this time we’re picking it up
in the middle
that place in time you’re not
quite sure
where you stand
it’s as if
you’re still
rehearsing your lines
uncertain if the curtains
should ever be drawn
last I remember
you were doing this death scene
and I was helping you
remember your lines
one last time
february two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
descending into madness at midnight
I pull pieces of bread from my pockets
feeding them to my soul
in the morning I take tylenol
and pour raw milk onto a
bowl of rice krispies
listening to vague childhood memories
in the middle of the afternoon the full
moon hides behind marshmallow clouds
my conscience reminding me
(as I fall into a self-induced slumber)
how everything becomes edible in the end
november two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
on his hands and knees he pulls weeds
the kind that creep into spaces
lacking light and common sense
often seen but seldom understood
neither envious nor empathetic of beauty
and constantly forced
to start a new life in the most
undesirable places
to think that it’s come to this
he mutters to himself
furiously yanking the stalks but not the roots
tossing them behind his back
knowing full well they’ll resurrect
themselves in a matter of days
a reminder of how maddening
his loneliness has become
june two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
first I lost my love
then I quickly lost my mind
encapsulated in glass
crashing headlong downstream
toward the convergence
known as the styx
consumed by the great marsh
my mind disappeared
deep within the underworld
leaving me cold and empty
and unable to understand
exactly what afflicted
my ailing heart
may two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
The lines go back far they do
lines drawn on a map
from somewhere in Pennsylvania
via Antwerp and Brussels.
The little girl grew into an iron-fisted
Matriarch who rang the bell at five
to feed her boys the holiest of bread
while reciting hymnals of fear and guilt.
Her shepherdless husband
followed her trail to Illinois
to a sleepy town her brother first discovered
years before boarding SS Vaderland.
It was there tempers raged within
from the ethnically charged populous
but she managed self-restraint
and seldom raised her hand
against her own Motherland.
But for her brother the chains broke
and wickedness unleashed itself
on Christmas Day
as the quietness of the neighborhood
exploded with a single shot of insanity.
That dying branch still hangs crooked
on the corner of Rose and Lexington
its venomous DNA lingering
inside a sleepy little child.
february two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
