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
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
what kind of life is this
with all the dirt and disease and dangers
having to bring out your dead
once a month
not to mention
not having access to wikipedia dot org
nor understanding the concept
of pursuing happiness
june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Along the riverwalk my soul took turns
it had never taken before. The landscape
of skin and fowl and vegetation introduced
a program of thoughts of unfamiliarity
that encouraged oral and penless poetry.
The language inspired Latino rhythms,
challenged me to find words similar
to cerveza and como se dice. And, as my
tennis-shoed feet encountered both concrete
and water, I almost believed I had lived
here before with some sort of importance.
I saw the Alamo but did not enter–
it was aboveground and therefore off limits.
No matter what the reason, I stayed below
and pretended to exist beyond belief.
nineteen ninety-nine
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
i had taken this road
so many times
in my german sportscar
from highway thirteen
to one fifty-one
just as the sun played
peekaboo with the rolling hills
memory and instinct
found me banking
the wide curves and picking up
speed into the straightways
my mind free
from the distractions
of yesterday’s troubles
slowing into the next
historic cottage
i spotted a freshly paved lane
heading towards the valley’s bluff
my machine fast
flying straight off the edge
into a waking paralysis
june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
deep thoughts reside
on the far side of the moon
where the sleeper catcher
infrequently visits
an otherwise quiet mind
gradually over time
subconscious spirits
escape past the dreams
quietly acting out
a world I yet to know
may two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
i’m itching to get you out
on the county roads
with the top down
speeding and laughing
across two counties
weaving our way
toward the trout stream
marked on the map
alive in our dreams
may two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the dogs barking
three doors down
at two in the morning
entered my dreams
and made my night
slightly uncomfortable
in the morning
i brewed coffee
turned on the television
only to see myself
getting handcuffed
listening to miranda
may two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Fast asleep by midmorning
I dream of never waking
of sailing past an open sea
My shell is like a water vessel
blending into the horizon
melting into a fiery sun
Transforming into nature
I stay awake forever
casting hope into a dark night
april two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
The market doesn’t care
whether your kids are in daycare
or off to college,
could care less
if your car is broken down
or your house payment is late.
It does, however, care what happens
millions of miles away
where armed conflicts,
failing governments
and pandering politicians
wreak havoc
with your monthly budget
and tomorrow’s dreams.
april, two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
The last bullet
was intended for me
came out of nowhere
like a flash of light
its irresistible spin traveling
some two thousand miles per second
much faster than my mind
could comprehend
The last bullet
remained lodged
in my brain until the day came
when I could no longer believe
I had beat it
could no longer replay in slow motion
how it had arrived there
night after night
march, two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Her photograph had faded
over the years
its corners bent
the once off-white border
discolored from finger-oil
Over time she slipped inside
a plastic sleeve
her visage turning softer
her smile faraway yet forgiving
To be sure no words matched
the strength of her photograph
her haunting thoughts
filling my dreams
january two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
This trail used to go deep
into the woods
where trees grew twenty stories tall
and wept at night
when the wind blew just right.
Exactly half-way in
a circular fire pit made of round stones
and built by natives
brought order and clarity
inside this forgotten place.
Whenever I lose sight
or long to reminisce
I close my eyes and dream
of the Indian Trail
I miss so much.
december two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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