my memory fails me
only when some third party
steps in & says that’s not
how it went down
while that may be the case
my version most likely
plays out much better
for everyone involved
may two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there’s a difference
between living in the past
and simply replaying it
more as an exercising
of the brain
than anything else
no longer interested in
keeping the demons
at bay long ago released
and left to their own
devices
some as far away as
Okinawa
others right down the street
memory is the epitome
of being human
—depending upon the light
of day the story always
changing
or simply tweaked
due to the circumstance
but always according to his
or her own gospel
february two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Muscle memory
gets me from point A to point B
permitting the retelling
of the same stories
and every now & again
to a brand new audience
I once got lost
in the streets of Japan
unable to find my way back
home for a number of years
Those who knew me best
thought I’d either gained a new
identity or died somewhere
with all the others
in Hiroshima or Nagasaki
Little did they know when I
emerged out of the shadows
[sometime back in forty-nine]
my old war stories somehow
took on new meaning
february two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Where do I begin
describing the beginning
to the end—what business
of this is mine
Something or someone tells you
you’ve been here before
—so very long ago
What kind of ending is this
intimate believer of the faith
—Angels from heaven visiting you
night after night
helping you
up & down
the staircase
—saving yourself enough strength
to prepare a cooked egg
atop a slice of toast
After an exhaustive night
you don’t remember a single one of them
—but somehow their names
repeat over & again in your mind:
Raphael
Jerahmeel
—and of course Michael
How they feed you bits of wisdom
and you nod & repeatedly say:
yes I know
yes I know
I remember you saying so in the dream
Soon
—soon child
—patience will reward you
december two thousand twenty-four
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
in the other room
someone turned up the volume
to the next live selection
someone with just one name capturing
words pronounced beautifully
improvising & cultivating
sublimely belting someone else’s song
making it her very own
it’s how I remember it
but probably not how it went down
—recollections having a funny way
of spawning their own selective stories
similar to poetry
song has a way of making connections
in multitudes of ways
especially when remastered
in such a way
it brings tears to your eyes—
your heart largely affected
october two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
where to start when there is
no end in sight
—the beginning much too obvious
but nearly impossible
due to lack of recollection
maybe starting from the middle
is the way to go
—from there you can go in any direction
recalling punches & sweat & adrenaline
the first kiss
and the first rejection slip
and those sweet sweet morsels of pain
—whether physical or mental
in the end they all meld together
because once you go there
so many memories open up
flooding the landscape
as if a dam had been compromised
—but from there the sky’s the limit
september two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
happiness defined
an impossible venture
using merely words
instead running afoul
with your own basic instincts
second-guessing
past mistakes
as if they can be corrected
if not in real life
then at least
in your own head
having churned there
long enough until dissolving
into nothingness
like a beautiful but forgotten
memory
july two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
some boys don’t become men
but if they did then maybe
they would have thought otherwise
you know who they are
they are just like yesterday
as you mow the lawn
or wash the car
their youthfulness suddenly
taking over your thoughts
and there you are
crying again internally
I reach out w/o knowing I do
their receptive vibes
absorb my mixed emotions
of acting out my fading years
as I sit here waiting for a sign
some sort of subliminal response
time seems to kiss me
july two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the way we see things now
is but a distant memory
the rivers
the lands
and the seas
[as you know
not all things appear
as they seem]
think of the dream
the one dream
unchanged over a lifetime
the rivers
and the lands
and the seas
exactly
where they’ve always been
by the time you awaken
all of it has been put back into place
and you imagine starting over
is a distinct possibility
february two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s a paradox
how nothing is new
unless it’s a spring flower
unfolding when nobody
is looking
they say original
ideas no longer exist
they’ve been put to pasture
in the paradox field
far from here
even that smile
I sometimes see you with
is a replica of a paradox
captured long ago
when we were young
february two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
do you know what I’m thinking
she asked me out of the blue
her voice as distinct
as I had remembered
in god knows how many years
her words were inside my head
as I sat outside a corner cafe
deviceless on a sunny morning
the traffic light but loud
pigeons plentiful & pecking away
I turned to face my right
& then my left & backwards
my hands on the top rail of the chair
fooling myself that she could be within earshot
as opposed to eternally lost
in a sea of consciousness
january 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
in my twenties at university
my habits were more pronounced
than today—quite like my memory
but nonetheless
I was instantly
taken back there
involuntarily
I guess I got to thinking about
the title of this poem while listening
to the lyrics of an alt-rock song
streaming from my car speakers
—afterwards becoming stuck in my
head like a heartache
from there I found myself
back in iowa city
seated at a second floor bar
[maybe] directly above the airliner
the premises about the size
of four boxing rings
—the staircase in the center
vertically challenging
the details are sketchy at best
but there were nunchucks
& a blade involved
one combatant a karate extraordinaire
the other a cross between
batman & edward scissorhands
november two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reservedeyes and rise above
there were six of us
maybe seven
seated in the dining room
my grandmother (born in belgium
& someone I’ve never met)
occupying the head
it was a hearty meal
a meat & potatoes kind of deal
homemade bread
fresh fruit & veggies
a little dog
sitting on someone’s lap
not sure my exact age
but I was sporting a red cap
w/a minimal bill
and I remember her telling me
(in her broken english)
it has no place at her table
november two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
you can find them just about anywhere
on the kitchen counter
inside the cabin of the car
atop the bedroom dresser
coffee table & end tables
and especially in the ‘reminders’ app
it didn’t use to be this way
back when I was as sharp as a tack
but time has a way of chipping away
at the sharpness of wit
the precision of a timepiece
the idleness of a combustion engine
it could be just about anything
items at the grocery store or drug store
or the hardware store
rebooting the modem every sunday
visiting dear old mom at assisted living
or working on my own obituary
october two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 