daydreaming away
rains recede entirely
eyes open to light
unsure what day it is
or what time
where did you go
& how long were you there
better yet why oh why
did you ever return
none of us belong here
you used to me tell
& what I’ve always believed
april two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in my place it’s so quiet
I can hear them performing upstairs
to an empty venue
reciting words or strumming chords
leg wrestling or listening to music
or simply adjusting
sitz bones on wooden chairs
outside their windows
a modest breeze animates life
young leaves sway slowly
keeping time with wooden
and ceramic and metallic chimes
while arms reach out and stretch
to catch a moment in time
one by one they escape
down the patchwork trellis
their voices hushed and excited
pitching a new game where
they scatter off forever and a day
only to reconnect back upstairs
whenever least expected
february two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Thousands of miles from home, viewing gardens
I’ve been meaning to plant, I sit and sketch
with charcoal on textured paper a perfect,
utopian presence like that place in Genesis.
The hotel makes me honestly welcomed
from the “Sirs” to the stars to the telephone
in the commode. In the drawing I see myself
never leaving, ever. I am drawn to be within
The shades of grass and green, contemplating
the reasons I should ever leave the stone
and glass and fabric and hospitality
that has enveloped me in this lofty balcony.
Below the waters are warm. The bodies
are near and brown, living out temporary
yet simple days, their imperfections hidden
beneath the moonlight, their conversations distant,
Calming and inviting. It takes almost nothing
to remove myself from a world a million miles
away; takes a conscious effort to check out
and return with nothing but a vestigial drawing.
original version penned nineteen ninety-eight
rewritten and recorded july two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
There is nothing wrong
with my mind
nothing wrong with my body parts
or the way I go about my day
thinking about flowers
I’ve yet to come across
I can still put together a crossword puzzle
like a son of a bitch
but I choose not to
because there are so many more
important things yet to be done
Sometimes I’d rather sit here
and play online poker
while putting together words
I call poetry
and recite them back to myself
nodding and pretending
someone might like them
a half a world away
There is nothing wrong
with my mind
even though some days I wish there was
so I could just sit here
and daydream
and listen to my heart beat
may two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I lost my way along the way
and wound up in a tavern
I never knew existed
I ordered a dark beer
and sat alone
wondering how it was
I had found this place
there were so many things
I meant to get done that day
but nothing seemed to be working
so I wandered out of the city
looking at nothing in particular
and daydreaming
about all the things I had done
once finishing off the pint of beer
the bartender
poured me another without
either of us saying one word
may two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it doesn’t take much
to flip on the switch
and drop down deep
into a chasm
of a distant memory
self-prescribed doses
of self-hypnosis
transports the mind
toward understanding
ancestral realities
old candles aflame
from wishful thinking
exposes wormholes
of new dimensions
leading to affinity
april two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I was thinking about that hotel
in memphis
the old one a few blocks north of
beale street
where the ducks live on the roof
and every day around
happy hour
they take the elevator to the first floor
and march single file on the
red carpet
then hop-skip-and-flap
right into the lobby water fountain
for a late afternoon swim
as the patrons quietly applaud
I can’t help but imagine what a scene
it would be
if all of them were pigs
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the river ran dry
the year of the drought
collapsing the water table
atop its own legs
the wishing well closed
from lack of moisture
turning back all the day dreamers
hoping for change
september two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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