sun falling fast behind frost-covered hills
shades of pink glorifying the horizon
variable winds swirling and sweeping
speaking in languages I’m sure I once knew
images of elephants coming to mind
marching high in midday sky
sporting hides bordering on pink
drifting in and out of cumulus clouds
turning hot and sticky summer days
into something inexplicably cool
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
those tears in my eyes
they’re from the wind or the cold
or the memory of how you used to be
but never never never
from my own limitations
staring right through me
my inner self
neither applauding nor pitying
my outer self
neither smiling nor frowning
but merely acknowledging
and accepting
the very idea that my eyes
may suddenly become animated
at the most unexpected times
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
now that death is upon us
the curse of darkness has been lifted
replaced by a faint light
gradually expanding in the dead of night
fear not the universe next door
having frequented your once lucid dreams
providing glimmers of hope
when otherwise preoccupied with despair
closure is but a paradox
like a cold case begging to be unwrapped
if for no other reason
than as a reminder you’ll always be loved
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we walked a mile
to the well and back
mother explaining along the way
there are some burdens
not meant for others to carry
of course I’d no idea
what she meant (at the time)
but her words stayed with me
becoming a part of what
I was meant to be
how I love to share
such stories with strangers
if only they’re willing
to open up themselves
by going to the well and back
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
if you brush aside the obvious
you will find seeds have begun
to sprout
in what was once known
as paradise
I first met you there
when the moon was but a mural
germinating in the back
of our minds
how we talked about
painting the sky
when the sun
was nowhere to be found
just when everything
seemed to be perfect
the world
burns to the ground
the story resorting
to starting all over again
and those seeds
once clenched in your fists
are forever scattering
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I don’t know much beyond Iowa
which is why I need to get away
while there’s still time
Some say I wouldn’t survive
outside my current state of mind
that the world
would eat me alive
but to those people
I say they don’t know how many times
I’ve successfully run away
whether it be to San Francisco
or the Caymans
or bountiful Peloponnese
I’ve long been in secret
communications with friends
and acquaintances
all around the galaxy
promising to welcome me with
open arms
understanding how time
is of the essence
especially since the fourth season
is knocking on Iowa’s door
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
do you remember me when I was
only so old
making friends with elephants walking
through walls
and unripe bananas
cracking jokes from inside wicker
basket on breakfast
table
I like chocolate milk better
than off-white
pour it on rice krispies
proceed to paint my baby face
making all the angels
(sitting around me)
giggling
like a circle of children
we used to go on these
day trips
around the world and back
feeding the hungry
and clothing the naked
back when world population
barely totaled
three billion
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
new moon held in cupped hands
like a wounded fledgling
feeling powerless
yet slowly warming
to this idea of finally flying free
trusting the process is not easy
for anything grounded
nevertheless you uncup
your trembling hands
observing the sky in a new light
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
what’s not said holds
more meaning
than any spoken word made in haste
how many times have you heard
it’s not what you said
but the way in which you said it
and what about those thoughts
left unsaid
do you know how they simply
go by the wayside
like acts of contrition
performed in private
it shouldn’t have to come to this
afraid to speak for fear
the moon will never weep again
afraid to sleep
for fear the sun may never rise
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there was a time I thought I wasn’t going anywhere
even when traveling across the country
searching for a better place
the good news is pretty red roses always stay pretty
even after morning dew turns to frost
november days fading fast
passion and introspection complement the dying
their mystery moon burning bright
unnoticed by the living
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
starting the kiln
pottery pieces are well-prepared
for animation
after sitting on shelf
defying limitations
potters’ hands
age-old but consistently steady
creating in solitude
rhythmically firing
on all cylinders
stoking the coals
it’s okay to burn your hands
but not your soul
breathing new life
into ancient designs
cycles come and go
whether you’re dead or alive
but as for the potter
she will always win
no matter the season
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
each poem written is but a test
or a testament to life on earth
a mystery and a gift
beholden to one’s own beatitude
I told myself I would never be lonely
but here I am writing poetry
coming to terms with what
I may or may not believe
anything is possible I keep
telling myself
determined to declutter
my house of cards
all the while deleting
every unnecessary word
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is this word on my mind
hanging like a colorful leaf on a branch
a few inches out of reach
by the time morning arrives
it is no longer dangling
rather part of a collective whole
mixed with all the others
strewn across the lawn
for a moment I ponder the importance
of getting down on hands and knees
uncovering the very word
etched on my mind
holding it up to my eyes
like the holiest of grails
and memorizing its every detail
november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the air went in
and the air went out
like some sort of machine
designed to last a lifetime
some machines work better
than others
but not all come with a warranty
(and sometimes you get
what you pay for)
be careful about opening
passageways all at once
sometimes the inflow
is too much to handle
causing swelling that may
require extracurricular attention
it’s best to slowly turn the spigot
one way or the other
experimenting with currents
(whether fluid or electric)
until finding that perfect medium
october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
they come and they go
these goblins from the past
posing as trick or treaters
and tearing up the neighborhood
one night out of three sixty-five
they claw at the earth
levitate off the ground
or fly from tree to tree
searching for shells
they abandoned long ago
once I pursued them
believing they weren’t real
taking me to a mirrorless pond
far from my home
and there I sat at the water’s edge
motionless till dawn
witnessing their blazing departure
october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
something fresh on my mind
recent like autumn rain
tugging at my inner thoughts
speeding down route sixty-nine
southbound past quapaw
gracie’s reclined in back seat
strumming her ukelele
singing arlo guthrie songs
her long brown hair in
constant state of flux
oklahoma welcomes you
I kept repeating to myself
reassuring gracie
there’s no need to worry
for soon we’ll be in miami
october two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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