and then there were just
the two of us
yielding to the god of wine
on the back deck
minutes before sunrise
the rest said
they were going down to the river
to see if the catfish were biting
that was at least a couple of hours ago
they took with them the last of the red
but I said do not worry darling
we’ve yet to open the last of the white
october two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
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my father grew up near the spoon river
[named after a fictional illinois town]
and only lately have I wondered
if as a boy he’d fish for channel cat there
something he loved to do in his retirement
at lock and dam 14 on the mississippi
here I stand hundreds of miles away
casting my line into the wapsipinicon
[named by the chippewa after aquatic
plants they called ‘swan potatoes’]
my eyes focused on the shiny spinner
my mind rewinding and fast forwarding
I’ve caught and released countless cat
this hot and humid july afternoon
summer sun finally muted by the treeline
a subtle reminder that despite the heat
relief will eventually come my way
as I retrace ten thousand steps back home
july two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was a matter of time that your life
became mainly a flashback
like a character in a dickens novel
stretched thin on a cold march day
it was a matter of time recollecting
faded images of a former self
one plodding alongside trout stream
aided by spear tipped hiking stick
it was a matter time accepting
the thought of looking back
plunging the blade through the ice
shattering what was once indestructible
and exposing a brand new world
february two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we fished off the docks
overcast sunday morning
praying for a break
weatherman says
tomorrow should be better
once churchgoers
and earthworms are all
back at work
most of us don’t
give a damn
about day jobs or night life
let alone the cost of
living or dying
river keeps calling
finding ourselves responding
come rain or come shine
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve
there was fish in the basement freezer
bluegills caught in the mississippi
taken home and cleaned
filleted and carefully placed in ziplocs
each dated by way of sharpie
each day a story unto itself
each story a small piece of the life
and times of a solitary man
long removed from
an ordinary working life
if you don’t move you will die
he told his son
carefully stepping down the stairs
unlocking freezer door with key
he kept hanging on a nail
fearful the fish might one day escape
and find their way back home
september two thousand eighteen
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all rights reserved
we sat on the dock
feet dangling and bobbers
bobbing atop quiet wakes
ushered in by a dying sun
succumbing to giant moon
we spoke occasionally
about deficits and taxes and
royal weddings
steering clear of world wars
and foreign matters
for the most part though
we kept the conversation
to a minimum
drinking the king’s ale
waiting for mackerel to strike
may two thousand eighteen
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all rights reserved
sitting on narrow part of bridge
we fish from the bottom
at three-thirty in the morning
having closed the bars
we now chat side by side
unexpectedly witnessing
waxing moon blooming
while most people dream
we resume this conversation
started decades ago
at last coming to a head
suddenly realizing
past years made no sense
and most likely never will
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
We’re supposed to be on the road by now
but Ted can’t seem to find the car keys
and DeSalvo’s rolling joints in the next room
sitting Indian style in the loveseat
I’m busy stuffing my backpack with
chocolate bars and graham crackers
and marshmallows and assortment
of individual servings of breakfast cereals
and Frito Lay snacks
Ted is arguing with his folks who
never seem to grow old
his mother with a dirty dishrag in her hand
his father smoking Marlboro Reds
and lambasting his son for chores undone
I’m in the garage now
stocking the cooler with Bud heavy
and whole milk and boxes of Sunny D
carton of 18 raw eggs and Oscar Mayer bacon
Let’s go let’s go I yell but nobody hears me
DeSalvo’s now out of my sight
most likely licking the edge of the rolling paper
eyes smiling and marveling
at his own imperfections
Hey Ted where the hell’s the ice I yell
but I don’t think he heard me
but I do think I heard his dad slap him
upside his head
Finally he comes out all red faced
DeSalvo right behind him smiling
checking his pants for a Bic lighter
Everything okay I ask
Yeah Ted says let’s get the fuck out of here
we’re taking the Lincoln Continental
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the weather turned midday
as a warmish sun gave way
to coldish clouds and variable winds
nearly knee deep in blackish
backwaters
rainbow trout suddenly start
striking at mini-jigs
hand and eye react instinctively
despite scattered thoughts
racing past
slippery rocks in river bed
patience is like an acquired taste
(you tell yourself)
best served in solitary confines
the cool waters gradually
drop in temperature
yet you continue to wade
further away
dead set on an eddying pool
silently calling your name
november two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s only a matter of time
before the next city gets sacked
it could be yours whether or not
you like being alive or dead
you could be sitting in a mosque
or a church or a temple
or in a gazebo in a meadow
or on a deck overlooking a lake
