poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “november”

not a single one

november beckons differently
than all other lunar cycles
there are no lions or lambs
just sheer madness
whether it be for better or worse
or ‘til death do us part

there may be anniversaries
or birthdays or holidays
they take a back seat
to the reality of november
its unpredictability and certainty
of death and sex and taxes

not a single one is alike
varying by degrees immeasurable
even the moon knows not
what to do come november
either boasting pure beauty
or bashful like a hungry child

october two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

the rain falls perfectly in late november

the rain falls perfectly in late november
neither hard nor soft
simply there and bringing awareness
to practically everything
many questioning their lives behind
closed doors and shuttered windows
on the laziest of sunday afternoons

the rain falls perfectly in late november
either reminding you of a
specific place in time you
wished remained suspended
or making you forget altogether
recent distractions repeatedly tugging
at the fabric slowly covering your eyes

november two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

in search of november one

wishing and praying
for some things to change
not intending to look back
too far though
when mistakes happened often

sometimes I ponder the things
she used to tell me
about baseball games and
voodoo dolls
about false gods and how
to stay in the clear on the
cloudiest of october afternoons

thirty days yet to go
down that moonlit alley
where alien notions inside your head
contradict any fears you ever had
about entering the next dimension

october two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

When November Comes

It doesn’t matter what day it is
and no one seems to care
which way the wind blows.
The only thing that seems to matter
is November will arrive without fanfare,
and now everything can get on with dying.

The day might be bright but it will be short;
city parks will be littered with leaves
that never completely dry.
Street walkers and their dogs
will be hard to recognize
once November has taken hold.

Towering trees become dancing skeletons
reaching out for a partner in the sky.
Peering through their branches
at just the right time,
Venus or the Moon or the Sun
can be spotted, pretending
to be ornaments dangling.

When November Comes

november two thousand eleven
rewrite october two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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