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poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “poetry”

apple orchard hired hands


the apples in the orchard
have ripened beautifully

they are calling out to passersby
saying pick me
pick me
pick me

neighbor boys arrive from
miles away
unfold their ladders and
climb like monkeys
picking apples by hand and
dropping them into wooden crates

sometimes they miss
sometimes they bounce out
but mostly they are spot on

when the boys have exhausted
all of their resources
they haul away their crates
full of ripened apples
and disappear into the horizon

on their way out they are met
by pretty maidens
dressed in bib coveralls
marching like soldiers with
apple pickers in tow
called in from a nearby county
to finish the job
the boys could not


december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

House on the Rock


A stretch of granite stones
long ago embedded into
the hill by supernatural forces
was once stepped upon
by grazing sheep
herded by determined men

On this firm foundation
a house was built
made of marble and glass
hauled to the top of the hill
by man and beast
masterfully pieced together
by sweat and skill

Down below children gather
pointing skyward and
marveling at the dazzling light
sparkling like a star
whispering to themselves
the house of God is near


december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Tilapia Galilaea


At home in the sea
he embeds himself inside cedar planks
contoured and shallow and
pieced together by artisan mariners
who row and chant
a square canvass hoisted high
harnessing the wind atop low tides

Calling into the waves
his mesmerizing cries enchant
Saint Peter’s fishes
swarming and succumbing and blessed
to be inside the netting
hurriedly emptied into the boat
and saved by the grace of God


december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

time capsule crash landing


late autumn afternoon
digging into garden bed
and separating little bulbs
from big ones
I uncover a shiny emerald stone

I rub off the dirt with soiled fingers
and polish it with my shirt
kneeling and looking up
I hold it skyward past
silent clouds drifting
my eyes squinting
my mind racing

from out of this world
it came crashing
burrowing into the earth
untouched for perhaps centuries
but now my cherished treasure
if only for the shortest
moment in time


december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

long live the queen


to the newborn child
we toasted promise
to the graduate
we toasted career
to the foot soldier
we toasted godspeed
and to the bride
we toasted happily ever after

to the winners of the world
we toasted success
and to the losers
we kicked them in the ass

there was so much to cheer
so we refilled
and re-raised our glasses
shouting for joy
for the kings of the world
and their terrible entourages
have finally been blown away


december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

waiting to be born


we worked both sides of the stream
looking for deep pools to cast our souls

it was late september and a cool breeze
had gradually reddened your cheeks

we had strolled along for an hour now
stopping on two occasions
enticing brown trout to strike live bait

filtered light shone through a network
of ripened limbs losing their luster
revealing a part of you I had never seen

without saying a word we picked up
our things and moved on empty-handed

over the years the stream had changed
but over my lifetime remained the same

looking back I spotted a young me
pretending to be someone I was not
catching my limit in very short order

little did I know you were always near
guiding me back to this solitary place
years before you were meant to be born


december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

pomp and glorious circumstance


so I hear everything happens for a reason
which certainly includes my birth
a byproduct of an irish girl
and a self-determined misunderstood man

sure I got kicked around
but that was for my own good
degraded and humiliated and put in place
for no other reason than to be reminded
exactly who was in charge

but as the bible says a man must leave his mother
and cling to his dreams

but my dreams were awkwardly inconsistent
and so I ran away on god’s command
and became a soldier child
joining the ranks of the finest of misfits
who learn to forget they ever had a past
and learn to kill without thinking or feeling

out on the fringes there is no need
for marlboros or whiskey or california weed
there is only the desire to survive
by sipping on desert spring water
and feasting on exotic butterflies

and if you are fortunate enough
to die a violent death
there is an even better chance
you will find yourself adorned within
a field of the brightest wildflowers





december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

behind the darkest of days


dense fog rolled in
long before the awakening
muting streetlamps
seen as glowing orbs
dotted along lifeless streetscapes

behind the shroud
crows gather atop barren
unseen trees
calling upon a breakthrough light
delivering beacons of hope


december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Karaoke in New Afghanistan


