jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “garden”

the garden reprised


we’ve done this before
making something out of thin air
whether simple words or complex webs
designed to bring us closer

the power of sleep brings forth
limitless possibilities
exposing past and future lives
such as the spider or the fly

at some point it stands to reason
why the trees have knowledge
and birds perpetuate folklore
why the snake in the green green grass
will one day be your best friend




september two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

attracting butterflies


how the garden grows
in my absence

photos clicked and sent
my way via
short message service

I don’t own a device
anymore
but I can still receive

be they still or moving
or downright blossoming
it matters not

I like the bleeding hearts best
almost always first
or second to arrive
depending upon the winter

I promise I’ll be back soon
it’s only temporary
where I’ve been
or where I’m going

if memory serves me right
the tulips will be next





april two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

just as you are sure to do


ice gradually melts
and ground begins to thaw
there you rest
not far from the surface
exactly where I left you
shuddering in your sleep

what you can’t see
should certainly scare you
but don’t for a moment
keep the covers over your eyes
lest you miss those self-evident
truths reflecting in the light

oh how you thought
you had massacred every aphid
that had decimated your garden
but they are alive and well
reinventing themselves
just as you are sure to do




july two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

alive and well at twenty-one


she came to visit for a few hours
on a sunday afternoon

it was a blustery but sunny day
wind chimes sounding off loud and clear
inside toasty sunroom

she got up from the sofa
holding teacup below her chin
gazing out south facing windows

“it’s a shame your garden’s dying
it was so beautiful last time I was here”

(to her everything is dying so I just let it go)

I didn’t have the heart to tell her
the garden turned twenty-one this year
and is very much alive and well





october two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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 marys
don’t do anything for me
all day

Later in the evening
reaching for a needle
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

In My Perennial Garden


There is an area in my backyard
Where grass used to grow,
Where farmers and native Americans
Both understood and disagreed
The meaning of owning property.

A grove of ageless, desperate trees
Grow wild beyond my backyard.
At the edge terraced walls and stone steps
complement the rolling hill.
Nobody would guess how a struggle
Once ensued there, one lasting three days.

Sometimes it rains so hard it blocks
The sunroom windows.
It is then you should venture out
And climb the steps to where the perennials
Grow so well, and see how the soil turns red.

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

Into the Earth


In my mind I draw a square
in the very center of the garden

From there I dig into the earth
using the seasoned spade
usually reserved for plantings

The hole slowly turns into a cube
as three mounds resemble
Egyptian resting places

Further down the soil
becomes hard and cold
the clay malleable enough
to mold eternal companions

Satisfied the opening
is mathematically sound
I hold the spade at my side
sweat falling off my forehead
silently instructing the child
to bring forth her loved one
to the newly built altar



november, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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