jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “hunger”

more of the same


she was frying bacon
like it was going out of style
and once the aroma woke me
I quickly found some shorts
and hurried down the stairs

winds blew wickedly outside
but you could hardly tell
kitchen radio blasting rock music
silencing all the backyard chimes
composing their own scores

what’s the matter she asked
did you think I was going
to burn down the place
or did I make you ravenously
hungry for more of the same



january two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

thankful for what they had


they had a border collie
to keep the cows honest
barking enthusiastically
and always smiling

they had a rooster
occasionally unreliable when
rainy mornings drowned-
out cock-a-doodle-doos

they had silos and barns
and backyard sheds
wherein they protected
hopes and dreams
and amazing machinery

before suppertime they sat
in silence holding hands
thankful for what they had
praying for those who had not


august two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

The great virtue of compassion


I returned to earth as an underfed
infant in a remote village
where nurses are plenty
and painted-face doctors
routinely perform miracles

Years later my dying mother
begged me in a language
I barely understood
to escape the poverty this
barren land provided and
seek refuge in the golden city

As I traveled by foot from
desert town to desert town
visions of previous lives
entered my waking dreams
detailing how I had traveled
this road centuries ago
comforting all who hungered
by first feeding their minds


may two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

olfactory arousal


strips of bacon appeared
in my high-definition dream
alongside ripened tomatoes
farm fresh eggs
and quarter pound cheeseburgers

I could hear them pop and sizzle
in their own searing grease
could smell the sweetness
originating from the kitchen
and infiltrating the entire house

pretending I’m fully awake
I tuck a linen napkin
up under my chin
march down the staircase
wielding flatware and a hefty appetite


january two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

where does it stop


in pregnant fields
tractors with high beams
gobble up grain in the dark
turning golden ground into
piles of dirt

cereal-mobiles rumble
on gravel roads carved
through ever-swollen hills
fueled by ethanol and
kicking up dirt

rolling stock races
for the eastern seaboard
destined for distant lands
where little bluebirds
play in dirt


november two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

for all the children starving


on the first day of may
all the lonely children
gathered to play a game
each venturing to hide
within the seven wonders

on the first day of may
the sun refused to shine
and the children hidden
behind the shadows
pretended not to cry

on the first day of may
the glorious bell did ring
and all the children
starving for affection
raced to meet their king



may first two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

twin loaves


i make meatloaf the way
my mother used to make it
except i do mine without the recipe
and sometimes i deviate
from the betty crocker original

it’s the best recipe on the
planet and i’m surprised
it doesn’t have the market cornered
or that you don’t hear about it
on the street or online

every time i make meatloaf
i declare it’s the best one
i’ve ever done – convinced i could
easily feed four thousand
with just two loaves



december two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

this hunger


my gut tells me there’s
something missing – a pain
that won’t go away

i make-believe
there’s food in the cupboard
and scurry to get out
the paper plates and plastic forks

while enjoying the meal
i pretend it is my final one
and pray this hunger
will finally pass



december two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Cloud Factory


Plumes of smoke
escape the stacks,
entering the atmosphere
as chemical clouds:
a byproduct from the distillation
of corn and wheat
grown on American farms
and hauled to the factory,
producing foodstuffs
to feed millions wordwide.

Protesters outside
carry messages on sticks,
crying for change
and attention from a media
hungry for something new.
Meanwhile, the factory
continues to cook,
spending millions
on special interests
and scrubbing their clouds.

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


iphoneography by Arthur Weaver

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