Halfway through ‘Californication’
I realized there wasn’t a designated
driver in the place

we were thirty miles away from home
and knee-deep in a melting pot
patrons calling out for shots
in at least a half-dozen languages

I nailed that song even though I stumbled
through the second verse
lost in my own thoughts
worried about how things might be
come tomorrow’s sunrise

but then
when the entire house came to their feet
whistling
and shouting
and clapping above their heads
I could only imagine how Lennon
would one day love it here



This poem prompted by Poetics: War for peace – or just hard work? via dVerse Pub


december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

abandoned property


bones tossed in a pot
dissolving into a swirling mess
left unattended and simmering
until the fire burns out

what once were aromas
are now stagnant smells
like stale gas escaping
brick laid chambers

behind dusty hallways
bite-sized carpenters retool
gnawing like lost ghosts
trapped in their own past

down below true life stories
may one day be found
perhaps by bloodhounds
on a futile mission from hell


december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

the death of a silvery blue spruce


they rolled into the cul-de-sac
on a cold and lifeless monday morning
equipped with trucks and chains
saws and chippers and ropes
called upon to put to an end
what seemed to be an eternal bond

in her glory days she stood
taller than a timeless story
beckoning christmastime carolers
on the longest of nights
lifting the spirits of the dead
lighting the neighborhood in primary colors
bursting from within teardrop shaped bulbs

I loved her now like I loved her then
her indiscriminate arms
folding and weeping
forever welcoming weary souls
needing a winter place to call home



Note: this poem prompted by Poetics: Secrets of the Universe via dVerse Pub


december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

long live the encore


there is death in the desert
and death in the sea

there is death in the streets of paris
and on the avenue of the saints

in the halls of washington the president
designs death in new ways
and those around him applaud
and he smiles

in the meantime he decries death in the theater
and death in the schools

and his people will pretend they don’t know
what is causing all the death

they are too busy with their own superficial lives
to question why army drones are supplying weapons
to enemy camps and into the
hands of every enemy of every nation

they are numb to the concept of violent death
because it is simply ingrained into their psyche
and they spoon-feed it to their children
in the form of horrific death on television screens
on movie screens and computer screens
on the tiniest of handheld screens

the idea of mass death does not faze them
and when a day goes by without it
they think something must be wrong

and when dreamers talk of peace they laugh
because they know peace is unnatural
and takes too much effort to pull off

and so death simply goes on

long after the final curtain call


november two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

while drinking water from my hands


as evening fades like a memory
of a faraway dream
I am reminded of words spoken
barely audible above nightingales
ushering in a rising moon
a promise so to speak
made beneath the warmth
of december clouds
that the spirit of the flame will forever
prevent our love from growing old



november two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

fending for yourself


fear infiltrates educated hallways
racial tensions fill the streets
a mother trying to quit worrying
where blue birds land on their feet

homegrown violence simmers
deep within inner city alleyways
hooded teens swagger and curse
knives sheathed inside ragged socks

street smart kids wired for sound
defend themselves from unjust laws
backpacks filled with jagged edges
sit unnecessarily beneath bus seats

homeland security doesn’t work here
not where children fend for themselves
either all alone in darkened classrooms
or recruited by enemies of the state


november two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

changing of the guard


winter came early this year
and nobody seemed
to give a damn

instead everyone was frozen
glued to their personal devices
as if they were mere machines

screams coming from across
the pond fell on deaf ears
except for those cheering
from the other side

meanwhile dark-eyed juncos
just got back in town today
while fat-breasted robins
continued to hang out
for some dumb reason


november two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Take me to the river


Not so random acts of madness
attack all corners of the world
leaving me with a bluesy feeling
I can’t seem to overcome

I barely hear your raspy breathing
passing through undefined lines
your outreached arms
nearly invisible in my peripheral
your cries indecipherable
beneath a rubble of mistrust

Who will show us the way
to safely reach the River Jordan
where its healing powers
give light and rebirth
to those seeking to start anew


november two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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