I told everyone we were married
that you were my wife
that we had met on a rainy night
somewhere in paradise
and it was love at first sight
Although none of this is true
her image forever remains
stamped in my mind
projected on ceilings and walls
as I hopelessly roam
from room to room
in my futile attempts
to bring her back into my life
march two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
you see me in your dream
taking notes on the sidelines
while the rest of the gang
sit on high like a panel of judges
or a murder of crows
calling on the next witness
I keep my wings tucked
inside my black jacket
pacing back and forth
along the roadside
keeping my mouth shut
and pretending I’m all alone
you’re the only one
recognizing me for who I am
perfectly capable of joining
your little inner circle
but modestly more at ease
scavenging on my own terms
march two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is a boat docked outside
my window on a cool
autumn night
brightly blue and appearing
out of nowhere
I see it there
rocking in place peacefully
brilliant moon high above
slightly waning
drifting in and out of
thin porous clouds
like a fair-weather friend
who could have ordered
such a vessel my way
and why do I stand at the
window motionless
hands on hips and
eyes mesmerized
seriously considering
my next move
february two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the faces are inspiring
whether real or appearing
in one-off dreams
faces in the crowd
popping up from one spot
to the next
by any means necessary
be it by foot or uber or bus
or train or aeroplane
exhibiting happiness or grief
pain or sorrow or glee
eyes and mouths wide open
or reluctantly shut
teeth clenched or relaxed
pale-faced or rosy-cheeked
hurried or stymied or grounded
it matters not
I swear I know
each and every one of them
much like how I know myself
february two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
mama’s in her element
barefoot in the kitchen
sporting blue pocket bib apron
wooden spoon in hand
tall boy budweiser in the other
adjacent room mostly in view
she takes in sights and sounds
expressing neither pride nor prejudice
pretending to understand
present and next generation
her boys should be gone by now
but here they remain
entertaining friends via
rock ‘n’ roll and video games
oblivious to an outer world
that is cruel and dangerous
and quite possibly alluring
if she had her own way
she’d have traded this scullery
long ago to be lost at sea
hand in hand with her young mariner
the one who promised her
the world is here for the taking
january two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I was listening to rock and roll
like I tend to do after midnight
eyes closed and breathing deeply
allowing every chord and note and lyric
to possess my otherwise vacant space
I find myself climbing stone walls
wondering if paradise resides
somewhere on the other side
and for some reason I am smiling
as I methodically scale the barrier
comfortably seated on the top ledge
one song ends and another begins
observing without judgment either side
one in which I’ll always know by heart
the other my soul destined to love
january two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s getting late and poetry escapes me
my favorite moon having left me for another
lying down I give in to silence
barely breathing in the dead of night
counting blessings and honestly questioning
whether or not I can feel my age-old bones
two scores ago I’d be falling fast asleep
transistor radio my only companion
rhythmically influencing my dreams
mysteriously quiet come mid-morning
if I could escape I certainly would
exploring the night like an owl or dormouse
flying high above or crawling on all fours
secretly returning home in the nick of time
it’s getting late and poetry escapes me
the midnight hour peacefully drawing near
january two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
these flashbacks
occurring with greater frequency
how young will I be
three or four hours from now
once giving in to the idea
the night is endless
I’ve come to accept
they’re no longer merely dreams
rather ageless recordings
reshuffled and replaying
a not too distant past
from a totally different perspective
at three-thirty in the morning
I’m wide awake
and quite positive
I’ve always been fast asleep
january two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
my worst fears
but a window to the world
exposing my hopes and dreams
as if they don’t belong to me
elbows on window sill
eyes blinking shut
palms supporting chin
mind delving deeper in thought
lonesome mockingbird
outside looking in
echoing a song I’ve yet to begin
some say I’m on my way
I say I’m already there
arms stretched out
and welcoming a light
that naturally never ends
december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
locked inside this snow white cube
I secretly dream of making
my great escape
unfreezing time by traveling
to a distant land
or leaping forward
into another dimension
I’ve been invited to do this before
but always backed down
at the final hour
afraid of heightening my
self-awareness
and finally achieving
my true potential
december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
do not say a word my love
let this moment stay awhile
like a painting on loan
temporarily free for all to see
one night I dreamed we kissed
beneath artificial lights
our surreal solitary star
undetected yet pulsating
once morning arrives
I awake to singing voices
projecting shadows
on my wall of memory
october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there was no dalliance
it was all a dream
how it seemed so real
by the time I woke up
I felt guilty as sin
you two are thick as thieves
the warden said
in that movie
or was it a Stephen King
short story
I awoke in a sweat
glock ticking on bed stand
safety all set
tick tick ticking away
tempting me to hit snooze
I didn’t feel lucky
having no idea how many
bullets if any
remained in the chamber
so I quietly backed away
and so there she had me
backed up against a wall
demanding all over again
what’s it going to be
what’s it going to be
september two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
how can I possibly change now
or can I see the world in a whole new light
a paradigm shift so to speak
where I am no longer the victim
but savior of my own home town
I didn’t return here only to be idle
someone said there were roads to lay
replacing gravel with yellow bricks
all the way from otter’s creek
to the mouth of the mighty river
and there at the end of the road
(or shall I say the beginning)
there I stand wading in the water
like the renegade baptist himself
proclaiming the possibility of a new life
to those who dare to dream
september two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I do not miss the old days
(or the olds ways as they remain)
I simply sit and take to daydreaming
reminiscing and contemplating
those pivotal moments
(as I see them)
how they may or may not have
contributed to my curious fate
how far I’ve come in this strange
illusion known as time
but in reality how little I’ve traveled
back and forth from strange lands
both real and imaginary
sometimes the hero
other times the goat
always judged by anyone and everyone
save the almighty herself
I’m content finding new ways
in saying the same old thing
whether it be this spring or summer
or the coming autumn or winter
how I want to record them all
time and time again
be it poetry or prose
be it in writing or otherwise
september two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
what’s that inside your belly
swimming around
in a world all unto itself
how do you sleep at night
eyes wide open
welcoming anything
wanting to explore deep inside
like time travelers hell bent on
finding the next milky way
sometimes you imagine
morning will never come
cat scratching at the screen
more or less a metaphor
seeking shelter
or simply acceptance
september two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
morning rains have yet to fall
but already I hear it pounding
repeatedly on the concrete
interrupting third act
of my long-standing dream
it’s impossible to control crowds
once making mad dashes
leaving lone gunman isolated
taking potshots at moon phases
painted on domed ceilings
smoke billowing out windows
deputies arrive from all over
precisely securing the perimeter
omniscient orders echoing
come out with your hands up
august two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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