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poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the category “Poetry”

holiday


we live in interesting times
or so the saying goes
rich either sincere or corrupt
benevolent or bankrupt

meanwhile price of oil reaches
all-time highs
dominoes falling where they may
leaving common man (if you will)
lying splat on city sidewalks

we’ve been down this road before
whether one hundred
or two hundred
or three hundred years ago
life expectancies
fluctuating with sign of the times
be it from absurd exuberance
or quiet desolation

crashes come and crashes go
rebuildings always incomplete
no thanks to ill-gotten gains
and empty promises

eventually price of oil falls
back in line with expectations
and once again past sins are forgiven
summer holidays restored




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve

one more breath of life


it seems we’ve had this conversation before
but it bears repeating
in case you missed it the first time

I can’t seem to remember
if the narrative was fact or fiction
but either way remains relevant this day and age

“you see there are hearts that are hurting
in such a way even open surgery
cannot remedy
in such a way that words or deeds or promises
are rendered useless”

if memory serves me right
the storyteller has eyes like infinite magnets
sparkling in night sky
playing both hero and villain
she laughs at the inevitable
whilst crying for one more breath of life




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve

receiving less and less in return


there is greed at the top
and fear at bottom
but where I stand today
     at the precipice of this world
          and the next
neither comes close to mind

instead
I find myself questioning
the validity
     of rational thought
          or reason for second guessing
each and every wager placed




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve

sharing the wealth we possess


we fished off the docks
overcast sunday morning
praying for a break

weatherman says
tomorrow should be better
once churchgoers
and earthworms are all
back at work

most of us don’t
give a damn
about day jobs or night life
let alone the cost of
living or dying

river keeps calling
finding ourselves responding
come rain or come shine




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve

weeks before winter solstice


north by northwest winds do blow
giving rise to wooden and metallic chimes
previously content and on the down-low

I thought I had put them away for the winter
but alas they are alive again
imitating hummingbirds feeding voraciously
somewhere below the tropic of cancer

although the fire may be burning bright
do not shutter your windows my dear
for tomorrow a shining light may arrive
bringing forth the freshest of air




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve

egg tempera


there is emotion in your thoughts
and in your dreams
but once awake you are drained
finding yourself wondering
how to start all over again

and so you put on blue jeans
make your way into the kitchen
crack open egg atop butter
melting on hot pan
white and yolk taking over flat surface
like a still life painting
or watercolor
hanging on studio wall

soon thereafter emotions
creep back into your thoughts
rejuvenated by a paltry life
that simply wasn’t meant to be




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve

in disbelief


my friend walks on thin air
carrying a box
wrapped like a present
kelly green with white sparkles
laced with red ribbon

it doesn’t matter what’s inside
be it witchcraft
or magic beans
perhaps a talisman
or winter snowstorm

my friend opens her heart
the rest of us
gazing at night sky
and blinking repeatedly
counting each and every star




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve

rear window


I buried something
near the tulips
and if I give myself enough time
I’m bound to remember
what it was

you were my shovel
my pick axe
stick matches in my back pocket
weathered pine burning
in the pit
on a late autumn afternoon

outside everything is white
including waxing gibbous moon
slowly burning through fog

eventually I can see you
wiping clear the window pane




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve

striking a balance


autumn nearing its end
solitary specter regressing
roaming empty streets and alleys
digressing on thoughts of love
bemoaning intellectual wisdom

safehouses have no vacancy
full moon gives little solace
though somewhere in the city
a fire burns with purpose
bringing the dead back to life




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve

random and meaningless rabbit holes


who didn’t I love more than you
all those years
locked inside my box of fears
going out and about
acting like everything
was picture perfect
all the while holding in the truth

leaving house after dark
I say it’s time to meet the boys
gonna play some 8 ball
and swallow pints of beer
you remind me
there’s work yet to be done
yet always I make it there

somehow you knew it was just me
and my imaginary past
tugging at my shirt tails
plotting and scheming
and luring me away
promising to show me places
most men never dare dream of




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve

out of my life


oh captive bird
is that the only song
you know
sing sing sing to me
a lullaby

oh captive bird
serenading me to sleep
door’s wide open
why oh why
won’t you leave

oh captive bird
finally scheming
in my dreams
can feel you flying
like never before




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

finding myself millions of miles away


how often I look to the stars for answers
even as a child sitting on front porch step
sadly confused what had brought me forth
here in this house of merriment and madness

passage of time often blurries the obvious
blending permanence with imperfect escapism
scrapping together true change from within
hitching magic carpet ride to nearest galaxy

temporary visitations have become the norm
familiar faces nothing but a distant memory
could it be I long to return to the womb
desperately desiring to be born again




november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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