they huddle around the fire
the little ones in front
wrapped in animal hides
and mesmerized by the flames
black and bedazzled
is the sky
spotlighting
exhalations of storytellers
reading from unwritten books
soundless nights accentuate
the reality of dreams
projecting and protecting
the history of a people
at one with the earth
december two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
candles burn where I am not
reminding me what may have been
in my little world it is quite dark
at times taking on many shapes
other times simply murmuring
I reach out and bring in pieces
from out of nowhere
meld them together in my palms
first into a ball and
then into whatever fascinations
may gradually evolve
inside each molded piece
an ember burns
invisible to the naked eye
I’ve no idea how many weeks
may pass before revealing themselves
perhaps like a seedling
breaking the surface
or a renegade meteor
breaching an otherwise impregnable sky
december two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
sometimes she rises unexpectedly
somewhat slight
and somehow bright
like a slice of lemon or orange
painted in the sky
far out west ideas stretch
and sink
fading like an autumn leaf
face to face juxtapositions often
lead to uncertainty
casting doubt
by way of a thousand lies
there are certainly higher standards
worth obtaining
but not at the cost
of having to show no mercy
december two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I may not know
exactly who I am
but like the bluebird
in your heart
I’ve a good idea
who I am not
people feel compelled
to define you
without a true source
saying you are this
or you are that
adding to the confusion
all I’m saying is we
should be friends
whether you be as near
as kalamazoo
or as far away
as timbuktu
if I owned the night
I would gladly
hand it over
along with all the lights
that shine
forever in the sky
december two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
trees speak in your sleep
like those three dogs
chained up down the street
scratching at the aluminum fence
and digging holes in
all the wrong places
trees speak in your sleep
using the wind and
birds and insects as carriers
scratching out memos
and pontificating about the evils
of the new world order
trees speak in your sleep
sharing secrets from the shire
hosting a murder of crows
gathering above the creek
whispering incessantly
fearing you may awaken
december two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the weather turned midday
as a warmish sun gave way
to coldish clouds and variable winds
nearly knee deep in blackish
backwaters
rainbow trout suddenly start
striking at mini-jigs
hand and eye react instinctively
despite scattered thoughts
racing past
slippery rocks in river bed
patience is like an acquired taste
(you tell yourself)
best served in solitary confines
the cool waters gradually
drop in temperature
yet you continue to wade
further away
dead set on an eddying pool
silently calling your name
november two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the birds and the tigers
the polar bears
and the butterflies
they do not hate
no they do not hate
they may need to defend themselves
through violence or fleeing
but it is out of necessity that they
protect themselves selfishly
they may not understand
the world around them
like you or me
(or perhaps they understand it perfectly)
and while they may not think
before they act (like we are able to do)
they certainly never hate
no they never do
interestingly enough
they may react to the bulbous moon
just like me and you
only they do not make it an excuse
to hate for hatred’s sake
like too many of us often do
november two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we built a fire in the fire pit
kept it going into december
when the sky was blue
and air was cold
you played violin
and I played harmonica
we sang to the fire in the sky
we prayed for the fog to roll in
the first frost came and went
but we were ill-prepared
like we always were
I keep telling you I am the same boy
you first met decades ago
and you tell me the ocean is still green
november two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
solar power paper planes
survey and scan billion acre rainforest
detecting seeds of life
planted by prehistoric man
suddenly sprouting beneath the mist
october two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there was a number
maybe there were two or three
that when put together
added up to something
like an old fashioned love song
half notes and quarter notes
bounce off amphitheater rooftops
drifting into the cloudless sky
slowly dissolving like helium
balloons and unbridled kites
spiders and bears and
little tea kettles crawl through
open backlit space
giving chase to new ideas
dying to be composed
they say the song lives on
riding falling stars
content with returning to earth
surfing atop ocean waves
seeking a brand new dance floor
october two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is nothing ever new
it has always been there before
whether it be spaceships or dinosaurs
to be or not to be
give me liberty or give me death
what are they but bold proclamations
made by multitudes (of men)
long before recorded history
there is this cumulation of sorts
that continually runs on autopilot
where storms and wars become
even more powerful
nature against man
man against nature (and man)
relentlessly pounding
worldwide peace movements
that somehow flourish surrealistically
century after century
it’s a long way to where I’m going
but chances are once I get there
nobody will ever know
october two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
my inner clock
wakes me when
I am tired
reminds me to take
pictures of my past
whether or not I’ll ever
revisit them
napping on couch
sunrays creep inside
my cobweb dreams
shaking them
making my eyelids flutter
photographs flash
frame after frame
like an accelerating
motion picture
the sun hardly
visible on bright canvass
falling rapidly like a
comet with no tomorrow
october two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was a shapely leaf
seemingly frozen on the asphalt
burnt orange and brown
with spots of faded yellow
and streaks of barn red
I happened upon it strictly
by accident as I crawled
on my hands and knees
searching for a place to sleep
through the dead of winter
picking it up carefully
I cupped it gently in my hands
cold to the touch like the
thinnest of glass
fragile like fairy wings
as it warmed in my palms
I blew on its outer edges
its unforgiving blades shuddering
like a little baby bird
or a big colorful butterfly
october two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s only a matter of time
before the next city gets sacked
it could be yours whether or not
you like being alive or dead
you could be sitting in a mosque
or a church or a temple
or in a gazebo in a meadow
or on a deck overlooking a lake
or out on the river fishing for trout
or out on the sea fishing for men
or inside a corner tavern
open for business on any given sunday
everywhere there are people
inhabiting this place
putting two and two together
questioning the laws of nature
ninety-nine plus percent certain
killing has nothing to do with survival
september two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
stitch and sew
your restless eyes
dragonfly hovers
keeping its cool
no bark no bite
mandibles chew air
swallowing suggestions
blown by the wind
water nymph no more
final metamorphosis
captures soul mate
perpetuating the cycle
september two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we can’t seem to get past
talking about the weather
how it lifts us up only
to tear us down
one day sipping apple-spiced tea
at café eden
the next trapped inside a
bomb shelter in aleppo
I say the weather is earth’s
spirit restless in its own creativity
slowly evolving and forever changing
you nod and look skyward
pointing at the clouds
roiling and attracting countless starlings
seeds affected by cosmic precipitation
you never know what may come next
perhaps a prophet or a prince
or a torrid dictator
ruthless storms continuously stir
inside boiling pots
reappearing as easy as they please
perpetuating change by destroying
everything in its path
september two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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