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
This is the third poem in a series of three originally published by ArtiPeeps in their “FreeVerse” Section
october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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
in a desperate attempt
to regain my focus
i found myself
walking the streets
of the city
for days on end
buying random thoughts
from ordinary people
in hopes of curing
the quiet desperation
of an idle mind
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 