painting you from memory
how many times now
eyes closed and slightly smiling
pencil-thin eyebrows hiding behind
rose-colored glasses
a shade similar to your swollen
cheeks after sailing from mid-afternoon
until sundown
one hand combing through your locks
the other pinned behind your back
april two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we built a fire in the fire pit
kept it going into december
when the sky was blue
and air was cold
you played violin
and I played harmonica
we sang to the fire in the sky
we prayed for the fog to roll in
the first frost came and went
but we were ill-prepared
like we always were
I keep telling you I am the same boy
you first met decades ago
and you tell me the ocean is still green
november two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
those bulbs I planted in november
keep quiet underground
buried like bad memories
dying to stretch to the surface
by the time january arrives
all is but forgotten
wiped away by a clean
sheet of freshly fallen snow
march came roaring in like a lion
and departed like a lamb
the jet stream passing favors
to the earliest of risers
on may day the flowers opened
bright and smartly sassy
I smiled but then remembered
about the bulbs
and sadly I was taken back
all the way to november
april two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
she spoke with forked tongue
but I understood
every word she said
she said I had been dead
for three days
before resurrecting
my consciousness
back wandering the earth
I was sent searching
for a flower yet to be born
strolling beside a copse
instinctively I stopped
and squatted and became
mesmerizingly lost
as the glass petals
slowly unfolded into
another world
october two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
your garden is all grown up
said the daughter
to the old man as they
sat in front of the fire pit
listening to the wood talk
she remembered way back when
there were stepping stones
throughout the garden
and she would jump from one stone
to the next like you would
playing hopscotch
the stones were still there
camouflaged beneath the jungle
barely noticeable amongst the greenery
blossoming a spectrum of colors
rainbows inspired to imitate
do you remember
when we put in the stepping stones
asked the old man
yes I do
answered the daughter
I was just thinking about that
june two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in the archives
they let me spend my time
weaving tales of prison breaks
not even the watchtower
can contain
this life inside
the loneliest place on earth
would break the common man
but here I sit and sail away
stealthily
once a month
I wander the yard and chat
with all the pretty young ladies
who stopped writing me
years ago
in my mind
I lived out my days in paradise
where the flowering perennials
rooted before the breach
still flourish
june 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
there is no sense
in revisiting all the bad things
that may or may not have happened
instead
think of the things yet to come
like the seeds of dahlia
planted in your mind
create and smile and live
the way only you know how
and call forth into your mind
sunshine
where there is none
and beat back the darkness
with luminescent petals
may two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
on the most sorrowful day floral arrangements
accompany the winding road
as the birds of the field sing their joyful songs
nearby wildflowers weep and sway
newly clipped roses wrapped in paper produce
smiles once believed long gone
wherever a child is knee-deep in raw color
never let time pass away
april two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the ancient ocean gave birth
to fertile earth admired from afar
worked by hands never seen
from its soil a new creation evolved
assisted by elements capable
of producing wind and fire
seedlings awakened and stretched
and instinctively sought to reach
the warmth of the outer dome
brown and green gradually gathered
throughout the valley
weaving itself into a blanket
of outlandish colors
november two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
The garden beds never existed
twenty years ago where a sloping
hill begged to be cut into by an old man
in a bobcat, while younger men
With shovels and levels laid stone blocks
across the yard with precision
and speed, like a kid building
a lego wall for the umpteenth time.
As youngsters we ran carefully through
the new garden, leaping on one stone
circle after another placed in no
particular pattern by my father,
While in between young flowering plants
and herbs and shrubs learned
to adapt and prosper in the rich soil.
Season after season my father
Experimented in the garden,
purchasing deer resistant perennials
from the nursery, using his spade
to plant the new and rearrange
The old, pruning in the Spring
and deadheading in the fall,
raising them as if they were
his second set of children.
In midsummer we visit with our own
little ones who love to hop through
the fully mature garden, abloom
in shades of red and green,
Yellow and purple, blue and orange,
with barely enough room
for anything new, still babied
by the man who raised them so strong.
june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Bring me back pictures
from Paris
or better yet email them
as you take them
with your lovely friends
who really aren’t your friends
but hired sycophants
who follow you
all over the world
Bring me flowers
from foreign lands
prove to me that you still love me
and want me around
even though
you left me here
daydreaming
in my horseless chariot
wondering where you are
may two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
