jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “poem”

january thaw


winter winds unusually warm
bringing back birds I’ve not seen
in what seems like ages
suddenly returning in waves

I’ve been flying and foraging
for nearly a fortnight now
blending in with a family of
black-capped chickadees

I almost forgot what is was like
to be amongst a family
of five or fifty or five hundred
coexisting effortlessly




january two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

the law of wavelength


listen to the vibrations within
a part of your living self
faintly beating since conception
growing stronger incrementally
from fetus to eventual live birth

they’ve always been there
[these beautiful vibrations]
a window to the non-physical world
constantly tapping your shoulder
revealing mysteries while you sleep

though you may suppress them
through disregard and self-destruction
they can never be destroyed
always remaining in waiting
like a dispirited guardian angel




january two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Catharsis


Or so I’ve been told there is drama
in the afterlife
but I am quick in begging to differ
having already experienced
a time or two the act of purgation

You see I’ve long since cried
my last tear
long before my last breath
experiencing or better yet
coming to terms with stepping
through to the other side

I am like a leaf discovered
by a child after a long long winter
pressed and preserved
in psalm one seventeen
soon thereafter stitched together
and placed back on the vine

I’ve missed you more
than you will ever know
but I will always remind you
[in my own little way]
that I never really did leave
I simply ridded myself of everything
that never truly belonged to me



january two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

creation in waiting


bored by an ancient past
afraid of what lies ahead
I sit in front of metal easel
white canvas but a mirror
sable paint brush in hand

painting myself in and out
of an imperfect circle
how many times must I try
turning apple into orange
or barren earth into sky

I keep telling myself
a masterpiece is awaiting
one without a beginning or end
brimming with suspension
like a virtuoso escape artist




december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

the cure


you spend the day in suspension
hanging upside down in dark cave
high frequency white noise
keeping you breathing freely
your thoughts increasingly lucid

bandages wrap your beating heart
covering unresolved feelings
wounded by your own compassion
for someone in your distant past

when it’s time to let yourself go
breaking free from the ceiling
empathy is allowed to sink in
reconnecting with a virtual bond
able to absorb your true identity




december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

the further away it seems


my worst fears
but a window to the world
exposing my hopes and dreams
as if they don’t belong to me

elbows on window sill
eyes blinking shut
palms supporting chin
mind delving deeper in thought

lonesome mockingbird
outside looking in
echoing a song I’ve yet to begin

some say I’m on my way
I say I’m already there
arms stretched out
and welcoming a light
that naturally never ends




december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Recklessness

In memory of Marshall T. Schick (1962-1990)

The laughter and sounds of two cycle engines
are what I remember most. Even in summer
you played with the Kawasaki, saucer and rope.

On frozen Duck Creek five bodies
would stack upon a radio flyer as your laughter
ricocheted off the elms that lined its banks.
As you shifted gears and roared, gaining speed,
your maneuvers would force bodies to peel
off the stack, until at last only one survived.

Pleasures of others gave you the most reward,
I remember. And when I learned that your tire did not
obey at three a.m., I could only think you are not alone.




december two thousand eighteen
(originally penned circa 1990)
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

the last migration


nobody talks about birds
growing older
but here we are
sitting on park benches
bread crumbs in our hands

this sitting down is for birds
I say out loud
and you naturally agree
without speaking a word

it’s a warm winter’s day
and our shadows
are barely visible on the
black asphalt
like skinny icicles hanging
ever slowly changing




december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

ghost town babylon


this town has no name
but somehow keeps growing
one tiny skyscraper at a time

word has it
this town is quickly resurfacing
coming back to life
after its decimation
many centuries before spaghetti westerns

people keep arriving here
in waves and droves
like magnets with no
particular place to go
kicking up dirt and looking
to settle old scores

they say a horse
can take you only so far
into the desert
but this town appears to be
disproving that notion

are the flowers truly
blossoming again
leading up to the outer edges of town
or are they simply allegorically illusory
like a mirage of tiny skyscrapers




december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

learning not to lament casually


years of traveling
studying centuries past
retracing pages and journals
and footnotes of verse and meter
oh how I struggled
to find a voice

refusing to borrow or steal
never would I dare
ask permission to copy
voices from legends
of those gracing our presence
through fact or fiction

before it was too late
I came to understand
how my own voice was allowed
to coexist on a higher plane
expressing our eventual defeat
with dignity and beauty




december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

connecting dots


where do you go from here
now that loved ones have moved on
their light recalibrating far from center
revolving in intellectual circles
you no longer dare dream

creativity rests in dormant state
summoned on infrequent occasions
from crevices of an aging mind

matters of the heart remain intact
driving thoughts deeply inward
brightly colored like a rainbow
free-floating and nearly touchable
piquing a past ripe with possibilities




december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

present tense


what remains is what remains
once the riptide disrupts the flow

winter snow dissolves into thin air
revealing what was thought to be dead

north wind arrives before the dawn
energetic and surprisingly warm

fingers and toes begin to wiggle
deep inside the belly of the creator

there is comfort in barren trees
supported by the richness of the earth

fear not the ghostly new moon rising
giving reason to breathe yet again




december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: