men at work with picks & shovels
unseen in the cemetery
some working ditches
others tape-measuring rectangular
holes in the ground
the youngest and strongest
roll boulders from river’s bank
straight up to monks and artisans
stationed atop copperhill
chisels and files and sandpaper
further refine godly physiques
resurrecting new life from the fire
that never stops burning
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it may be the same song but
absolutely not the same dance
I’m not looking to tell a story
beneath downtown streetlamp
shining brightly on a particular corner
young hopeless couple
dancing to piped-in music and
big fat snowflakes
falling down at midnight
in mid december crows
grow in numbers along the river
where homeless often roam along
natural and artificial lights
sirens often interrupt airwaves
screaming across bridges
troopers and fire trucks and ambulances
chasing down their own stories
there is a small fire down below
keeping warm the cold
occasional small talk sometimes
turning angry
questioning the powers that be
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I don’t mind the old songs
but I want something fresh
no matter what its age
I’m flipping through forty-fives
searching for diamond or two
cute couple behind me
whispering comments about
mad magazine covers
without question new beautiful
sorrowful songs reside around here
refreshing like sparkling wine
the kind that turns your thoughts
into nothingness by way of
quiet reverberations
fast forward back home
small brown paper bag sits atop
kitchen counter
community cats returning home
chatting amongst themselves
what must be inside
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
he promised me I’ll never
die and I believed him
he said the flames of a candle
flickers not from man’s breath
but by the holy spirit itself
it’s like the wind
it comes and it goes
sometimes unnoticed
one day it’s a breeze
next a hurricane with a
murderous eye
not even the typhoon
can extinguish the flame
he tried telling those who might listen
those who may believe
angels are at work twenty-four seven
rescuing even the most wretched
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there’s a werewolf
loose again in london
disguised as a dubliner
imbibing ales with
local ne’er-do-wells
strutting down abbey road
alongside chief inspector
chatting about the weather
and that bloody affair
going down last night
in big bold letters daily mail
warns of imposters
dressed quite smartly
wooing unsuspecting partners
who love to do the tango
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
bone broth & diced chicken breast
chopped carrots & celery
garlic & black pepper
(not to mention)
a pint of winter ale or two
stovetop gives way to dining room
dark with registers closed
filtered light from streetside windows
accentuating cat’s repeated calls
pots & pans & single soup bowl
washed & stacked in strainer
strings & drums streaming midair
(not to mention)
feline sated temporarily
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
It was nine o’clock and I was still under wraps
dead certain I was done with society
and everything it has to offer
I turned on my iTouch and some familiar
voice started covering a 3 Dog Night
song about Oklahoma
or Arizona (what does it matter)
Regardless it somehow inspired me
to at least get up
put on some vagabond clothes
and set sail into the unknown
I was down to one tightly rolled dollar bill
heart-broken and convinced
heaven isn’t interested in any old fool
falling in and out of love
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve nothing to rip out of the roller
no paper to scrunch into a ball
and toss across the room
it’s snowing outside and paper
angels hang out on treetops
watching boys and girls throwing
snowballs at any moving target
gas fireplace glows unnoticed
its blower distributing warmth
as far as it possibly can
touching blanket
a quiet breath
late evening long exhausted
meanwhile I sit in same place
far away from the light
banging upon keyboard
desperating attempting to transmit
wondrous words into
thunderous snow clouds
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the university paid him dearly to lecture
about his dreams
three days a week to hundreds of undergrads
recounting big winnings in vegas
trafficking drugs and humans in all kinds of worlds
and slaying fire-breathing dragons while
strolling through sherwood forest with
nothing but bow and arrow
like a time machine he dialed up
triangles and chains of events
and conflicts of interest
introducing the likes of mozart
and hitler and michael jackson
cameo appearances by jekyll and hyde
and the great houdini —
elvis and jesus christ and charles manson
quietly waiting in the wings
he used his hands and eyes
to amplify the effect of his words
which were spoken mostly softly
occasionally loudly
and infrequently quite scarily
many would take notes
others would use smartphones as recorders
but the far majority simply sat back
relaxed and indifferent
going through the motions as if
they were living his dreams themselves
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is no turning back
(not now)
after all has been said and done
though regret begets misery
you occasionally look behind you
knowing you can’t take anything back
your precious recollections
much different than other realities
it was a saturday and the church
bells did ring at noon
rain giving way to sunshine
enlivening stations of the cross
etched upon stained glass windows
invisible gates sway wide open
light infiltrating and reflecting
exposing twelve concrete steps
you’ve stumbled down too many times
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
abraham chopped wood because he liked
to burn it on cold winter nights
or because god commandeth it so
in the early hours when fire in his eyes
diminished to near nothing
he’d awaken from lack of oxygen
and proceed to jump-start his day
chain of events unfolded inevitably
one altar leading to two or three
challenging false belief that sacrifice
somehow supersedes life itself
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
champagne corks will pop like wild
wild west pistols shooting for the moon
like fireworks on the fourth of july
quickly consumed by darker forces
many will die but many will take their place
and they will do it over and over again
time and time again
for the sake of exercise
repeating without comprehending
more champagne follows each advance
short celebrations followed by praise
more ale for brothers and sisters in arms
their invisible halos dying to be seen
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
she may have been an angel
but often let the weather
affect her daily mood
unpredictably
lightning could easily set her off
or calm her nerves
depending on time of day
and task at hand
the homeless knew her best
had no idea she was not human
but loved her stories
especially how she romanticized
being born under scorpio’s sign
she’d often go missing for days
sometimes weeks
stray cats patrolling at night
commissioned as her private eyes
my work is never done here
she often complained or cajoled
depending upon who would listen
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
sometimes I pretend we talk
how we’re not going anywhere
and sometimes I believe it
I learned to chant years ago
and I’ve never stopped doing it
for fear I may stop existing
november came and went
just like she always does
promising to return again
you keep revisiting me
in real life and in my dreams
only to leave me time and again
forcing me to move forward
november two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
at the rehearsal dinner father
decided on cornish game hen and
purple potatoes and string beans
everyone eventually figured out
how to get at the damn thing
either by word-of-mouth or
step-by-step instructions
as the servers cleared the tables
all I could think about was how we
used to smoke hash under glass
right there on his dining room table
november two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
they put in sidewalks where there used to be grass
on the old side of town thanks to that penny tax
three whole blocks for three whole weeks
disrupting traffic and making everything ugly
heavy machinery and piles of dirt
candy corn pylons and cement trucks
men and women dressed fluorescently
an occasional open hand in my face
or arm motioning me to get on with my life
november two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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