self-inflicted physical pain
is nothing compared to
once abandoned realities
appearing out of the thinnest of air
unfurling into razor-sharp focus
and leaving you crippled
and crying
and praying for the comfort
of that long lost world
inside a world
inside a world
inside a world
july two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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
sitting on a bench in green square park
one saturday morning
I detected so many ghosts
walking about
the first day of summer
was just a stone’s throw away
and the nine o’clock sun
tried to burn the foggy images
out of my mind’s eye
some wandered alone aimlessly
some marching in groups of two
or three or more
some pretending they really had no business
being here
while yet others carried bags
or pushed empty strollers
hoping to find ways to fill them
at the nearby city gardens
I spotted little ones sniffing
red roses
that always came back to life this time of year
I leaned back and marveled
at how all of the ghosts
managed to travel through time and space
just to revisit opening day
at this year’s farmers’ market
june two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I lost my way along the way
and wound up in a tavern
I never knew existed
I ordered a dark beer
and sat alone
wondering how it was
I had found this place
there were so many things
I meant to get done that day
but nothing seemed to be working
so I wandered out of the city
looking at nothing in particular
and daydreaming
about all the things I had done
once finishing off the pint of beer
the bartender
poured me another without
either of us saying one word
may two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it doesn’t take much
to flip on the switch
and drop down deep
into a chasm
of a distant memory
self-prescribed doses
of self-hypnosis
transports the mind
toward understanding
ancestral realities
old candles aflame
from wishful thinking
exposes wormholes
of new dimensions
leading to affinity
april two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I stood in the kitchen dumbfounded
body leaning toward the counter
my arms stretched out
my hands gripping the edge
preventing me from falling straight down
once again short-term memory gaps
have poked holes into my productivity
the interruption of progressive thoughts
leading me down avenues of days long gone
like when I wore batman capes
and had real conversations with the mailman
I remember once when I was five
on an early sunday morning
all alone in the great room watching cartoons
my body laid out with elbows on the carpet
and chin resting inside my hands
when all of a sudden a dull clash
resonated from the kitchen and slowly
bounced it’s way into the great room
I dared not move one iota
as I stared into the kitchen
tall shadows moved about the inner walls
no doubt cast by the breeze nudging the evergreens
but I was petrified nonetheless
and hid like a stone waiting to be found
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the little ones gathered ‘round
ratcheting their bottoms
against the carpet as if trying to
permanently stay in place
you see
the old man began
bobbing his head
in the old days
you could drive out to the country
with your sweetheart by your side
leaving a trail of dust behind you
weaving your way through rolling hills
where rows of corn stretch toward the sun
and gigantic cows feed on fields
that forever stay green
once you reach the sign
with the painted horse
you abandon the car
and walk hand in hand down a narrow lane
leading you to an antiquated world
where you first learn to saddle your new best friend
and ride off into the sunset
with courage and grace
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the poetry i wrote ages ago
doesn’t belong to me anymore
the person that wrote those lines
of despair and shame and utter honesty
has long been gone
it’s almost as if he died from self-inflicted wounds
from too much booze and tabacco
and whoring around
from not giving a shit about work
or baseball
or forgetting to buy chocolate and roses
on valentine’s day
reading page after page of the drivel
i want to tear them to pieces
but something inside me
won’t let it happen
because deep down i’m in love with the words
that used to bring me joy knowing my misery
was no different than yours
february two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we used to rehearse our lines
in the lounge at memorial hall
back when you could
smoke cigarettes inside
and buy drafts of beer for fifty cents
I recall saying I would never
forget those lines but
they seem to have escaped me
and I am left with only a memory
of how the sunlight
bounced off the glass-framed
paintings hanging on the walls
making your eyes
appear as a certain shade of green
that for some reason reminded me
of the time I sailed the aegean sea
january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
peering out my window
clouds gather around
and darken
a once promising
bright day
blackbirds circle above
slowly descending
and squawking
instinctively finding
shelter
thunder murmurs and moans
and i close my eyes
suppressing
a distant memory
knocking
once the showers arrive
i gaze past the pane
your image
refreshing like the rain
falling
december two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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
what heart is broken
seeks out to find
a remedy certain
to forget past times
how sad the memory
painful to the heart
broken yet breathing
forever on guard
time is of essence
nothing stands still
a heart once broken
desires to rebuild
october two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
move past the apology
and to a world where
it’s okay to let loose
and move on
time has a way of untying
most stubborn knots
freeing the soul from
undue weight
nothing is ever forgotten
but simply evolves
into memories
still alive
september two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we talked for hours
after the football game
starting where we left off
thirty years ago
we sat in the very same
booth, where in the day
i wrote short stories
while putting down pints
sometimes we’d sit
at the bar and chain-smoke
sipping on coffee
in between classes
you haven’t changed a bit
she said, laughing;
a reminder how she loved
to tell white lies
once in the corner
on a cold rainy night
i wept like a baby
ruining my story
after hearing the news
you searched me out
held me in your arms
until the bar closed
you know, she said,
you’ll meet her again
and her beauty
will take you away
melancholy struck me
as she covered my wrist
with her hands,
closing her eyes
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
flatfooted on the edge
of a supersized
new york city highrise
i calmly stand tall
like an olympian diver
slowly rising to her toes
before falling into twisted
recollections of fetal positions
and outstretched arms
a trail of shuttering thumbnails
racing faster and faster
until forever buried
below the water’s wake
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I found your mirror
when looking for something
in the walk-in closet,
the oval, black-framed one
with the ivory handle.
A lightning bolt crack
shot down from top
to bottom, carving my face
with a sharp knife
misplaced years ago.
june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
