we fished off the docks
overcast sunday morning
praying for a break
weatherman says
tomorrow should be better
once churchgoers
and earthworms are all
back at work
most of us don’t
give a damn
about day jobs or night life
let alone the cost of
living or dying
river keeps calling
finding ourselves responding
come rain or come shine
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve
there is emotion in your thoughts
and in your dreams
but once awake you are drained
finding yourself wondering
how to start all over again
and so you put on blue jeans
make your way into the kitchen
crack open egg atop butter
melting on hot pan
white and yolk taking over flat surface
like a still life painting
or watercolor
hanging on studio wall
soon thereafter emotions
creep back into your thoughts
rejuvenated by a paltry life
that simply wasn’t meant to be
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve
my friend walks on thin air
carrying a box
wrapped like a present
kelly green with white sparkles
laced with red ribbon
it doesn’t matter what’s inside
be it witchcraft
or magic beans
perhaps a talisman
or winter snowstorm
my friend opens her heart
the rest of us
gazing at night sky
and blinking repeatedly
counting each and every star
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve
I buried something
near the tulips
and if I give myself enough time
I’m bound to remember
what it was
you were my shovel
my pick axe
stick matches in my back pocket
weathered pine burning
in the pit
on a late autumn afternoon
outside everything is white
including waxing gibbous moon
slowly burning through fog
eventually I can see you
wiping clear the window pane
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve
autumn nearing its end
solitary specter regressing
roaming empty streets and alleys
digressing on thoughts of love
bemoaning intellectual wisdom
safehouses have no vacancy
full moon gives little solace
though somewhere in the city
a fire burns with purpose
bringing the dead back to life
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve
who didn’t I love more than you
all those years
locked inside my box of fears
going out and about
acting like everything
was picture perfect
all the while holding in the truth
leaving house after dark
I say it’s time to meet the boys
gonna play some 8 ball
and swallow pints of beer
you remind me
there’s work yet to be done
yet always I make it there
somehow you knew it was just me
and my imaginary past
tugging at my shirt tails
plotting and scheming
and luring me away
promising to show me places
most men never dare dream of
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve
oh captive bird
is that the only song
you know
sing sing sing to me
a lullaby
oh captive bird
serenading me to sleep
doors wide open
why oh why
won’t you leave
oh captive bird
finally scheming
in my dreams
can feel you flying
like never before
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
how often I look to the stars for answers
even as a child sitting on front porch step
sadly confused what had brought me forth
here in this house of merriment and madness
passage of time often blurries the obvious
blending permanence with imperfect escapism
scrapping together true change from within
hitching magic carpet ride to nearest galaxy
temporary visitations have become the norm
familiar faces nothing but a distant memory
could it be I long to return to the womb
desperately desiring to be born again
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s never too late to get started
seeing things for the first time
whether walking through walls
or flying high in the sky
black birds too numerous to count
become motivated by changing winds
amassing in tradition and spirit
swirling like fast moving cloud
oh yes there are darker days ahead
or so says the prognosticator
white dove perched on shoulder
whispering secrets in her ear
sometimes the truth is in flight
other times walking on thin air
appearing and disappearing
like the great houdini himself
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
sun falling fast behind frost-covered hills
shades of pink glorifying the horizon
variable winds swirling and sweeping
speaking in languages I’m sure I once knew
images of elephants coming to mind
marching high in midday sky
sporting hides bordering on pink
drifting in and out of cumulus clouds
turning hot and sticky summer days
into something inexplicably cool
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
those tears in my eyes
they’re from the wind or the cold
or the memory of how you used to be
but never never never
from my own limitations
staring right through me
my inner self
neither applauding nor pitying
my outer self
neither smiling nor frowning
but merely acknowledging
and accepting
the very idea that my eyes
may suddenly become animated
at the most unexpected times
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
now that death is upon us
the curse of darkness has been lifted
replaced by a faint light
gradually expanding in the dead of night
fear not the universe next door
having frequented your once lucid dreams
providing glimmers of hope
when otherwise preoccupied with despair
closure is but a paradox
like a cold case begging to be unwrapped
if for no other reason
than as a reminder you’ll always be loved
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we walked a mile
to the well and back
mother explaining along the way
there are some burdens
not meant for others to carry
of course I’d no idea
what she meant (at the time)
but her words stayed with me
becoming a part of what
I was meant to be
how I love to share
such stories with strangers
if only they’re willing
to open up themselves
by going to the well and back
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
if you brush aside the obvious
you will find seeds have begun
to sprout
in what was once known
as paradise
I first met you there
when the moon was but a mural
germinating in the back
of our minds
how we talked about
painting the sky
when the sun
was nowhere to be found
just when everything
seemed to be perfect
the world
burns to the ground
the story resorting
to starting all over again
and those seeds
once clenched in your fists
are forever scattering
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I don’t know much beyond Iowa
which is why I need to get away
while there’s still time
Some say I wouldn’t survive
outside my current state of mind
that the world
would eat me alive
but to those people
I say they don’t know how many times
I’ve successfully run away
whether it be to San Francisco
or the Caymans
or bountiful Peloponnese
I’ve long been in secret
communications with friends
and acquaintances
all around the galaxy
promising to welcome me with
open arms
understanding how time
is of the essence
especially since the fourth season
is knocking on Iowa’s door
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
do you remember me when I was
only so old
making friends with elephants walking
through walls
and unripe bananas
cracking jokes from inside wicker
basket on breakfast
table
I like chocolate milk better
than off-white
pour it on rice krispies
proceed to paint my baby face
making all the angels
(sitting around me)
giggling
like a circle of children
we used to go on these
day trips
around the world and back
feeding the hungry
and clothing the naked
back when world population
barely totaled
three billion
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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