out in the fields
children capture carbon
out of thin air
armed with netting
& glass bottles w/airtight lids
having learned early on
rain forests alone
cannot save the planet
november two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
my father goes to bed early
before the sun has set
hoping to find the dream he left behind
the night before
his screams are silenced by
a waxing gibbous
growing larger before his eyes
he is in awe of it
asking permission to take a bite out of it
but the moon says the fruit is not ripe
and my father
dejected
walks into the setting sun
there he is consumed by the next dream
wide awake in his crib
he is happy to be a child again
believing it is the moon
who had brought him back to life
back when his mother was the moon
a wonderful storyteller
altering her appearance day by day
and night by night
she fed him cow’s milk & swiss cheese
when the time was right
she sent him out into the pasture
telling him to discover a whole new world
and so off he went in search
of treasure
buried somewhere in the pasture
never to be seen again
november two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
on the floor in the foyer
the three of us playing jacks
sitting cross-legged
going thru the motions procedurally
—the front door wide open
a breeze coming in through the screen
why do you look at me like that
she demands
we saw what you did so just move on
as the youngest I appreciated
the accolades
and so moving on is what I did
knowing her contempt
and the silence of the other one
only confirming my contention
I’ve arrived here
from another world
october two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
The hill was usually off-white
& much steeper in the winter
a time when they would pull
their flexible flyer along centuries-old stone steps
a slow climb as others raced by
in the opposite direction
their prostrate bodies
a colorful low lying blur
—familiar voices screaming
in uncontrolled exhilaration
august two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
out in the field we wielded sickles
carving weeds into baselines
and summer into baseball
when word got out about the
neighborhood transformation
prospects from near and far arrived by
foot and on bike with gloves and caps
and bubble gum and bats
curious seekers trickled in
spectating the self-governed exhibitions
sitting on lawn chairs and blankets
munching popcorn and cracker jack
and sipping five cent lemonade
as the winning run crossed the plate
dinner bells could be heard
echoing through the streets
a signal of sorts to choose two new teams
followed by the first pitch to the third
and final game
june two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
out of the fields and onto my bike
glove and spikes
strapped on the rack
I race through the cemetery shortcut
straight to the diamond
to get away was to get away
from the house of rules
where the master
made sure it was okay to disappear
as long as the work was done
transformed into a collective whole
I become one of many parts
dreaming to be the hero
while trying not to make an error
examining the stitches
hand-sewn on my pants
as well as the fastball
playing music beneath my chin
april two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we worked the wet sand
into old world castles
restarting aqueducts and
protecting the bridge with
toy soldiers
overnight tides washed
away recent memory
giving way to daybreak
and the innocence of
virgin beaches
starting from scratch
we sawed and
sanded and hammered away
convincing ourselves
things will be different
december two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I stood in the kitchen dumbfounded
body leaning toward the counter
my arms stretched out
my hands gripping the edge
preventing me from falling straight down
once again short-term memory gaps
have poked holes into my productivity
the interruption of progressive thoughts
leading me down avenues of days long gone
like when I wore batman capes
and had real conversations with the mailman
I remember once when I was five
on an early sunday morning
all alone in the great room watching cartoons
my body laid out with elbows on the carpet
and chin resting inside my hands
when all of a sudden a dull clash
resonated from the kitchen and slowly
bounced it’s way into the great room
I dared not move one iota
as I stared into the kitchen
tall shadows moved about the inner walls
no doubt cast by the breeze nudging the evergreens
but I was petrified nonetheless
and hid like a stone waiting to be found
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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