jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “angels”

pretty angels all in a row


the grass is greener today
an exception to the rule

maybe it’s due to the sun
momentarily appearing
a reminder that finer days
used to be the norm

out east old world shadows
are hard to come by
while the wild wild west is just that
calling upon accidental heroes
to rewrite recent histories

all the while refugees arrive
by way of land & sea
universally speaking of peace
& waving in an army of angels





october two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

angels in my peripheral


I kept believing in my peripheral
but there was nothing there
rural mailbox not a hitchhiker
yellow utility pole not a giraffe

three angels work in the east room
validating dice & drawing straws

you said it was a good place
to unlock & unload
& so away I went to converse
with the sounds inside the woods

once inside I doubted my return
two or three angels in my peripheral





september two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

early in the morning


hand me your dream
let me take it from there
let’s see how far
we can stretch the sky

it’s been ages
since I’ve heard voices
finally returning
to calm me down

I used to think angels
disguised themselves
as red wing blackbirds
restless by the roadside




june two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

an angel in critical need of repair


I dreamt I had wings
its feathers in various
shades of grey
stretching them to the limit
as I stood tall atop
the empire state building

in the dream I sprung
from the ledge in a swan dive
crashing back to earth
in slow motion
the eyes behind my head
madly moving rapidly




may two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Jacob’s Ladder


The sky was deep purple
making it very easy
to see the white kite with
its white tail
darting like a sailboat
on the high seas

Purple turned to violet
turned to lavender
quelling the violence
having bubbled
on the surface
easing toward the firmament

A million angels
parachuted from the sky
a rescue mission
for all the ages
notably all the children
grasping the taut string




may two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

mass murder by the boathouse


angels behind the boathouse
trade dark secrets in the
middle of the day

they’ve dark hair & skin
auburn wings tucked in
called to this particular place
for reasons yet to be known

they wonder who is
calling the shots anymore
softly debating
how bad things need to get
before the apocalypse

waiting behind the boathouse
one question leads
to another
until there is nothing left
no lies or deceit or promises
just the beautiful truth
that they are here for a reason




april two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

bullets ripping through space


I’ve been called to see
in six dimensions
by who exactly
remains a mystery
for all I know could be jesus
or satan or mister john lennon

as bukowski would say
I was born into this
sorting out observations
percolating in the background
where so few of us
can or cannot see

dead or alive beware
the mockingbird
elvis or caesar once said
and steer clear of
heavily armed angels
guarding the perimeters




february two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

where angels still sing


there is magic in the air
electrical and elusive
like a razor thin damsel’s wing

all is quiet in the inner mind
perfect conditions
to welcome and learn the
universal language of appreciation

what can’t be found here
that doesn’t exist above or beyond
whether beneath the frost
or high above the treetops
where angels still sing




december two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

two young girls at a window


one standing and one sitting what do they see
looking out through the parlor windows
the mostly empty room flooded with natural light
outside the sun reflects off the freshly fallen snow

what do they see and what do they say
or are they simply reading each other’s minds
[like they’ve done since the beginning of time]
or are they marveling at something we cannot see
something beyond our limited comprehension

one standing and one sitting what do they see
these divine spirits disguised as two young girls
looking out through the parlor windows
entranced by the sun reflecting off all eternity




november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

lesser gods and weaker minds


looking for something new
I gaze out the 10th floor window
catching a glimpse of October
waiting in the wings
closely held by unsuspecting vultures
cleverly disguised as angels
coaxing me to open my heart and soul
[and inch closer to the edge]
in exchange promising riper fruit
and even brighter sunrises




september two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

assuming a lesser role


I’m in your movie
perfectly still by a window
shadow like a black bird’s

you feed me my lines
spoonfuls of revolutions
followed by pregnant pause

everywhere people are hungry
overdosing on knowledge
breathing shallowly

and here I remain on the edge
plucking old traditions
and creating new rituals

I usher in the next morning
stretching my wings
and singing higher than an angel
just as you had written




september two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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

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