midday sun
dancing in the city park
as if nobody is around

I sense undercover angels
hovering above you
unseen agents pulling strings
adding to your improvisations
interpreting forward movement

though grief is your dance
your eyes tell me otherwise
giving me pause and hope
that you may extend your hand
and take me with you




april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

little jerusalem


from the outside it was a sleepy little town
located hundred miles from anywhere
quaint and well-kept main street
three churches with spiraling steeples
one bank and one grocery store

on the fringes there lived a commune
ordinary families of starving artists
jesus freaks they called themselves
professing the streets were haunted
by witnesses of christ’s hanging

whenever outsiders arrived in town
they were welcomed by apparitions
ghosts of mob’s past peddling
sterling silver crucifixes and
one-way tickets to paradise




april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

missing in action


looking down from the ninth floor
there was nowhere to go but up

michael may have been missing
but I knew he was within earshot

though I was tiring of the routine
I had no intention of checking out
instead reestablished my footing
attempting to regain communication
with anyone who may or
may not have wings




april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

land of radioactive blossoms


the truth started long before jesus
and the common era
crowd obsessed with lynching anyone
they could never quite
understand

if you can’t hang the one you’ve
got your finger on
find their next of kin
they’re pretty much one in the
same

passersby and bystanders turn a blind eye
just like good old peter once did
(god how we never do learn)

land of paradise is nowhere to be found
not in these here parts
and that place where milk and honey
flow freely
well that’s just some fairy tale etched upon
stone

though the flowers growing in disputed lands
can be quite beautiful
somewhere along the line
they simply become part of the battlefield
buried in the past with inevitable
probability of resurrecting
some warm midsummer
day




april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

living among the dead


they never played the organ this loud
on early sunday mornings
but the violins were lovely as always
and the priest and his priestess
sang mass as if was their last
this april fool’s day
the day jesus christ was reborn

there is this talk of witching hours
culminating into something destructive
but today is not the case
full moon having set hours ago
only to reappear again slightly altered
earth continuing to race through space
as if the end is nowhere near

the backroads and byways and highways
are busy with pilgrims inspired
to find resting places where peace must reign
where violence and conflict
have ceased to exist
inspired by a man born ages ago
expected to reappear as a superstar




april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

counting sheep


the rain is too much
preventing the last two doves from
locating the wayward ark
turkey vultures soaring undetected
circling high above singletary shepherds
determined and confident in their ability
to overcome the landscape
and account for every single lamb
entrusted to them by the good lord




march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

reconstructing until kingdom come


out of thin air paper castles
tower above cumulus clouds
constructed by men skilled at
shaping dreams into
concrete ideas

I remained at ground zero
unfolding plans on a tabletop
saying look see here
this is where we must rebuild

and so we burned everything
on the spot
a virtual bonfire slowly growing
visible by satellite
smoke in the sky billowing
shaped like an ark
carrying away pairs of anything
that ever was or will be





march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

and your neighbor as yourself


on sunday morning I steer clear
of any congregation
instead seeking singletary paths
like a good samaritan bound to jericho

despite possessing any riches
dangers persist along the way
yet I manage to make ends meet
with nary a badman
attempting to approach me

of course many others
along the same route
are far less fortunate than me
some beaten and robbed and
left half dead
those walking by asking themselves
what in the world would become of them
dare they stop to help a stranger





february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

breaking the law of physics


they were bootlegging bread
(manna for their souls)
across the desert aboard
solar-powered getaway carpets

there were many contracts out
bounties on their heads
dead or alive mattered not
not as long as they had bread

some say they were aliens
newly arrived for umpteenth time
practicing rituals underground
living on contraband flatbread





january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

last novena


on good friday parish banks locked
their doors at noon
those inside looking out
waves of worshippers walking by
everyone of them jesus
on his way to calvary

there are no motor cars motoring
no laughter or alcohol
permitted on the streets
groups of pilgrims advancing
visiting nine churches from
cock’s crow ‘til sundown

thunder precedes rain
pelting down like hammer on nail
thinly layered crowds
dispersed by lightning strikes
only the most devout
atop the hill and wailing





december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

like a resurrected angel


you’ve seen these people
talking with their hands
I want to know what they know
somehow tap into their insights

they are not like those politicians
or preachers or snake oil solicitors
using sleight of hand maneuvers
like a charlatan or imposter or pretender
like an everyday carnival barker
like a false prophet delivery incoherent babble
promising some sort of tipping point

ever since yesterday’s crash
time has blossomed
supposedly ushering worldwide prosperity
the disadvantaged growing in numbers
thriving in ways inexplicable
like a resurrected angel





december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

stars of bethlehem


all the universe is about to change
turning nothing into something
you’ve never seen before

make a wish upon a star
this one and the next
rising over your shoulder
giving you a kiss

it’s like a candle
dancing in the wind
flickering high and
simmering low
bending below the horizon
only to reverse direction
soaring timelessly
beyond its own apex





december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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