we sat on the dock
feet dangling and bobbers
bobbing atop quiet wakes
ushered in by a dying sun
succumbing to giant moon
we spoke occasionally
about deficits and taxes and
royal weddings
steering clear of world wars
and foreign matters
for the most part though
we kept the conversation
to a minimum
drinking the king’s ale
waiting for mackerel to strike
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
do not try to put into focus
that which remains blurred
let it fuse into nothingness
as it was meant to be
forget about putting into words
unspeakable thoughts
rather let such notions disperse
like dandelion spores
those premonitions interloping
between dreamlike states
learn to let them escape your grasp
relish in their freedom
once finding clarity in belief
you may then proceed
accepting the terms of darkness
and its mystic promise
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
she says she keeps putting out fires
but I have no idea what she means
afterall she spends her days in studio
throwing colors on canvases
only to whitewash them a few days later
I tell her I really like those inferno pieces
lava flowing into the sea
destroying everything in its path
upper story skyscrapers burning uncontrollably
tiny people waving white flags out windows
it’s all too depressing she tells me
too much like real life
I’d much rather come up with
something unrealistically fashionable
like butterflies or dragonflies
rescuing fallen angels from the gates of hell
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
settling into melancholic reflection
off and on rain and weakening sun
falling behind green glistening treeline
a reminder how tricks of the mind
turn fact into fiction
I’ve seen this scenery off and on
but each time the outcome varies
especially come midmorning
eyelids repeatedly blinking
dreams working overtime
though sunlight often penetrates
past horizontal slats
many times it’s nothing but madness
mysteriously flickering off and on
desperately trying to awaken me
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
waiting for the rain to stop
for the pocket phone to ring
waiting for the midnight train
taking me to promised land
you’ve been gone so long
I’ve forgotten how to find you
sitting on a depot bench
I watch the trains crawl by
waiting becomes cumbersome
patience a thing of the past
I walk away from the waiting
waving goodbye one last time
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
every sunday I arise after friday
amazed to find I am still in one piece
perfectly aware one day
it will not always be this way
there are mountains to the west
and ocean green to the south
I flip a coin to decide which way to go
where there was once war
now resides everlasting peace
(and vice versa)
just like great lakes are deserts
at times I find myself intrigued
and content and borderline desperate
chasing answers to age-old catechisms
in the end I find comfort in the legitimacy
of my inner voice whispering in my ear
whether I’m wide awake or deep in sleep
reminding me there will come a time
we shall reunite
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
we thought he had moved out
for good this time
leaving behind a few possessions
nobody dared to care about
some throw pillows
a trinket or two misplaced here or there
some perishables left in the pantry
and a few dirty dishes
on or around the dining room table
though he never did pay rent
we didn’t mind him hanging out
especially on quiet saturday mornings
what gets under my skin
how he never did leave a note
or better yet sent a postcard from
some faraway place
leaving me second guessing
what could I have done
to make him feel more welcome
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
We were dead set on going out west
to California no less
north of wine country where we could
easily assimilate without much effort
There were details to work out
such as putting the pets up for adoption
and finding new sitters
for the children’s children
With little left to do in a town where
everyone knows your name
we consider ourselves history
just as soon as we mastermind
our final final bank heist
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
out of thin air shallow breaths are born
giving life where there was once none
providing comfort to those who grieve
to those whose lives are in desperate
need of meaningful nurturing
burial grounds of once mighty empires
have long expired and recycled into
fields of grasses and wildflowers
articulated masterpieces of complexion
breathing quietly and free from harm
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
sitting on narrow part of bridge
we fish from the bottom
at three-thirty in the morning
having closed the bars
we now chat side by side
unexpectedly witnessing
waxing moon blooming
while most people dream
we resume this conversation
started decades ago
at last coming to a head
suddenly realizing
past years made no sense
and most likely never will
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
behind the hermit’s gate
stories are being told
transcribed and archived
like nobody’s business
free passes do not exist
but those who slip inside
are put to the test
and ever seldom leave
there are grottos and graffiti
in need of attention
improved upon by signs
of the cross and hail marys
although spoken words
were outlawed long ago
they remain alive and well
buried deep underground
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
schizophrenic city streets
lined with phantom street lamps
come alive come nightfall
thanks to a populace as diverse
as any melting pot can get
shadows gradually give way
to molasses moon rising
repetitiously expanding
melding in with various moods
painting the town in technicolor
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
roadside singer
quite colorful and
resting comfortably atop
curved guard rail
counting blue cars
and red motorcycles
racing by like clockwork
ruffling feathers
and drowning out
magical sounds
inspired by god herself
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
So here I am
back in Rome again
going about doing things
as alleged Romans do
perhaps for the last time
It’s been a century or two
since I’ve been gone
but now that I’m back
I’m finding not much
has changed
Outside the city
is still the best place to be
if only a man can
break the chains of his
callous past
I must admit though
there is contentment
canvassing the busy streets
holding onto this belief
you still exist
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
piano starts to play
something free and easy
your foot begins to tap
one two three
new moon
half moon
blue moon
how you reminisce
when you hear those sounds
barely noticeable
and rising above the trees
late late at night
waking you from sleep
you make your way
from room to room
finally stepping outside
and it is there finally
you capture the light
(or is it the other way around)
and you find comfort in a song
you once knew by heart
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
so here we are again friday at five
sitting amongst the best and worst
telling new tales and rehashing tall ones
this old boy from toontown drops by
and takes off in a whirlwind
buying a round for the gang before
hailing benny the cab
you know he sure looks familiar
someone says
almost everyone else agreeing
swearing they’ve seen his mug before
either on cartoon network or silver screen
jessica the beautiful barkeep
pretends not to be listening
but perks up and smiles wryly
shaking her head when asked
if she had any idea
who that long-eared bloke might be
may two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all right reserved
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