for centuries the survivors
of the forgotten world
journeyed to the ancient city
to marvel at the concrete
and glass that once gave rise
to an infallible dream
unable to imagine
such destructive forces
the children picked wildflowers
growing from the ash
waving them in the air
pretending to surrender
january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
after the lights went out
and the snow plows were grounded
the people took their arms
and left for the country
to find fuel for the fire
a decade later and a
generation forsaken
all the little girls turned into mothers
sooner than anyone
could ever have imagined
december two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the orphan child grew
into a selfless man
always helping others
despite the failure
to ever comprehend
his own abandonment
october two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
and the water fell
pounded upon the earth
relentlessly cleansing
the planet for centuries
forcing god’s children
to reinvent themselves
yet another time
october two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we danced in the rain
beneath the streetlamp
our minds drifting
past the invisible moon
into carelessness
we lived in a place
without birth or death
a visual paradise
where angels in the sky
longed to touch down
at night we chanted
for the moon and rain
to call the children
hiding beyond the light
to dance
and dance again
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Now that the house is empty
I easily awaken from cries
in the dark, sneaking in
through the bedroom window
on a cool, autumn morning.
I roll out of bed at four a.m.
and rush to the window
like a child on Christmas Eve;
eyes focused on the house
across the street, a lone light
leaking through the drawn shade.
Once the child has grown quiet
from his mother’s magical touch,
I crawl back to bed, wondering
where my own children might be
and if they ever think of me
when hearing cries in the dark.
july two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
The garden beds never existed
twenty years ago where a sloping
hill begged to be cut into by an old man
in a bobcat, while younger men
With shovels and levels laid stone blocks
across the yard with precision
and speed, like a kid building
a lego wall for the umpteenth time.
As youngsters we ran carefully through
the new garden, leaping on one stone
circle after another placed in no
particular pattern by my father,
While in between young flowering plants
and herbs and shrubs learned
to adapt and prosper in the rich soil.
Season after season my father
Experimented in the garden,
purchasing deer resistant perennials
from the nursery, using his spade
to plant the new and rearrange
The old, pruning in the Spring
and deadheading in the fall,
raising them as if they were
his second set of children.
In midsummer we visit with our own
little ones who love to hop through
the fully mature garden, abloom
in shades of red and green,
Yellow and purple, blue and orange,
with barely enough room
for anything new, still babied
by the man who raised them so strong.
june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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