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
they took me from the workplace
with complete brutality
my body slowly deteriorating
from the inside out
my mind awash in alcohol
my comfort zone disappeared
and I was left with nothing but
unanswered questions
reeling from a sickness
that struck without warning
I was told never to worry
that a new reality would unfold
how I would fall fast asleep
for nearly a lifetime
only to awaken as a god
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve been recycling old words
into new poems
but nobody’s paying attention
instead saying mean things
about illogical intentions
questioning exactly where
they may be coming from
they all get filed away
unceremoniously —until a man
with a truck backs up
replaces the filled to gills bin
with an empty one
nobody ever questioning
how many good ones got away
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
The trade winds
brought you here
once upon a time
snatched you from
the comfort that
was your home
sent you sailing
across the Atlantic
landing near
the Carolina coast
hand-delivered
in rural Georgia
where you were
freed from your
original sin
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
taking the road less traveled
now that’s an ambition
that never gets old
whether concrete or asphalt
gravel or dirt
it makes no difference
the scenery affected by the
latest weather report
a consistent manipulation of sorts
the century-old bridge at the very end
blown to pieces [time & again]
by the mind’s eye
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the lost drone resurfaces
after three days without the sun
commandeers itself
back amongst the clouds
as if a ghost
back home the remotes
share no purpose
the eyes have no vision
incapable
of regaining control
the drone lives on
as long as there is the sun
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
when I think of poetry
I think of song
the early morning bird
making sure
I think of you
curtains drawn
the interval begins
we awaken
and we start again
the end game
can never be known
but what happens
in the meantime
is forever yours
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was a day to be creative
in a regimental kind of way
voluntary confinement
practicing silence in the mirror
solidarity to the self
it’s a craft needing feeding
desirous without comprehending
setting out for the night
following the scent of the wind
and a filtering moonlight
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it starts with planting
flowers in the dark
where there is no sunrise
or sunset
—the grand scheme
of things hidden
behind the scenes
rapid eye movement
paints all kinds of pictures
imagining opening
the curtain for all to see
all sorts of colors
splashed upon the fabric
the green of grass
the blue of sky
the yellow sun
new realities are made
in such ways
when eyes are shut
sleepwalking
through the garden
trowel in hand
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
delighted by the findings
I begin to believe my decline
may soon be slowed
or absolutely reversed
how can this be
[I rhetorically ask]
is it not true there is no undoing
the advancement of the
universe itself
is there no unwinding
forward progression
once the wheels
are put into motion
how can it be
I can crawl back inside
that in which I first arrived
november two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jesse james was a virgo
a creative in his own right
inputting & processing
like nobody’s business
until shot from behind
they say at the end
he had a black cat named
mercury
(it’s a virgo thing)
but that little nugget
never made it
to the mainstream media
november two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the page is off white
blank & unlined
like an expressionless face
eyes shut & chin slightly lifted
mind void of meaningful thought
tiger behind iron gate
wants to come out & play
unknowing she is but a kitten
sublimely aware this life
will not be the last
charcoal in hand
ideas spring forth
from a second story window
a greenish moon burning bright
like the intensity of eyes
spellbound & unforgiving
november two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
At birth, I was cast into a flaming pit of scum forgotten by God.
— Mickey Knox
America the Beautiful
unaccepting of the past
such pride & prejudice
home to many haters
birthing mass murderers
one day at a time
Smoke & mirror history
gives way to a new reality
this twenty-first century
exposure & denial
run rampant on the streets
like Natural Born Killers
november two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
forty years gone
and nature
has hidden the past
sublimely
metal buried
beneath the earth
the tops of trees
clipped & torn
repurposed over
time
deep in the forest
the songs
sound the best
amphitheater
created by the gods
only few will come
to find
november two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I keep forgetting things
but then again
I tell myself
I’m not as wired
as I used to be
I’m not into clichés
or goodbye kisses
also not keen on forgetting
recent events
nevertheless
I shrug off certain things
instead of screaming at people
who are not there
knowing eventually I’ll recall
what this life
might be all about
if I pass you on the street
with nary an acknowledgement
I hope you’ll remember
it was nothing intentional
november two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in the garage my dad
& three older brothers
standing silently looking up at the sky
I walk my schwinn 5-speed
up the driveway
I stop halfway look back & upward
at the yellow & brown sky
eyes squinting
thinking to myself someone
must be dying
november two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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