jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “garden”

it’s never too late


I’ve found myself so many times
it’s hard imagining finding myself again


in the garden everyone feasts
the bird
the butterfly
the rodent and the worm
insects and felines and canines
stamens and pistils
day lilies and night owls
tree limbs and branches hanging fruit
angels and devils and humans
shoving shovels into the ground
stirring and spawning new life

meanwhile the sun and moon
(and the season known as spring)
continue to operate like a heartbeat



june two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

garden of confusion


wind chimes chatter in the mist
varied in pitch and velocity
powered by dark winds
swirling past steel spiders

rusty fish swim by twilight
nipping at one-legged flamingo
all tucked in for the night

silent rocks in aerated streams
attract ceramic turtles and
green neon frogs
settling on that perfect spot

avian whispers segue into
full-fledged sirens
scaring the wildflowers away


april two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

time capsule crash landing


late autumn afternoon
digging into garden bed
and separating little bulbs
from big ones
I uncover a shiny emerald stone

I rub off the dirt with soiled fingers
and polish it with my shirt
kneeling and looking up
I hold it skyward past
silent clouds drifting
my eyes squinting
my mind racing

from out of this world
it came crashing
burrowing into the earth
untouched for perhaps centuries
but now my cherished treasure
if only for the shortest
moment in time


december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

stepping stones


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

the dream of the butterfly


when i was a butterfly
i floated with the best of them
from country meadow
to urban garden
my world an eternal adventure
of technicolor and sound

when i was a butterfly
children chased me with their nets
but my keen instincts
evaded their hopes
of ever capturing the beauty
forever felt in their hearts

when i was a butterfly
every day was like a dream
of first impressions
repeating themselves
toward an expanding evolution
of psychedelic freedom



january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Springtime in Russia


The six-month winter miraculously
segues into a psychedelic fever
of blossoming apple trees
and awakening white birches
as white-fronted geese
flock along an endless sky
painted robin’s-egg blue.

Outside the city garden plots
become reacquainted
with agrarian hands skilled
from generation’s past
furiously planting and artfully
nurturing all that is necessary
to survive the next winter.


‘Springtime in Russia’ youtube video

january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

tomorrow


i sit in the garden of good
and evil
and wonder if i’ve witnessed
enough

the quiet and beauty
of the garden
stands in dark contrast
to the cruel corners
of a violent
planet

i sometimes wonder
how the sunrise
will hit the acropolis
a thousand years from now
wonder in what way
i’ll be able to archive it
and recall it
again and again

(i’ve witnessed the birth
and near drowning death
of a child
only to be brought back to life
by a breath
i never knew existed)

as i sit in the garden
i understand there is more
to accomplish
on the other side of the hill
understand there will always be more
on the other side
where the fish jump
and the mountains climb
where promises sometimes
fall short
and recklessness
is always welcome

just like sound is neither
past nor present
there is no more tomorrow
there is only the garden



december two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

embryo


I entered the world
like a flower blooming
an experience blocked
from a memory dying
to understand
how the subliminal past
led me to this time
where I beget the pistil
and the petal


’embryo’ youtube video

november two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

reflect


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

Season After Season


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

The Varmint


I spied a creature in the garden,
Its ugly legs and furry body
Not fooling anyone; its soundless
Maneuvers and cunning eyes
Giving me total recall
Of so many cowards.

After an unsettling night of rest,
I found myself in the garden,
Inspecting the damage the varmint
Had done: the imprints and droppings,
Stolen leaves and cigarette butts.
The son-of-a-bitch even etched
The emoticon semicolon pee
Right in the dirt!

For nights I scoured the web,
Matching footprints and scents
That plagued so many others,
Narrowing it down to a few
Who could be so clever,
Who could sneak into the house
And take sips of hummingbird nectar
Stored in the refrigerator door;
Help himself to a bottle of Bud.

What a scarecrow he would make
Once bagged and properly dressed;
What a lesson he could teach
His pathetic relations when impaled
So prominently between the lettuce
And purple phlox, the snide smile
Remaining on his face.


two thousand nine
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Therapy


I wasn’t scared
just slightly out of it
plus these bloody needles
don’t do anything for me
all day.

Later in the evening
reaching for another
I sometimes wonder
if Mister Doctor
knows I’ve always
told him the truth.

I hear the economy
in Mendocino County
is doing just fine.
In my mind
I am already there
tending my own garden.



april, two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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