I was dying
in a burning village
—all the while
the seas were raging
the sky was violent
flashing colors from the
crimson spectrum
as if the apocalypse
was at hand
in the dream
I tossed & turned
possibly tumbling inside
the belly of a whale
the morning light
whispered into my ear
saying when I open my eyes
I will have become
a child again
may two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
rest does not come easy
when a saboteur of dreams
aka enemy of the state
infiltrates the perimeter
at the strike of midnight
a master of arrangement
altering sequence of events
turning reveries into flashbacks
and daybreak into heartache
april two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
as the world order changes
so does common sense
shifting like tectonic plates
after volcanic explosions
a collective dream of visible air
floats from the ground up
physical particles inevitably
breathed in by man & beast
advances occur on multiple fronts
math & science & nature
spinning inside tunneled conductors
controlled by a golden wand
april two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was only a matter of time
when future
meets present
reinforcing the idea
that what’s seen nowadays
isn’t necessarily what you get
but what I don’t get
is how I became this blade runner
in my recurring dreams
chasing down one alter ego
after another
each one stamped with born-on
expiration dates
march two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is nonsense in her reasoning
often mistaken as a mistletoe
on a cool summer’s eve
she sparkles like champagne
on the rarest of nights
a warm sky lit up in the countryside
as the townsfolk fall fast asleep
unknowing what they are missing
except through their dreaming
out in the fields she dances all alone
the wind light & airy
at play with the rhythm of the music
swaying through the trees
contributing to her mysteries
that of a forgotten night
and the brilliance of her eyes
february two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
word got out I could see
killers in my dreams
the ones making headlines
the next day or week
month or year
I tried keeping it low key
but somehow word got out
and I often found myself
talking with strangers
one day a private eye
and sketch artist paid me a visit
asked me what I knew
about the back-alley axeman
after the eyes & hairline
had been perfected
the ears & nose & wrinkles
tweaked until just right
within a few hours they had their man
both on paper & in person
january two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
My brain is only a receiver, in the Universe there is a core from which we obtain knowledge, strength and inspiration. ~ Nikola Tesla
Perhaps you’ve already visited the core
in your most exclusive dream
when the signal was so strong
you had no choice but to be drawn
to the source of everything imaginable
But upon your eventual reawakening
the transmission ceased to exist
and you were left to discover reality
as it presented itself in real time
absorbed into either side of your mind
january two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
wood burning stove
boastful & bright
a child & her bear toasty warm
asleep in the nursery
newly minted wishes
playing out in dreamland
the clock in hallway
completing the countdown
chiming twelve times
december two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Where do I begin
describing the beginning
to the end—what business
of this is mine
Something or someone tells you
you’ve been here before
—so very long ago
What kind of ending is this
intimate believer of the faith
—Angels from heaven visiting you
night after night
helping you
up & down
the staircase
—saving yourself enough strength
to prepare a cooked egg
atop a slice of toast
After an exhaustive night
you don’t remember a single one of them
—but somehow their names
repeat over & again in your mind:
Raphael
Jerahmeel
—and of course Michael
How they feed you bits of wisdom
and you nod & repeatedly say:
yes I know
yes I know
I remember you saying so in the dream
Soon
—soon child
—patience will reward you
december two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
desert prince
someone once promised
you the world but failed
in their efforts
having ascended into the skies
like a bird released
from its cage
unexpectedly
and so you were left
with only an idea
how to possess the world
if only for a brief moment
the idea itself becoming
its own energy
like waves
reshaping the shoreline
december two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the mute doesn’t germinate words
on the tip of his tongue
instead they’re at the tip of his fingers
and so he sits there
dumbfounded & motionless
the screams though
they come in loud & clear
on the personal unconscious level
at times loud enough
to shake him to the core
awakening him from a deep deep sleep
to dream is to scream
or so says the mute
staring at his fingertips
channeling the collective unconscious
writing down each experience
once reawakening
december two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Every morning
if not right away certainly before
the midday sun
the masterbed shall be stripped & remade
all dusty thoughts removed
all windows swung open
a fragrance or two sprayed in
from out of nowhere
—for we know not
whose final dreams
may lie upon it tonight
november two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
winds & rains & planetary rotation
strips the mighty oak of its november leaves
but not its power of regeneration
it’s as if it had died a thousand deaths
yielding to its cyclical fate with
elegance & humility
like a bear in hibernation
sleeping through the winter
headstrong & towering & unafraid
dreaming uninterrupted of endless summers
of the promise of primaveral sunshine
november two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
my father goes to bed early
before the sun has set
hoping to find the dream he left behind
the night before
his screams are silenced by
a waxing gibbous
growing larger before his eyes
he is in awe of it
asking permission to take a bite out of it
but the moon says the fruit is not ripe
and my father
dejected
walks into the setting sun
there he is consumed by the next dream
wide awake in his crib
he is happy to be a child again
believing it is the moon
who had brought him back to life
back when his mother was the moon
a wonderful storyteller
altering her appearance day by day
and night by night
she fed him cow’s milk & swiss cheese
when the time was right
she sent him out into the pasture
telling him to discover a whole new world
and so off he went in search
of treasure
buried somewhere in the pasture
never to be seen again
november two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
how fragile is the state of mind
whether wide awake
or deep in sleep
recuperating & repairing
projecting realities never before seen
once gathering consciousness
what will you recall
of yesterdays
distinguishing near death reality
from bootlegged creations
moving pictures passing by
at a snail’s pace
or faster than the speed of light
pushing and pulling
from this present-day reality
october two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
after a night of ups & downs
the morning arrives unceremoniously
a slow transition from silence
to quietly audible sounds
a little bit of light filtering in
what conversation there is
resides in the back of your mind
sitting on the end of the bed
trying to determine if your dream
will one day become reality
august two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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