born from the oven
released into the unknown
they race beyond their years
like children unborn
glowing warmly and bluesy
from river to stream
new moons sneak right along
stealthily like fugitives
weaving in and out of realities
neither earth nor sea
can prevent their creations
turning old life into new
though cycles may change
outcomes seldom do
starlets always shining
the oven never cooling
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there were dancers in the skies
and songsters in the trees
gentle breezes crossed their minds
casting shadows creeping deep
swollen clouds darkened the pond
scattering notes upon the sheet
flying fish breached the surface
grasping for truths unseen
wildflowers earnestly gathered
producing lively waxing smiles
a child’s hand but a crystal vase
clenching secrets worth their while
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
by Daniella Sciuto & J Matthew Waters
Are you jealous
Of the space between us
Filled with darkness
And twinkling stars
Bereft of passion
The green patina of sarcasm
Lobs my way
Have you forgotten
All those years
Reduced to a mere photograph
Safekept under glass
Encapsulated
In an unmanned
Underground
Silo
Why did you build that bomb
The one that divided us
A mushroom cloud of discontent
Hovering overhead
As our atom split
Turning two into too many nights
Alone and cold in the dark
I tried to seek a sign up above
Past an endless sky without light
Finally I ask myself am I the one
Am I jealous of the space between us
Of the fragile photograph kept under glass
Was it me who built that bomb
Did I hover in discontent
Watching as we split
Lonely in this silo in the dark
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is no going back
no fixing of things if you will
no apologies for past decisions
or inspiration to instill upon others
that song buried deep inside you
is like the setting sun in the rearview mirror
seemingly a faraway memory
but closer than it appears
full of deceit and trickery
and almost smothering until suddenly
explodes with a brightness never before witnessed
turning everything black as a ghost
it is a lonely road you chose
the one marched on by millions of men
sent off on their own accord
to conquer their own fears
giving meaning to their newfound lives
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Her name was Resurrection
and she was caught by surprise
many a times
mainly resulting in her own demise
She often fancied herself a catfish
and loved to swim in a sea of names
dominated by tasty tuna
she just couldn’t get enough of
I once tried talking her down from the roof
but she would have nothing to do with it
and weeks would go by before
I would see her again
She often mentioned she would love
to meet Schrödinger in the afterlife
if nothing other than comparing notes
on the natural order of things
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
when the telephone rings
it is wise not to answer
for the best news is no news
in these godforsaken lands
I cringe at the injustices
bestowed upon the helpless
how the most brutal minds
can take away anything they like
at any given moment
they were not put on this earth
by the gods who protect me
the gods who taught me
tolerance and compassion
promising a better place
in another time and space
in the meantime the wars
and the mass murders
and merciless distrust between
neighbors prevail
history unable to help
but repeat itself
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
he turned dirt into mud with spit
and gentle hands
nimble fingers changing malleable
clay into lifeless figurines
they possessed no soul
and no hearts beat inside to fuel
their starving minds
high up on a shelf they sat
out of reach from the many visitors
who called randomly
touring the estate but coming up empty
sent to find something inside
from forces unknown
that is all there is he would tell them
and they turned and left
disappointed but certain
there were prisoners inside the place
desperate to be saved
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s mid-morning early summer
and I leave my little office for a quick
ten minute walk through eight city blocks
passing brick and mortar and black glass
cutting through a bike trail lined
with flowers and trees and park benches
it’s somewhat humid and somewhat hot
and I loosen the knot of the tie from my neck
worrying about sweat staining the collar
of my freshly ironed
buttoned-down oxford
the city is diverse and there are certainly
many kinds to meet along the way
but for whatever reason I tend to change course
when approaching the homeless
those courageous individuals who are already
planning where to spend the night
the disadvantaged who somehow manage to smoke
cigarettes and consume cheap whiskey or wine
only to wake up in a dreamless state
forced to do it all over again
usually by holding out a hand
I tell myself making monetary pledges
and sending off checks to post office boxes
is not necessarily the answer
but it’s the easiest path to take
especially when burdened by troubles of my own
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
back in the day I used to hang
out with Clint
back when we got involved
with those spaghetti westerns
there was hardly ever any
high drama on the set
seasoned cowboys rehearsing
their lines and showcasing
well worn snakeskin boots
spitting tobacco on spiders
and squinting into the sun
I mostly sat in a high chair
fans blowing on my face
my voice occasionally
barking out instructions
but for the most part things
played out on their own
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the iceman cometh on broadway
is how I understand it
on stage or in some city park
brought back to life by an imagination
starving for attention
I swear I heard the radioman
repeating the iceman will cometh
to a theater near you
they dug him out of a hole
created back in 1782
apparently buried deep inside
where the frozen ocean
meets the rock
they revived him time and time
again
and each time
he lost a little more of his life
deprived of dreams and oxygen
that would one day save his life
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
if the birds don’t rule this world
nobody knows who does
they fly in and out of dreams
as if they had been here before
first to awaken they stir the frost
with slow motion wings
opening promises above the clouds
in prehistoric times they fed without
fear of twenty gauge buckshot
back in the future they learn
to penetrate outer atmospheres
they’ve seen it all and they pass their
knowledge onto future generations
long after migrating from this world
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
could we press rewind and go
back to houston
back to the space city by the bay
where the districts are alive
like tattooed hearts on sleeves
where glorious voices frequent the
grandest of operas
and the trendiest of restaurants
(lined along historically diverse streets)
place no restrictions on who may sit where
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
looking from afar she’s a beauty
dressed in variations of blue and white
spinning in place like a ballerina
poised and full of grace
born into a seemingly endless era
she has lived and died countless times
only to return to confront the dangers
the natural order of things create
unconcerned with the scars modern
minds have fatally placed upon themselves
she feeds on mere mortal wounds
knowing time will heal all things
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in the dementia ward they
played poker with toothpicks
and told off-color jokes everyone
laughed at but nobody understood
nothing is real here one of them said
you’re all just figments of my imagination
I used to love fig newtons another one said
they don’t exist you idiot
not fig newtons or chocolate chip cookies
not milky way bars or rice crispy treats
not sugar and spice or anything nice
everyone chuckled except for the one
who used to love fig newtons
oh just shut up and deal he said
before the lights go out
july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
she was a beauty without doubt
shined in photographs
everywhere you showed them
to everyone who saw
her skin was cold to the touch
but you would never know
not without getting closer
not without bridging the gap
lost inside a city of angels
she blended in with mere mortals
rubbing elbows with those
she learned to trust
it was back in o’eight after
the world had seemed to crash
an exodus of sorts ensued
and she left everything behind
did she really head back east
back where there was no home
or did she drift into a dreamless state
where only gray matter grows
your badge of courage means
nothing if you can’t solve
the reason why she came here
or the reason she needs you now
june two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
children played in the sand
building empires bound to fail
if not by the morning rain
then by a bloated gibbous
sinking into the sea
they boarded a starship
and set sail into the unknown
praying to their gods
for divine guidance
during years of hardship
starting anew in an alien world
they gravitate back
where sand meets the sea
where sweet memories linger
in unfamiliar air
their curious children learning
to build their own castles
june two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 