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
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
oh captive bird
is that the only song
you know
sing sing sing to me
a lullaby
oh captive bird
serenading me to sleep
doors 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
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
it’s never too late to get started
seeing things for the first time
whether walking through walls
or flying high in the sky
black birds too numerous to count
become motivated by changing winds
amassing in tradition and spirit
swirling like fast moving cloud
oh yes there are darker days ahead
or so says the prognosticator
white dove perched on shoulder
whispering secrets in her ear
sometimes the truth is in flight
other times walking on thin air
appearing and disappearing
like the great houdini himself
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
sun falling fast behind frost-covered hills
shades of pink glorifying the horizon
variable winds swirling and sweeping
speaking in languages I’m sure I once knew
images of elephants coming to mind
marching high in midday sky
sporting hides bordering on pink
drifting in and out of cumulus clouds
turning hot and sticky summer days
into something inexplicably cool
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is shelter down
the road
or so we heard
by way of mouth
forget wifi or satellite
they’re of no use here
and haven’t been
for what seems
like centuries
we’ve been sleeping
by day
and hoofing it
by night
all the while chronicaling
our journey
just in case
we don’t make it out alive
we lost our means
of transport
nearly a fortnight
ago
by now must surely
be catapulting
toward the stars
we keep telling ourselves
if anyone wonders
we don’t know anything
about our designated
driver’s whereabouts
but we still believe she’s the key
to getting us the hell
out of here
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
those tears in my eyes
they’re from the wind or the cold
or the memory of how you used to be
but never never never
from my own limitations
staring right through me
my inner self
neither applauding nor pitying
my outer self
neither smiling nor frowning
but merely acknowledging
and accepting
the very idea that my eyes
may suddenly become animated
at the most unexpected times
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
now that death is upon us
the curse of darkness has been lifted
replaced by a faint light
gradually expanding in the dead of night
fear not the universe next door
having frequented your once lucid dreams
providing glimmers of hope
when otherwise preoccupied with despair
closure is but a paradox
like a cold case begging to be unwrapped
if for no other reason
than as a reminder you’ll always be loved
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we walked a mile
to the well and back
mother explaining along the way
there are some burdens
not meant for others to carry
of course I’d no idea
what she meant (at the time)
but her words stayed with me
becoming a part of what
I was meant to be
how I love to share
such stories with strangers
if only they’re willing
to open up themselves
by going to the well and back
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
if you brush aside the obvious
you will find seeds have begun
to sprout
in what was once known
as paradise
I first met you there
when the moon was but a mural
germinating in the back
of our minds
how we talked about
painting the sky
when the sun
was nowhere to be found
just when everything
seemed to be perfect
the world
burns to the ground
the story resorting
to starting all over again
and those seeds
once clenched in your fists
are forever scattering
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I don’t know much beyond Iowa
which is why I need to get away
while there’s still time
Some say I wouldn’t survive
outside my current state of mind
that the world
would eat me alive
but to those people
I say they don’t know how many times
I’ve successfully run away
whether it be to San Francisco
or the Caymans
or bountiful Peloponnese
I’ve long been in secret
communications with friends
and acquaintances
all around the galaxy
promising to welcome me with
open arms
understanding how time
is of the essence
especially since the fourth season
is knocking on Iowa’s door
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
do you remember me when I was
only so old
making friends with elephants walking
through walls
and unripe bananas
cracking jokes from inside wicker
basket on breakfast
table
I like chocolate milk better
than off-white
pour it on rice krispies
proceed to paint my baby face
making all the angels
(sitting around me)
giggling
like a circle of children
we used to go on these
day trips
around the world and back
feeding the hungry
and clothing the naked
back when world population
barely totaled
three billion
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
new moon held in cupped hands
like a wounded fledgling
feeling powerless
yet slowly warming
to this idea of finally flying free
trusting the process is not easy
for anything grounded
nevertheless you uncup
your trembling hands
observing the sky in a new light
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
what’s not said holds
more meaning
than any spoken word made in haste
how many times have you heard
it’s not what you said
but the way in which you said it
and what about those thoughts
left unsaid
do you know how they simply
go by the wayside
like acts of contrition
performed in private
it shouldn’t have to come to this
afraid to speak for fear
the moon will never weep again
afraid to sleep
for fear the sun may never rise
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there was a time I thought I wasn’t going anywhere
even when traveling across the country
searching for a better place
the good news is pretty red roses always stay pretty
even after morning dew turns to frost
november days fading fast
passion and introspection complement the dying
their mystery moon burning bright
unnoticed by the living
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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