faces of friend and foe
come and go
but i must live on
using my own eyes
to scan the universe
and examine my soul
i hear of things
both good and bad
from those i think i know
but i am not to judge
what is not mine
for i must deal
with eternity
on my own terms
i imagine what happens
in three dimensions
will take on new meaning
once riding my pale horse
off into the sunset
september two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
standing in the cloudless water
filled with rocks and sediment
and good vibrations
i cast my line
at a buffeted white boulder
shadowing a four foot pool
i pull and pause the jig with imprecise
rhythm along the creek bed
darting to the left
and to the right
jerking and sliding at my command
like a puppeteer playing the part
i bring home the jig and recast
at the same target as before
one eye focused
on the motion
the other at the rainbow trout
dormant and disinterested
over time my mind wanders
as the jig continues the routine
teasing its nemesis
with its tastiness
destined to vanish into the dark
and revive me from my trance
september two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I burned your image
in my mind
like charcoal lead
on cottony white paper
I painted your eyes
on canvas
like I had known them
my entire life
I drew your heart
closer to mine
beating rhythmically
as if we were one
september two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Bottle the warmth
of late August
sunshine,
stow it where
no one
will guess.
When the sub-zero
midwestern storm
attacks,
uncap the sample–
stay warm
until the thaw.
click here for youtube video
j matthew waters
copyright nineteen ninety-three
all rights reserved
there’s something about the color red
that makes everything go so fast
as fast as jack rabbits
launched into space
using supersonic wrist rockets
red rockets launch into orbit
from the back yard
blasted by homemade boosters
consigned to corral space junk
circling the planet
for what seems like a millennium
old-time rocket man rocks
on the front porch
cloaked in his red suit
and plucking his guitar
reminiscing outlandishly
about space cowboys
september two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
i gave you my promise
and you ran with it
all the way across the country
where you boarded a ship
destination i don’t know
you tried saving the planet
with my promise
attached to you at all times
like it was part of the dog tags
hanging from your neck
by the time they shipped you
back to the states
the promise had expired
lost to the heavens
awaiting for me there
september two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
The oranges here are amazing as are the
tomatoes and apples. I didn’t come here
for the fruit but damn it’s all so good.
You may never see me again! JW
Postcard Poem Guidelines
september two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
this claustrophobic feeling
assails me like a shrinking
windowless room needing
a new paint job as the four
padded sides diminish my
ability to control my sanity
or concentrate coherently
september two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
little bird with little love
sits atop a lemon tree
hopes to turn into a dove
and live his life with ease
little bird with little friends
feeds upon a giving heart
longs to soar and pretend
his tweets are like a lark
little bird with little dreams
slowly heals his broken wing
soon to feast on tangerines
ripening across the spring
september two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
papa made it clear
he wanted his bones
buried out in the field
using the same
crop circle pattern
the aliens created
back in the summer
of nineteen ninety-two
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we danced in the rain
beneath the streetlamp
our minds drifting
past the invisible moon
into carelessness
we lived in a place
without birth or death
a visual paradise
where angels in the sky
longed to touch down
at night we chanted
for the moon and rain
to call the children
hiding beyond the light
to dance
and dance again
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there’s nothing wrong with me
as i hit the snooze button
for the third time
stare at the cobweb on the ceiling fan
wondering where the spider is.
outside i hear mickey’s silverado
start up and head down the street.
it must be seven-thirty-five.
a few hours later i get out of bed
walk over to the window
and draw the shade
another half inch.
i spend the next ten minutes
sitting on the shitter.
i check my email on my android
and play a few pinball games.
“hey boss this is johnson,” i say,
talking into my boss’s android.
“listen, something’s come up,
i won’t be in today…or tomorrow….
actually i won’t be back until thursday.
“there’s nothing wrong with me
so don’t call back
and i’ll see you on thursday.”
i finish my business in the bathroom
and make my way back to bed,
excited about the idea
of doing nothing
for three more days.
author’s note:
this poem is in response to charles bukowski’s oral dissertation on depression
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the spider hunters believed
in making their mark
whether filmed in the amazon
or the cape of good hope
a long line of survivalists
funded their work
forsaking a return on investment
for some awesome video
the viewers became hooked
as the camouflaged pair
set traps sponsored by
some weed killer company
they reinvented themselves
season after season
adapting to new appendages
with built in silk ejectors
with ratings off the charts
they rolled the dice
promising the unheard of
to hold your attention
their evolution took a leap
episode one year eight
as a confused world watched
the birth of a new species
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we talked for hours
after the football game
starting where we left off
thirty years ago
we sat in the very same
booth, where in the day
i wrote short stories
while putting down pints
sometimes we’d sit
at the bar and chain-smoke
sipping on coffee
in between classes
you haven’t changed a bit
she said, laughing;
a reminder how she loved
to tell white lies
once in the corner
on a cold rainy night
i wept like a baby
ruining my story
after hearing the news
you searched me out
held me in your arms
until the bar closed
you know, she said,
you’ll meet her again
and her beauty
will take you away
melancholy struck me
as she covered my wrist
with her hands,
closing her eyes
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
gravitational forces
make the world go round
geometrically perfect
and mathematically sound
innocently conceived
of violent explosions
woe are the children
born into a whirlwind
of poverty and starvation
whose land neither spins
nor revolves with beauty
or compassion or truth
sad is the soldier
dying in a battlefield
dark clouds circling above
the beauty of the world
just a passing idea
taught in a classroom
man and his machines
compete for dominance
racing across the skies
and testing mother nature
with all the tangible wealth
this blue jewel can muster
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
satan sat poised and silent
listening to the dead man’s plea
nodding like a disinterested psychiatrist
who magnanimously extended the session
so the injured soul could recount
all the right reasons
for distrusting the existence
of life after death
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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