the heart & mind
working together bending time
—something artificial intelligence
can’t possibly articulate
on how love never dies
but simply segues
into an alternative reality
april two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s not a matter of what you think
you deserve or don’t deserve
or whether or not everything is
fair in love & war
or if karma is only something
that’s imagined
oh no at this stage the only thing
that seems to matter
is how you’ll carry on once everything
you ever cared about
has been systematically taken
away from you
march two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
insanity is contagious
skipping whatever
generation it damn-
well pleases
I only wanted
to be with you
but somehow others
became involved
—and well
you just had to leave
through no fault
of your own
back on earth I keep
searching for that one
elusive wormhole
letting the detector tell me
where to dig next
march two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
something is missing
but it’s difficult to pinpoint
exactly what it is
an immediate death
tends to make the mind
run rampant
searching for answers
to questions
that no longer exist
believing that finding
what is missing will
somehow put everything
back in alignment
what’s missing may not
be that important after all
but it’s nice knowing
whatever it may be
can’t possibly
be gone forever
february two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
you open the front door
first thing in the morning
sticking your head out
and looking around
but there is nothing to find
no newspaper
no milk bottles
no basket of goodies left by
the children next door
after shutting the door
and retreating back into your den
you wonder whatever
happened to yesterday
when everything seemed
so perfectly normal
all the while knowing
deep in your heart
that was never the case
february two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
She was in charge
until she wasn’t
the tiny tea set purchased
once upon a time
remains on the little table
looking out
at the flower garden
now a frozen display
only the cut-back rose bushes
barely breathing
tiny birds
taking dry baths
inside the ornamental bowl
purchased long ago
on a warm summer day
loading it
all by herself
into the trunk of the car
when nobody was looking
january two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
he was there and then
he wasn’t
playing to a crowd
he thought he knew
but didn’t
he said cakes are done
& people are finished
it was something
he had learned
from his mother
and when he told this
to a waitress
some sixty years ago
she stepped away
stopped & returned
to tell him he was right
november two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Grief can be a burden, but also an anchor. You get used to the weight, how it holds you in place. ~ Sarah Dessen
and so we sit & wait
for the child to come back home
nobody saying a word
the clock on the wall breaking
the silence
one minute at a time
but the child will never arrive
and somehow life goes on
but in a differently
distorted kind of way
thereafter the silence
is broken by this softly sounding
weeping of sorts
the kind that eventually
wakes you up at night
keeping you from ever
falling back to sleep
october two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the giver of life
is dying
I saw her in the garden
a black-eyed susan
chatting amongst friends
I told her to rest assured
she would
one day return
born of the forest
& worshiped
by flora & fauna
flourishing within like royalty
I thought she was thirsty
but it turned out to be me
so I asked her
to freeze me in the moment
but it was too late
the seeds
I had collected in my mind
were swept away
by the wind
october two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
yesterday went by
like the wink of an eye
a microcosm of life itself
the nine o’clock church bell
a distant echo without an end
a black cat in the alleyway
nothing but a shadow
masking an undefinable pain
that will never die
september two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
how long must I mourn the death
of a child
how long will it take before the very idea
of loss
vanishes from my dreams
my waking thoughts
how long before the spans of the bridge
draw to a close
the river receding from its banks
and the sun returning again
in all its glory
finally bringing back normalcy
to the desert
and the oasis
the belly of a hungry child
august two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
How old do you suppose she is
twenty-five?
The special on Thursdays is oysters
flown in last night.
The last time it was Wednesday
they were spraying down the ashes.
Afterwards the seagulls came in.
Then came the crows,
followed by the vultures.
It used to rain in these here parts
but that was when the children were unafraid
walking along the shoreline unattended.
The ocean is a desert.
The desert is an ocean.
Sometimes there are two moons in the sky;
that only means you’ve been dreaming again.
If you could take only one thing what would it be?
The seashell?
Or maybe a bird’s song?
But what of the shadow
or the shadow of a shadow of a shadow
what will become of them?
Surely if anything they will live on.
july two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I wouldn’t know where to start
except to say the vault was left unlocked
what got out isn’t exactly known
assets with financial & emotional value
like a painting
a portrait of someone special
who used to walk the earth like the rest of us
now stopped in time
expressionless
it’s remindful of the saying about the horses
and the barn doors
how you can see them racing off
like a bird out of a cage
speed demons never to be seen
I guess it’s less about what was inside
than why it was there to begin with
in the end
cornered like a mouse facing the guillotine
june two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
you could smell
but did not taste the citric acid
the buds on your tongue
all but gone
you once believed in miracles
fairy tales & a ghost
named pseudo su
you used to carry
one-way tickets
to unlimited destinations
but traded them in
for a kiss & three wishes
how did you not notice
I’m not around here anymore
at least not in broad daylight
may two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s a fine line
your lot
give or take
plus or minus
right place at the right time
or conflictingly
the proverbial wrong one
it’s not just where & when
or by whom
it’s every single turn
accumulating
always introducing
the next scenario
a soldier in a jungle
a runaway on an airliner
a widowed grandmother
saying the rosary
in an otherwise empty chapel
those able to dodge
the constant barrage
of gunfire
& accusations
the lines on their faces
multiply & deepen
[over the passing years]
a reflection
of the many
taken before their time
february two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
this little glass mason jar
begins with nothing
a small seashell
and a little smooth stone
rubbing between thumb
and forefinger
make a wish
anything is possible
the sun rises the moon sets
it’s another day
in what used to be paradise
forget-me-nots
bloom every other year
dark-eyed juncos
returning every late november
in the little glass mason jar
a feather & a tell
discovered halfway up the hill
deeper inside
in the center of the earth
a new journey begins
december two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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