jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “angels”

reflections and back


from the potters ground angels surface
stretching their newfound wings
and joining the early morning choir

fear not the voices inside your head
they’ve been put there for a reason

moon and stars will eventually fall
from an endless watercolor sky
once filling your expanding mind




july two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

strangers passing by


there were four of them
marching down the sidewalk
a band of brothers and sisters
as if on a mission from god

it was quitting time and I was
getting into my car as they
were swiftly approaching

to get a closer look
I used my rear view mirror
and then directly outside my window
as they passed by excitedly

they were talking to one another
laughing and smiling and seemingly
unconcerned about privacy

though I somehow understood
every single word they said
their demeanor and inclinations
told me they must be aliens

and before they made it to the corner
their aura pixelated and dissipated
like a mysterious fog quickly lifting





june two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

black hole earth


third world angels wrap themselves
around the loneliest of children
god ever placed on earth

they amble these ancient streets
and back alleys virtually unseen
admiring the crumbling architecture
as the children somehow fall fast asleep
jet fighters crisscrossing the frozen skies
reminding everyone that this time
nothing will be different

come daybreak birds sing and angels weep
opening their wings and knowing
in a naturally universal way
that this place in time
will be neither the first nor the last





april two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

lifting up the blinds


there is an undefinable sweetness
lingering in my mind
leaving me curious as to whether
I may be dead or alive

I’ve been walking in a fog now
for nearly a fortnight
kicking the dirt beneath my feet
wondering if it’s the very earth
I was miraculously born into

there’s no need to worry
or so say the angels in the field
shadowing flock beneath their wings
guiding them toward shelter

sooner or later morning fog will clear
burned away by memories
past and present and future




august two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

when your angels can’t sing


it’s late in the afternoon
shadows stretch toward the river
covering its rocky banks with a
thin layer of geometric trickery

I find myself at the edge
standing calmly yet powerless
visualizing what changes must be made
to continue on this journey

opportunities run rampant
ubiquitous as the setting sun
brave and polished and callous
I pick one or three out of thin air

courage is overrated
or so I try to tell myself
lifting my spirit above my body
if only for a moment in time




june two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

wherever you may go


as much as I think I should
I don’t pretend to know you
stranger in the midday sun
dancing in the city park
as if nobody is around

I sense undercover angels
hovering above you
unseen agents pulling strings
adding to your improvisations
interpreting forward movement

though grief is your dance
your eyes tell me otherwise
giving me pause and hope
that you may extend your hand
and take me with you




april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

agrarian muses and snow-covered ponds


how your angels sing the blues
atop tarnished ivory arches
interrupting your dreams by
bringing back consciousness

it’s just one more morning waking
up to sunshine and isolation
a single spot on google earth
a farmhouse
a mile in from gravel road aptly
named rabbit run

though unsure how you arrived
you’ve no intention of straying far
and on days to come find yourself
roaming fields in dead of winter
not a soul around for miles
and miles and miles



october two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

one night in august


somehow I lost you on a hot august night
whisked away by a bevy of thirsty angels

we had just left the tic toc tavern
our wits still in tact after discussing
the absence of the sun

looking back I had seen them all along
sitting quietly at the round table
pretending to be roadies for the show

as it would seem their murmurings
had everything to do with you
and how you would guide them
to their next destination



august two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

wounded angel


I set the oscillating fan on the second
of three settings
blowing warm air straight through
the wounded angel

I don’t think she’s breathing
I say while trying to make the fan oscillate

I don’t know if angels actually breathe she said
wrapping a cold press across his forehead

aren’t angels supposed to be helping us
I say pressing button after button

would you just leave that damn thing alone
she said and help me move her
back into the shade

that damn sun keeps moving I say
he’s not looking so hot
shouldn’t we call 9-1-1 or something

no we’re not going to call 9-1-1 she said
what are you fucking crazy



july two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

too young to be taken away


they said she was dying
and so she was
and so she did
pass away amongst nondescript
fanfare

time passed
and so everyone else living
(or everything else living at that)
continued on with time
some continuing to live in the moment
and others not so much

every so often her name comes up
in casual conversation
perhaps at a coffee shop
or walking past third street windows
pondering and wagering how many angels
were required to sail her away





june two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

open windows


and so it seems every day is saturday
probably in the middle of may
downtown the farmers’ market’s abuzz
like a highly functional beehive

the children love to go downtown
where angels hang out in highrises
being seen by those who can see
otherwise merely open windows



may two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

apocalypse then and now


it’s come to this
mammals dressed in pants
fighting for territory on
principles born in the backwoods
countless centuries before christ

before dungeon and dragons
there was this game called
kill or be killed
and for whatever reason (ever since)
programmers can’t seem to shake the code

only the lowly and the few have witnessed
angels waiting in the wings
some perched atop palm trees
others drifting into the bay
hapless and humming
reluctantly waiting for the end to begin



april two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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