the girl in the barrio
listened to the radio
every night
keeping the volume
as low as possible
so as not awaken
the others
the music soft
and soothing
as smooth as her skin
glowing from
the shine of the moon
her emotions
ruled by a heart
destined to understand
life outside these walls
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
they’re talking on the streets
how it’s much safer than
metropolitan america
oh how I laugh
not interested in going back
my passport surrendered
so many years ago
—I’ve since developed
a new language
dutifully translating
unknown poetry
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
a child is unwrapping
her birthday gift
in the center
of a makeshift stadium
the audience of strangers
in the tens of thousands
cheering her on
throwing visual objects
on the neatly cut grass
surrounding her
music blaring as shes roars
raising the stuffed T-Rex
high above her head
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
you can only go so far
singing the same song
comparing
the goose with the gander
with too much regularity
beating down the same path
praising mediocrity
—but as for the newness
of tomorrow
it is rarely considered
like a stepchild believing
every moment in time
resides in and of itself
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
throw paint at the wall
to get a clearer picture
of what’s in the room
—having dried overnight
return & peel back the colors
the painted elephant
is like a shameless chameleon
a reminder you might not
arrive at any conclusions
the first time around
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there was something I was going to say
over and over and over again
but whatever it was it just went away
and I was left wishing my heart was cold
I was lost inside my bewildered mind
going over and over and over again
where it was I wanted to be
but I was frozen in my own tracks
believing I would likely die from the cold
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
if we’re lucky
we’ll see the moon
rise along with the sun
any day now
dismissing any worries
it was blown
to pieces
by a barrage
of nuclear warheads
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve taken an interest in illustrating
her pretty white lies
turning them into pretentious trees
inside my newly acquired
little black book
music on the radio I pause & choose
who should I believe
strong winds shaking loose the leaves
I pick them up two at a time
saying she loves me not
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
putting things into perspective
has become a troubling annoyance
therefore no such efforts
shall be allowed inside this
house of solitary discourse
where a steady stream
of conscious thought
comes in through the outdoor
circulating amongst the drafts that be
until they either expire into
an imaginary pool of desire
or casually live on
in another occupant’s dream
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
birds & song & moving picture
congealing into a triangle
far away but coming into focus
slowly nearing the breakline
brought closer by the moon
& an inland breeze
children of the sand
pointing & jumping & shouting
we are saved
we are saved
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
careless discipline
is there such a thing
a lack of interest
in most things
up & down the line
a stark contrast
from possessing
a simple determination
to move forward selfishly
totally unaware
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
of course it doesn’t exist
inside poetry
everything is equal
inside these lines
good & evil
incapable of relating
to abundance or poverty
though a consistent manipulation
resides in the background
attempting to par the course
while inside rhymes
look over your shoulder
always dying to dream
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
what doesn’t ache
cannot be touched
at least not without
a surgical knife
on the third day
the sutures remain
the heart’s whereabouts
undisclosed
november two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
still a middlegame
I start dancing with my king
performing a traditional triangulation
much to the chagrin of the opposing side
I lean across the board
you instinctively light my fire
leaning back I exercise my lungs
wondering when you’ll make the next move
november two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
where do you get your ideas
she once asked me
I didn’t know what to say
so I said nothing
once again she asked
where do you get your ideas
finally I answered
from you my dear
and everything that encircles you
november two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
It must have been a fairy tale
The way peace came to be
All the Satans of the world
Mysteriously dead within Seven days
All by natural causes
Whether innocuously from within
Or brutally otherwise
september two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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