A one two three
getting going again
stomping our feet
fingers snapping
embedded within claps
Delores’ bluesy voice
bringing it back home
february two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
There is mystery in the moment
in the here and in the now
much like the time when Robert Johnson
fell down on his knees
The greenery is incredulous
outside the city limits
cotton fields needing picking
workers singing the black man’s blues
Deals are made with the devil
on an ongoing basis
some better known than others
all with a common denominator
It’s not so much what you wish for
than what you think you need
guitar strapped on your back
heading up north on highway one
january two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we’re neither buyers nor sellers
so don’t bother asking
we’re holding on to what we have
[at least for the time being]
praying at sunrise & at sunset
for the wind to bring in the rain
for the blues to be blown away
november two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there’s no anticipation of any sort
driving down this rural rollercoaster-like road
emotions tucked inside glove box
top down and speakers outperforming
background warblers racing along
and singing gloriously
I’ve been chasing recurring dreams
for such a long time seems like reality
somehow though it never gets old
eclectic mandolin relaxing my inner ear
keeping my spirits perfectly in tune
with this endless country road
october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve been locked away for days
recovering from nerve blocks
and a brief episode of the blues
seems I’ve been giving of myself
blindingly and with regularity
not taking into consideration
what’s right with the world
repeated jabs to the gut have a
way of wearing down shadowboxers
not conditioned to go twelve rounds
midnight has long come and gone
and now I find myself (once again)
right back where I started
relighting the dark side of the moon
july two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
a tribute poem to John Lee Hooker
it was hot
but not too hot
and this here old man
sat back on red and plush parlor chair
right there on the sidewalk
his old gibson and radio style mic
plugged into beat-up fender amp
he started strumming this chorus
picking the verses
explaining how he hadn’t seen his girl
since night before last
strumming and picking
his feet tapping the concrete
tenement windows opening
children eyes blinking
mouths widening and smiling
neighborhood cats and dogs and
even mice are drawn to the curbside
children coming out a’running
a young woman sitting cross-legged
on second story window sill
snapping fingers and tearfully
relating to the old man’s story
they’ve all been down this road before
every single body within earshot
soulful and sad but ever so hopeful
realistically aware how it’s
easier said than done
washing away those same old blues
april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
anyone can write the monday blues
how the fog maybe lifts by noon
smartphones unable to upgrade
all on their own
the list grows longer whether it’s
monday or not
liberty or death is
(a matter of) life and breath
invisible wounds like words
perhaps self-inflicted or
suspiciously accidental
there is an artist who really
knows for sure
but they aren’t playing in any
kind of rhythm and blues band
oh no they ain’t singing
like a canary in a cage
dreaming of the sky
december two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I wandered down to the river
where the rolling rock
segues into a row of willows
settled inside the shadows
and wished my blues away
dark clouds gathered ‘round
blanketing the sunshine
casting sheets of rain upon the river
purposefully rhythmical
yet without any reason
eyes surrendering to gravity
I spread my body across the ground
like an angel with torn wings
dreaming within the willows
in every single color except blue
april two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the bad man could care less
about fingers pointed
in his general direction
could care less
when blamed for the sun
not shining
or the dark clouds
not forming
when all anyone really wanted
was a little rain falling down
february two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
butterflies are nothing but
welcomed distractions in a
hurry-up-world
long after the youth of careless
rebellion becomes
netted in routine
december two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
peering out my window
clouds gather around
and darken
a once promising
bright day
blackbirds circle above
slowly descending
and squawking
instinctively finding
shelter
thunder murmurs and moans
and i close my eyes
suppressing
a distant memory
knocking
once the showers arrive
i gaze past the pane
your image
refreshing like the rain
falling
december two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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