poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “blackbirds”

crossing the line

I tell myself I can’t write poetry like that
that my voice just won’t obey
what the mind wants to imitate

and even though I once was a blackbird
my voice will sing no more

isolated by accident
I consider knives & scissors & fingernail
cutting up a past by creating
jagged shapes out of paper
and new definitions out of thin air

how the pieces get put back together
is out of my control
for there are more compelling things
to consider as we cross over the line

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

carbon copying blackbirds

burning down the forest
doesn’t seem like the right thing to do
whether in times of peace or war

it’s not like you can make carbon copies
of hundreds of thousands of trees
replacing them within a generation or two
after having the enemy succumbed to flames

it’s not like you can stitch & sew time
making it nineteen ninety-nine all over again
before the world became more complicated
than la niña or an impossible crossword

ever since the first shots were fired
blackbirds continue to gather at the border
in numbers innumerable
patiently waiting for all hell to break loose

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

old school thrush

blackbird blackbird
visible in my peripheral
perched upon six foot fence post
barely saying a word

blackbird blackbird
surveying golden field
extant and flawlessly beautiful
dreaming up a new song

blackbird blackbird
as old as the living hills
posing ever so noiselessly
no particular place to go

september two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

a matter of black and white

it’s never too late to get started
seeing things for the first time
whether walking through walls
or flying high in the sky

black birds too numerous to count
become motivated by changing winds
amassing in tradition and spirit
swirling like fast moving cloud

oh yes there are darker days ahead
or so says the prognosticator
white dove perched on shoulder
whispering secrets in her ear

sometimes the truth is in flight
other times walking on thin air
appearing and disappearing
like the great houdini himself

november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

patient like the blackbird

in my isolation blackbird does appear
stammering about calmly impatient
deliberately explaining to me
my imaginary predicament

he says we’ve flown many times
into the unknown
much like a dream that repeats
but only after long intervals
like how distant planet orbits her sun

I’ve rescued you many times
(he goes on to explain)
taking you to the safety of the towers
where you witness firsthand
flocks of blackbirds
feasting into the night

april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

stuck on track eleven

half dozen white-eyed blackbirds
pace and fidget on a shelf
grooving to the white album
and lip-syncing at will

unsure what brought them there
not one of them cares
not as long as there are nuts to crack
and old-time rock to hear

may two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

yesterday’s sunshine

you store it in virtual bottles
stashed away in far away places
sealed tight and out of sight

you inspire to relive the bottling
hidden from everyday reality
filled with genuine creativity
and dying to be retold

reopening yesterday’s sunshine
is as dangerous as blackbirds
sulking in the shadows
calling forth the ghost of cruelty
to usher in new beauty

february two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

outside my window

peering out my window
clouds gather around
and darken
a once promising
bright day

blackbirds circle above
slowly descending
and squawking
instinctively finding

thunder murmurs and moans
and i close my eyes
a distant memory

once the showers arrive
i gaze past the pane
your image
refreshing like the rain

december two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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