moon swaying over tidal waves
a dream inside a dream
trees planted in the sand
stretching for the clouds
children of the forest climbing
until they’re no longer seen
man-made machines pounding
on the ocean floor
shaking loose the tree children
sending them falling & tumbling
plunging into the ocean
evolving into something new
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in the forest
and in & around the mountains
a mess of things has disturbed
what was once a vibrant silence
turning a beleaguered rumbling
into a metonymy of fatal casualties
delivered by way of an invisible hand
—the natural order of things
adapting radically
capable of taking out thousands
in one fell swoop
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
my wooden heart
what color shall I paint it today
do I feel blue or green or tangerine
anything but blood red
I should think
perhaps today I’ll pull the nails
from my wooden heart
saw the slats & repurpose them
into a bench or table
or a simple decoration
to hang on the wall
perhaps it’s an apple
inside someone’s eye
or a starfish elevating
above the dirty blonde sand
—this very day
casting its faint light
inside my wooden heart
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I am a stone
skipping across the pond
flung by a boy
practicing his craft
I am a boomerang
aerodynamic & deadly
expertly thrown
by ancient hunters
I am a missile
launched into space
heat seeking its target
with total abandon
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the water is pretty toxic here
but the children
seem to have adapted
the ones with years of knowledge
are not faring so well
their numbers dwindling
by the day
the crops should be better
next year
thanks to all the dying
without question
the mountains are shrinking
the price of gold
going higher & higher
january 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
I started a poem last night
but I abandoned it
having not slept for days
afterwards I recalled
how I had died
—in the afterlife it was as if
nothing had changed
today nobody seems to know
why I’m still here
I tell them
this is where I work
& they quietly resume
their own activities
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
coming to terms with oneself
now that’s a good one
a joke perhaps
the very concept flawed
to the nines
—shouting out loud
there’s everything to see here
in retrospection
the self is more than many
like an array of mirrors
[an indefinable number of them]
variations of yourself
in every single one
once you get to know them
now that’s another doozy
can you imagine
even knowing yourself
the latest in search of
a pacific island
that may or may not exist
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
empty pistachio shell
I collect them inside
a glass bowl
its uniqueness
commingling with all the others
like a beautiful horse
inside a stampede
ocean waves inside a shell
how easier could it possibly be
taking in an out-of-body
experience
—come
take a listen
we can drown together
with a little imagination
the shell is but a ship
powered by wayward souls
once racing frightfully
now advancing with purpose
& direction
in perpetuity
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
tonight we pause & give thought
to the morning light
having just traversed various points
of the universe
in a matter of mere minutes
at times there is strangeness
in ubiquity
skipping from one reality
to the next
only to find ourselves questioning
familiarity
there is a door in our peripheral
wooden or metal or glass
it matters not
and for the time being
we sit in silence
waiting for our marching orders
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
inside my mind a tiny mouse
has found some cheese
nibbling but not offering
—he’ll be quiet for a while
perhaps falling into a stupor
and I will sit in silence
imagining what his eventual
next move will be
or if he’ll simply no longer exist
for obvious reasons
such as foxes or traps
or surgical strikes
—cast from the skies
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
did you see that spark
in the sky
spooking thousands of blackbirds
and sending them
to the stars
the earth shook
from the footfalls of five hundred
elephants
rushing away from the scene
of the crime
in absolute terror
the nuclear winter
was unmistakably inevitable
all the armies of the world
laying down their arms
praying the world
as we know it
will recover from its losses
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
Let’s see
how shall we begin
to describe the fortunate son
It’s impossible they say
a trick question
the description itself but a
mystery
like who killed Marie Rogêt
In the end
there is no such thing
except for a brief moment in human
history
that maybe just maybe
he was the boy next door
voted mostly like to become
an unsolved serial killer
januarytwo thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was cool at the microbrew
vinyls playing on turntable
jazz & blues & some rock & roll
streaming from the speakers
hanging from the ceiling
they take requests
or you can bring your own
tracks piped into the adjacent room
imbibers waltzing & grooving
to the likes of anyone’s guess
they say it’s the place to be
as long as the lights are low
—the barrels all aflow
hands & feet shuffling in & out
of the [corner] revolving door
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
mistakes are made after some sort of action
is performed
—such as a bank teller debiting
your account instead of crediting it
without any action there is no mistake
there is only negligence
a sort of indifference to those who may
be affected
what invariably may take place
after such lack of caring
is of no consequence
it’s like deer at midnight
snatching away your incipient flowers
—there’s nothing you can do about it
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 