There’s something about this coffee,
I said, speaking to the cat,
knowing she knew exactly what I meant
because she too drinks the same water
from this dated kitchen.
There’s nothing right about this place,
it seems to have lost
the intimacy it once had.
Instead of doing anything about it
I’m just going to drink
this lousy cup of coffee
and wonder where the angels went.
july two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
i’m borrowing this rock
i keep in my pocket
uncovered years ago
when starting the garden
i washed it off
in the birdbath
dirtying the water
and giving it new life
for however long i can
july two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
wishes will always live
in so many forms
health, happiness and wealth
something as grand
as world peace
or refreshing
as a family in harmony
strangely beautiful words
wish to find true colors
worthy of painting
a world beyond tomorrow
june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
a murder of crows
bide their time
on the outskirts of town
waiting patiently
as the virus
gripped the residents
with fever and fear
death by death
the murder grew larger
their calls becoming
creepingly human
their strategy
instinctively fine-tuned
and well orchestrated
the devastation
never aired anywhere
no mention of crows
nor intelligence
of any pandemic
ever germinating
in an alien field
april two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
“The wages of sin is death”
flashed before my eyes
while driving 80 miles per hour
on Highway 13.
A pain shot up
my arm and for a moment
I had no hands on the steering wheel.
In what context, I wondered
did the homemade sign suggest?
And why did it happen
to find me there?
march, two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
We drove through the cemetery
in the dead of winter
until we found the blue canopy
flopping in the wind
Many inches of snow had fallen
the night before but the plow
had cleared the lanes
A bright sun and dress shoes
hit the asphalt with purpose
As many as a hundred faces
converged on the canopy
in steadfast silence
Gusts of wind arrived from the west
and tossed snow off the roof
and onto the gatherers
Familiar prayers were recited
between coughs and sniffles
and one woman’s weeping
When a bugler played
a familiar lullaby
the vacant faces drifted
in varying directions
whispers of sorrow filling the air
january two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
He entered the house where decades ago he slept in a crib
in one of four bedrooms. Once inside a curious sense of loss
breathed throughout the rooms void of knickknacks and heirlooms.
A flurry of past and present images projected onto the walls
as memories both vague and succinct darted here and there.
In the kitchen the refrigerator exhaled and ice hit the empty tray.
Bending on one knee he reached his arm and unplugged the unit,
a slight emission emanating a smell much like Marlboro Light.
january two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 