or out on the river fishing for trout
or out on the sea fishing for men
or inside a corner tavern
open for business on any given sunday
everywhere there are people
inhabiting this place
putting two and two together
questioning the laws of nature
ninety-nine plus percent certain
killing has nothing to do with survival
september two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
how many miles we traveled
far from shore I do not know
the early morning city lights
flickering atop gentle waves
skyscrapers sinking into their
self-induced holes as
madmen rush to resurrect them
the fish were striking at an incredible
pace and the captain had trouble
resetting all the downriggers
while house flies persistently bit
the whitest of legs
reminding the youngest of men
everything comes with a price
at the end of the day as the boat
drifted back to shore
there were no women or children
welcoming them back home
there were no lights
no music streaming from pipes
but the streets
the streets they were weeping
streets littered by madmen
already destroying the next city
june two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is an empty dumpster sitting in a
driveway down the street
it was delivered there yesterday I said
what the hell are you talking about she said
that dumpster got dropped off last friday
I exhale some sort of harumph
and step into the next room
quickly standing squarely in front
of the bay window
dumbfounded and staring at that thing
tomorrow will make it a week
I say to myself
almost certain tomorrow is friday again
I wonder if I they need any help over there
I yelled back toward the kitchen
silence
not even a “what-did-you-say”
I wonder if I should go fishing
I tell myself
and try to figure out exactly why
a perfectly quiet neighbor
is throwing away his life
may two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I saw jesus on tokyo bay
speaking spanglish and
directing fishing boats
like a venerable traffic cop
dressed in seamless jeans
and oversized shirt
he unveiled the sun with his hands
welcoming all to follow in his wake
docking close to disney at night
the city prefect greeted him with
flowers and rings and keys
proceeding to escort his entourage
to the enchanted tiki room
swapping stories and feasting
on the day’s catch
tourists gradually gathered round
sampling the uncooked bounty
imported from half a world away
april two thousand fifteen
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all rights reserved
sometimes I just cry myself to sleep
when I think about all the things
I’m gonna miss about this place
I told jesus
as we sat on the rocks
casting our lines out into the sea
neither of us worrying
whether or not there was fish to catch
june two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was the silence he said
that rocked his world
giving him thoughtful insight
into the universe
i thought that sounded nice
so i ordered another round
and asked him to feed me more
he said god would visit him often
while fishing the deep pools
lock and dam fourteen created
near the banks of the mississippi
it was there when the whole world
slept that catfish after catfish
struck his line
breaking the silence
and exorcising
the demons
planted inside him centuries ago
by a paranoid church and state
i leaned back in the barstool
and nodded my head
drawing smoke to my lungs
curiously asking him
about the bait he used
as the bartender yelled
‘last call’
december two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
standing in the cloudless water
filled with rocks and sediment
and good vibrations
i cast my line
at a buffeted white boulder
shadowing a four foot pool
i pull and pause the jig with imprecise
rhythm along the creek bed
darting to the left
and to the right
jerking and sliding at my command
like a puppeteer playing the part
i bring home the jig and recast
at the same target as before
one eye focused
on the motion
the other at the rainbow trout
dormant and disinterested
over time my mind wanders
as the jig continues the routine
teasing its nemesis
with its tastiness
destined to vanish into the dark
and revive me from my trance
september two thousand twelve
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all rights reserved
I awoke around four
on a Sunday morning
and couldn’t get back to sleep
so I got out of bed
and threw my fishing pole
and tackle box in the back seat
of my Bimmer
headed North to the nearest trout stream
When I reached Monastery Creek
I heard a rooster crow
at a nearby farm
awakening all the superstitious critters
who believed I had come
to save their souls
june 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
We used to get in the car and drive Northeast
to Bellevue in Jackson County,
to a place where prehistoric Woodland Indians once roamed;
where Blackhawk himself used to call home.
Nearing the outskirts of town we wended along
the side of a hill on a gravel road,
the valley below offering pastures and wild fields
in between the meandering Little Mill.
We always ventured all the way into town first
to the Mississippi River,
where Dad would fill up with gas and buy donuts,
live bait, and a pack of cigarettes.
It was then we would run across the busy street
to the green steel fence rail,
look out over the Mighty Mississippi, count the sails
dotted up and down the river.
There was plenty of fish to catch in the river
Dad always pontificated,
but Little Mill offered what the Mississippi could not:
Rainbow Trout and isolation.
may two thousand twelve
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all rights reserved
