the mute doesn’t germinate words
on the tip of his tongue
instead they’re at the tip of his fingers
and so he sits there
dumbfounded & motionless
the screams though
they come in loud & clear
on the personal unconscious level
at times loud enough
to shake him to the core
awakening him from a deep deep sleep
to dream is to scream
or so says the mute
staring at his fingertips
channeling the collective unconscious
writing down each experience
once reawakening
december two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
if you stare at something
long enough
[even empty space]
something real or imaginary
will eventually materialize
creation is available
to anyone besides the gods
it simply needs to be
sought after
like treasure buried
deep in the forest
without diving blindly
into the prohibited abyss
how else would you
find new worlds
otherwise unimaginable
october two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
sometimes when I’m stuck
I ask myself
what would bukowski do
and it is in that moment
I realize
I’ll remain stuck
at least until
the sun goes down
august two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I got mustard on my keyboard
and like most things from my past
I find myself swiping
& starting over again
the potato salad could use
a little more mustard
I remember telling myself post facto
enjoying a glass of vienna lager
in the parlor
I wasn’t expecting company
but someone let them in
(one after the other)
and next thing I knew
my beer was nearly gone
this wasn’t a poetry workshop
but rather ideas that fly in the face
of artistic merit
like passing the bucket hat
from one armchair critic to the next
april two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
rhyme & meter fail me
as I reach for words [like a
kite] caught up in a tree
there is no pattern to follow
no cut & paste
or rinse & repeat
only a faint premonition
stirring within the leaves
and there at the base
sits a collection basket
haphazardly catching
that which may fall from above
[and to be recycled later]
—the rest around the perimeter
raked into a pile of ideas
october two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve taken an interest in illustrating
her pretty white lies
turning them into pretentious trees
inside my newly acquired
little black book
music on the radio I pause & choose
who should I believe
strong winds shaking loose the leaves
I pick them up two at a time
saying she loves me not
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the illustrator is a solitary sort
unaffected by the price
of electricity or groceries
quietly going about the business
of pleasing one child at a time
as a student of life itself
nothing was out of bounds
pain & grief & sorrow
joy & humor & celebration
aiming to make the children
think for themselves
creatively showing them
the power of possibilities
august two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
when you don’t think
but simply do
that’s the condition
you are after
a natural state of motion
actively determinable
but unrealized in the mind
from there you sit still
in the center
of your own indifference
naturally at ease
pausing without reason
rewinding at will & replaying
all that you’ve done
march two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
flip style
box top
magically opens
revealing sixty-four crayolas
fingers and voices counting and
calling each by name
eyes sparkling
cheeks blushing
lips smiling
the youngest and oldest of minds
opening up to new ideas
born on white sheets of paper
may two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
by Daniella Sciuto & J Matthew Waters
a mess of discarded words
surround the waste paper bin
a screwed up frustrating mishmash
of misbehaving poetry
sent to Coventry
the current state of affairs
keeps missing the mark
ideas bouncing off rims in silence
not even a dead klunk
to rattle my soul
to let me know
if I more accurately honed my aim
matched that rhythm zigzagging
in and out of my own personal alphabet
if I took an occasional Z
rhymed it with W instead
attached it to an A, B or C
would poetry suddenly
work for me
exhausted I pause
stare deep into the double-hung window
a handful of flies
trapped between the panes
gasping for fresh air
crawling and buzzing
schizophrenically searching
for the only way out
watching me in a frenzy
weighing up the worth
over-thinking the import
of a few lonely words
which my pen decides
to frantically override
in indigo ink
the day turns to dust
water turns to wine
turns to blood in a trice
I raise my ancient chalice
toasting and praying
to the poetry gods on high
for an ounce of inspiration
as I drift into stars
the night showers reams
of words falling free
my pen and my paper
and my mind all three
collaborate with the gods
to write dream poetry
in the morning I awake
feel the words as they bleed
dead flies on the sill
empty paper
empty pen
an empty state of mind
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
I stroll into the kitchen
to mix another drink
and as I return I realize
this one is no more
important than the
previous ones
and that they all contribute
cumulatively to my
intoxicating creativity
september two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 