inspiration lies low
like ursa minor in hibernation
like tulip bulbs
stirring in february soil
blue eyes painted over
darkened skies
peek past wintry clouds
and toward a brand new day
open arms warmly welcome
a once elusive sun
promising to thaw a world
hopeful to rise again
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
my clairvoyant dreams paved the way
for so many to get out of this place
there was no time to pack a case
no time for goodbye hugs or kisses
pretending to be pretty is a futile endeavor
when there is beauty in eternity
the difference between life and breath
is as a minuscule as the smallest molecule
intrinsically gradual like the transition of seasons
cycling within this world and the next
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I turn the dial to 107.9 fm
but all I hear is ozzie or zepplin
van halen or ac/dc
I tell myself if I want to hear classic rock
I’d dial in 100.3 or maybe 105.7
whatever happened to my once
favorite retreat called rock 108
where I could always hear
something beautifully brand new
no matter how good or bad
I mean seriously
is there really not enough new rock
to make the world go ‘round anymore
the population on this planet
continues to explode
but meanwhile
I’m stuck here half-dazed
(from all the static)
surfing station to station
hoping to find a brand new groove
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in the winter I move my
badass twenty-speed road bike
out of the garage and
down to the basement where
it hangs out of sight and mind
when the next morning arrives
I take to the streets on foot
dressed in layers so not
one part of my old body gets cold
except for maybe my cheeks
some days the streets are better
options than sidewalks
because so many lazy neighbors
can’t seem to properly clear them off
you can tell a lot about a neighbor
by looking at their sidewalks and driveways
when driveways remain snow-covered
for days on end
it tells you they’re either down in florida
yukking it up with the joneses
drinking arnold palmers and
never giving it a thought if the neighbor kid
was actually earning his keep
or they’re hopelessly homebound
deathly ill or worse yet
dead and gone
without a soul in the world
wondering where they are
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I dressed hurriedly for today’s
adventure out in the cold white country
beyond suburban houses shut
tight for the winter
smoke billowing out chimneys
and metal caps on rooftops
slamming the door behind me
I race down snow-covered streets
lined with streetlamps and skeleton trees
knapsack draped over one shoulder
carrying ice skates and hot chocolate
extra scarves and over-sized mittens
upon reaching base camp
the very last lot where town ends
and wilderness begins
dozens of boys gather where machines
made to conquer the snow sit idling
destined to take us places
not yet known
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
what have I contributed
to the cause
keeping the music alive and
guarding elephants
from poachers
I’ve given up aerosol sprays
and gasoline
marlboro lights
store-bought soup
and religion
how much more do I have to give
that constant humming in my ear
is that just a warning from
my guardian angel
or simply a reminder
how those widely admired
can easily be swept away
like a night owl’s prey
silently screaming
absolution doesn’t exist
in the blink of an eye
and even if it did
no act of contrition could
prevent anyone from
seeing the light
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Born in a veil of freedom
I walk through the streets
of Birmingham
holding my head high
gazing into the whites of the eyes
of faceless people
fading into unforgotten crowds
cheering and jeering and
throwing insults at my ancestry
at a time when vengeance
superseded facts
and justice was unleashed
without due process
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the sails in this watercolor look
like albino shark fins
she said while stretching her
neck to one side
the whitecaps are amazing
she went on to say
they’re perfect equilaterals
one rolling into the next
below the prismatic horizon
she stared at the painting
for another minute
dabbing at her eyes before
reaching out for my hand
what’s the matter I asked her
I’m bored to death she said
we’ve got to get out of this place
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I woke up to what sounded like
faint laughter coming from the living room
of course I could have been dreaming
I lay in the dark fully awake and surprisingly
at ease
just waiting to hear more laughter
the blinds were drawn but I knew damn well
it was still cold and dark outside
I looked at my wrist watch and wondered
if it had snowed
and then suddenly
the laughter came again
this time livelier and from multiple sources
much louder than the laughter
that had initially stirred me
(the big house makes many sounds anymore
