hand in hand
the pair went up the hill
not to fetch a pail of water
but to lie on their backs
among the wildflowers
spotting & pointing at
anomalous phenomena
flying ambiguously
in & out of cumulus clouds
april two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
three grapefruit
two apples
one pear
I sit in silence
pretending they are not
placed inside
a wicker basket
atop the kitchen counter
I relax & close my eyes
visualizing them via
my sixth chakra
silently repeating the chant
until the still life
becomes a painting
hanging on the wall
behind me
january two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
how fragile is the state of mind
whether wide awake
or deep in sleep
recuperating & repairing
projecting realities never before seen
once gathering consciousness
what will you recall
of yesterdays
distinguishing near death reality
from bootlegged creations
moving pictures passing by
at a snail’s pace
or faster than the speed of light
pushing and pulling
from this present-day reality
october two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I remember as a child
probably four-years old
walking about the property
making up song lyrics ad lib
singing them out loud as the
words popped into my head
from what I remember
they were ballads
words of sorrow & grief
verses hard for me to fathom
following a melody I must
have picked up from a prior life
I imagine the neighbors
who happened to walk by
must have found me strange
—and though I had known
they were there all along
I pretended like I didn’t
december two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
let’s see
how easily it is
to honestly deceive
in this world of make-believe
convincing yourself
the only truth
worth its weight
resides inside
a frame of mind
that may or may not
be eternal
whilst any & all things
orbiting around it
is simply an extension
of grander possibilities
april two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve got this idea in my head
I’m on vacation
that it’s become my occupation
debunking conspiracy theories
like the reversal of poles
or the inevitable grand gesture
from snake island
I often find myself
fishing for my mother
in deep cold trout pools
the depths of which producing
the darkest of blues
I’ve come to terms
with my misfortunes
and dash away to old cities
as if I’m a bored to death
like Louis or Lestat
The best part is I can
jump anytime I like
from princess cruise ships
putting myself in a position
to press rewind
for hundreds of years
or fast forward beyond
my imaginary tears
july two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
an abandoned backpack
off the well-worn trail
seemingly in good shape
full & bulging at the seams
like a waxing gibbous
I pedal past at some
twenty miles per hour
hands on the dropdowns
eyes shifting back & forth
from bag to trail to bag
curiosity killed the cat
this much is known
but I could only imagine
what’s inside would
surely be my demise
upon the return trip
flying faster with the wind
I approach same backpack
this time strapped upon
a hiker in full stride
and very much alive
october two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
on a sunny sunday afternoon
we entertained
possibilities of what could be
sitting on metal chairs
cushions still in garage
lemon beer tasting ever so sweet
we pointed at unshakable signs
better things sure to come
there were many yesterdays
full of fear and hurt and doubt
but today is what you would call
a new world order
you see the mystery cat
has returned in all his glory
sporting a wide brimmed hat
entertaining us with a song and dance
smiling for the cameras
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
inside your walk-in closet you keep
a wooden bowl atop your dresser
filled past the brim with little things
little tidbit kinds of things that have little
to no value like bottlecaps and matchbooks
rubber bracelets and key chains
a deck of the tiniest of cards you’re
quite sure has played solitaire
sometimes you imagine a little spider
lives inside the tidbit of things
milling about mostly in the dark
but occasionally coming out on afternoons
to unwind atop the deck of cards
basking in the filtered light
leaking through diamond-shaped openings
that really aren’t here nor there
october two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
homeless little ones
fill the city square
walking aimlessly and unsupervised
staring into the palms of their hands
slaying pokémon dragons with
whatever imagination
they can get their hands on
august two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
they sat in a circle
boy girl
boy girl
boy girl
making up a story
one sentence at a time
a story about a stickman
made out of salty pretzels
wearing a white paper hat
and strutting around
outside the ring
twirling a magician’s cane
and making each one disappear
with a simple tap of their crowns
april two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
a box on the side of the road
not a box really but a folder
a small folder at that
the kind with a rubber strap
wrapped around to keep the flap shut
ensuring that whatever would be inside
could not easily be outside
it was just sitting there on the
graveled shoulder of highway 13
and somehow I had spotted it
driving some sixty miles per hour
its image now just a snapshot
first and foremost in my mind
traffic was light but each time
someone drove by I imagined
the lunchbox-sized folder
fluttered from each sixty mile per hour draft
the rubber strap gradually shifting
loosening and eventually opening
exposing what was once concealed
launching the contents up and out
into the great wide open
august two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in the dementia ward they
played poker with toothpicks
and told off-color jokes everyone
laughed at but nobody understood
nothing is real here one of them said
you’re all just figments of my imagination
I used to love fig newtons another one said
they don’t exist you idiot
not fig newtons or chocolate chip cookies
not milky way bars or rice crispy treats
not sugar and spice or anything nice
everyone chuckled except for the one
who used to love fig newtons
oh just shut up and deal he said
before the lights go out
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve secluded myself or
shall I say excluded myself (from others)
confined to a modest space
somewhere in Phoenicia
surrounded by stained glass distractions
which keep out the harsh daylight
only to reappear much later as
illuminated decorations of the night
There is no time for sleep and
cloudless nights make for lighter work
problem solving triangles
and troubleshooting new moons
piecing back together romances
from far away places where future
discoveries withstand the test of time
january two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
taking trails less traveled
led me to where the
trees had fallen
where horses long ago
abandoned the woods
falling to my knees I
listened ‘neath the silence
felt inner earth’s heartbeat
inside my very bones
faintly alive and hurting
lost generations remain
charred in this place
recycled into ghostly ashes
reshaped into
ever-changing apparitions
silence ensued and robbed
me of all my thoughts
leading me to believe
the only way out was
through my imagination
october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
by Daniella Sciuto & J Matthew Waters
I drew these lines ages ago without
understanding the consequences
and my desire to protect them
weakened as time wore on
I sketched these images
fast frenetic murals on the wall
portraying all my doubts
concerning this world
and myself
and then I lived on
each day passing by
these lines remained unchanged
concealed by a thin layer of imagination
I crossed the line into a new
form of reality
regaining my strength by
becoming one with creation
drawn across the land
yet the pull of these lines
that basis of all
beyond the veil of life
influenced everything
no matter how much I whitewashed
my tabula rasa was not pure
and I found myself
redrawing the lines
found myself starting all over again
this is how it both
ends and begins
with poetry written
rewritten and rewritten again
layers upon meanings
upon words
with us forever
redrawing the lines
starting all over again
whilst the ghosts of poems past
influence everything
september two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 