there on the beach
all the colors of the world
can be found
—all you have to do
is close your eyes
and listen
it matters not
the time of day or year
sounds echoing
colors coming & going
forever staying
in the present
december two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it starts with planting
flowers in the dark
where there is no sunrise
or sunset
—the grand scheme
of things hidden
behind the scenes
rapid eye movement
paints all kinds of pictures
imagining opening
the curtain for all to see
all sorts of colors
splashed upon the fabric
the green of grass
the blue of sky
the yellow sun
new realities are made
in such ways
when eyes are shut
sleepwalking
through the garden
trowel in hand
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we’re going to paint the town
it’s only a matter of deciding
which color
and therein lies the dilemma
while red is the obvious choice
it’s become socially unacceptable
along those lines you may as well
eliminate yellow or any shade
of black & white
politics aside I find myself redefining
the painter’s palette
offering the world brand new colors
but asking you (& only you)
which one we’ll be going with
september two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is color behind those clouds
behold and open your eyes
there’s much more to discover
beyond this black & white world
do not cry moonchild of mine
unfold your palms from your eyes
[and even though you cannot see]
soon you’ll learn to read & write
I’ve described myself to you
in so many words and phrases
and yet you ask to touch my face
telling me to keep quiet for a minute
at least there’s color in my voice
[you tell me beneath your breath]
hands in your pockets & looking away
as if there are diamonds in your eyes
november two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve paper but haven’t
any pen or pencil
anything reasonably
reliable to transfer
my scattered ideas
into chicken scratch
I’ve been feeding
my inconsistent thoughts
with edible charcoals and inks
yet nothing seems
to be sticking against
this stark white wall
restless and rummaging
for snacks inside the pantry
I accidentally uncover
finger paints of all colors
cleverly concealed
inside plastic eggshells
march two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
“I’m sorry I can’t come
to the phone right now
I’m working on my imagination”
What kind of message is that
I ask her
perturbed about not getting
a return call three days now
she’s doing her nails on the
propped-up la-z-boy
eyes looking down
muted x-files rerunning on the wall
it’s not a message
it’s a greeting
she says
still looking down
working her file like some
violin virtuoso
she’s a bitch
that’s all I got to say
my eyes darting about
searching for the remote
I’ve dreamed up a new color she says
do you want to know what it is
no I do not I reply
I just want her to call me back
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I always thought there wasn’t
much diversity in wildflowers
whether growing out of the ground
or painted on walls
the longer I hang out here the more
I’m convinced it has nothing
to do with the questions
you cannot see the spectrum of colors
inside your own eyes
yet you can experience
everything behind the clouds
and when there are no clouds
(in the sky)
you can simply lean back
and quietly say there
I told you so
april two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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