now that I am the only one left)
I wondered if they had found the goods
stashed inside the walls
and false ceiling
wondered if they had found the mind-altering
substances that left me paralyzed
and perfectly at peace
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
maybe gasoline is so cheap
because it’s disgusting
and everyone’s had enough of
smoke and (sideview) mirrors
totally fed up with the oil wars
and those big machines
tearing into the earth
when the economy nearly died
a few years back
and gas prices
ripped wallets and families apart
I threw up my arms
and grew out my hair and beard
and bought a one-way ticket
to the land of confusion
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
In the sink there is a teacup
half filled with water
while on the drying rack
there is a perfect match
upside down and clean
I understand twenty questions
is just a game
but so is jenga and jacks
each requiring simple dexterity
and a playing partner
When you didn’t show up
I figured I’d gotten it wrong
but when rechecking the facts
discovered my recordkeeping
perhaps was incomplete
Like a child raising his hand
dying to answer the question
I become void of thought
incapable of speech
when called upon
Blindly crawling in the dark
I shift through ashes
of bones and feathers
sniffing for that elusive spark
certain to bring you back
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in the unpredictable spring
the poet writes of rain and birth
welcoming freshness
unfolding everywhere
in the hot summer sun the poet
writes of sweat and stifling heat
lemonade and iced tea
and the faraway sounds
of the ice cream van
when autumn approaches and
death is sure to follow
the poet writes of impending doom
and desperate days to come
but when winter arrives
and sub-zero temperatures set in
the poet remains silent
except when northern winds
or black bird wings
bring back to life
backyard metal chimes
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there were photographs
everywhere
plastered against the living
room walls
the place was a mess
there were old newspapers
and magazines
on the coffee table
and end tables
some of them cut up and
some of them barely touched
the place smelled of coffee and
cigarettes and kitty litter
some of the photographs
on the walls
had been scribbled on with blue
thin-tipped sharpies
scribbled with dates
and names
and emoticons
and many many question marks
outside it was stone cold
deep down inside
the photographs
were the only sane things
that kept a hopeful tomorrow alive
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I could have been a taxi driver
picking up musicians from
Carnegie Hall
I could have been flipping a coin
dressed in zebra stripes
standing at the fifty-yard line on
Super Bowl Sunday
or just as easily stranded in Iowa City
waiting in line at Hamburg Inn No. 2
I could have been slam dunking
donuts into black coffee in
New York City like some beat cop
on Sunday morning
I could have been that priest
in the Exorcist novel
placing my hands on a child
and my faith in the Lord
I could have been a medic
or a mystic or a miracle worker
trapped inside any given war
these past thousands of years
or I could have been a starving child
looking for someone
like myself
to save me
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
information flows freely
between these so-called
chinese firewalls
where there isn’t much anyone
can actually do about it
they put up some drapes
heavy as sleeping bags
across the front bay window
making it impossible for the sun
to shine through
though somehow moonlight
sometimes leaked in
in the first lower level
there was a darkroom where on
weekends amateur photographers
gathered to develop
black and white mineral mines
pushing them out undetected
into the secondary marketplace
in the second lower level
there was the infamous wine cellar
where on any given sunday
you could enjoy the rarest of merlot
picking out the oldest of stones
at your leisure
the local police carried no search
warrant as they came
crashing in on horseback
shooting first and asking
questions next
long after the webmaster
and his virtual entourage
slipped past the gate
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
when the heart monitor flatlined
I arose from the operating table
sat in the corner and studied the eyes
of frantic men and women
shouting and striking me relentlessly
on the far corner of the room
an agent stood faintly glowing
arms crossed and toe tapping
occasionally glancing
at the monitor on the rack
it was a friday morning and I
found myself comfortably curious
pondering what enlightening
adventures this pulsating persona
had in store for me
prepared to move on I reached
out my hand over my dead body
determined to become absorbed
into the rhythmically blinking light
before it was too late
january two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 