how dare I slow down now
now that I finally have momentum
gunning down the hill
like some madman schushing
sun shines on mountaintop
snow capped and untouched
calling upon the gods
to turn stone into gold
flying down I imagine
you’re methodically climbing
mathematically calculating
chances colliding halfway
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the machinist was nowhere to be found
when he was most needed
for a moment the world seemed to end
but alas it was just a correction of sorts
and most everyone seemed to go about
their day as if nothing had ever happened
the chemist was called in to answer
a number of trick questions
but he didn’t have anything to say
was quickly dismissed when refusing
to comment on the current regime
in the meantime the machinist
was nowhere to be found
and at some point the prophets started
issuing their own interpretations
sometime in the near future
a number of small towns along
route number sixty-six
disappeared off the map
(next day) evening news
started in the wee early hours
proclaiming how the machinist
had resurfaced after retooling
a number of instruments
responsible for turning this world
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
love is in the air
disguised as
manufactured clouds
billowing out of
corn sweetener smokestacks
rising above half-frozen river
quietly perched atop
flood water retaining wall
cupid draws back his bow
eyes purposely piercing
lonely hearts drifting
like pies in the sky
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
this somewhat elusive euphoria
how it starts and sputters and stops
only to repeat the process
like a solar powered pocket watch
misplaced on second story window sill
yes I know it’s a state of mind
this endless moonlit madness
waking you from self-induced slumber
suggesting you stick around
at least until the morning light
they say the universe does not age
and thrives on creativity
whether practicing inner rhymes
in your very own world
or blasting off into outer unknowns
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I found myself
behind these bars
when I should have been
screaming down a mountain
why does it seem
the whole world is watching
when in reality
it’s just me and my dreams
we’ve sung this song before
once upon a time
or was it just yesterday
when you said you still love me
I miss the autumn winds most
pushing me to the limit
reminding me what follows next
is certain to test my mettle
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
waiting for that call
perfect storm arriving
though not as predicted
waiting for water to break
pacing unfamiliar hallways
hoping and praying for
feline to return
after one year hiatus
word spreads of vigil
held throughout the world
children chanting for peace
the fate of millions
hanging in the balance
if you could see the stars
you could see the candles
burning in the midnight wind
practicing undue restraint
you sit back in silence
waiting for that call
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I sat on inner city park bench
and wondered what had
become of poetry
it was sunday
and god knows where the
transients had gone
especially on such a warm
and peaceful winter day
I like to hear church bells
ringing from blocks away
imagining all the men in
black overcoats and top hats
children holding hands with
women in white gloves
it was an overcast day
and I felt the urge to embark
if not sometime soon
definitely by sundown
destination yet to be seen
sitting inside idling aircraft
I try to imagine what will
become of tomorrow
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
you dig stones out of the earth
as if they are potatoes
stuffing them into a sack
once filled you sling them
over your shoulder
make the short trek
down to nearby stream
children of all ages follow you
along the way
one by one
and two by two they get in line
some holding hands
some chatting and some not
all fully aware what’s
inside the burlap
once at the water’s edge
all becomes quiet except
for the stream itself
speaking a language you
have learned to accept over time
the children watch in silence
as you fall to your knees
dipping and cleaning
and handing out
one stone after another
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
bluegrass nature trail
brings back ancient memories
sometimes green and
sometimes slightly snow-covered
always surrounded by
black-capped chickadees
zip-lining happily between oak trees
chatting noisily and
encouraging all to follow
skyscraper shadows
stretching all the way back
to prehistoric wetlands
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
travelers and visitors
and even some locals
could never resolve
north from south
in this dirty rivertown
mainly due to mississippi
snaking through from
east to west
when floating casinos
arrived at the docks
it made the rich
even richer
leaving the poor
picking up the scraps
and scratching
state-issued lottery tickets
downtown bus station
sees greyhounds
coming and going
on the hour every hour
from 6 am until midnight
taking out the weary
and welcoming in the
delusional and the hopeful
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Groundhog lives in public library
or so I’ve been told from some
somewhat reliable source
He’s got a girlfriend or wife or whatever
a furry green-eyed special kind of lady
who loves to keep him company
It’s a most transparent kind of life
but at least it’s quiet in the library
and I suppose there is much snoozing
How he lives a fairy tale kind of life
one where townsfolk and wayward travelers
pay heed to his annual prognostications
And everyone knows his name
so there’s no point in repeating it now
this sunny second day of February
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
sky is pink
it’s absolutely beautiful
to think it won’t always be
some days I fail to see sun shining
leaving me to wonder when
pink will fill sky once more
to think it’s nearly twenty twenty
my eyesight far from failing
undoubtedly evolving
picking out shades of grey
amongst camouflaged clouds
obscure hues and obvious
tints infiltrate my dreams
dashing in and out
like a mad prankster
expecting me to give chase
february two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is a package on the doorstep
but nobody is home to accept it
another package is added to the first
and then another and yet another
letterbox has slowly been filling
and gradually overflows
passersby notice the accumulation
their curiosity growing
some thinking they can hear telephone
ringing and ringing and ringing
a grey tiger gazes out picture window
but nobody seems to notice how
desperate she may be
eventually thieves pick up the packages
and empty the letterbox
eventually cat abandons window sill
weeks go by
followed by people coming and going
gradually things seem to change for the better
the color of the siding
the style of the windows
the vehicles parked in the carport
come springtime there are children
playing in the backyard
and the people strolling by
are once again smiling
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
practicing piano in silence
exercising like stranger in the night
bouncing high tides off lows
mixing black keys with white
breaking barriers near or far
like rising moon trying to hide
next room artist paints on canvas
debutante draped in sprawling blue gown
practicing scales and
segueing into newfound adventures
like solitary mariner chasing down
old stars from dusk until dawn
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there are marks on my skin
some naturally placed
others self-inflicted
I told you I’m afraid of needles
but that doesn’t seem
to matter much anymore
what used to be painful
has transitioned into
this numbing of thought
believe me when I tell you
everything will be fine
once morning comes ‘round
you gaze out picture window
arms behind your back
anticipating moon’s rising
I refrain from breaking the silence
dead certain I only ask
rhetorical questions
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s never too late for poetry so queen
says to her tea party
it’s past midnight but fire is alive like
bulging moon high above
sometimes long lost friend surprises you
coming back from shallow grave
brand new vinyls replace old school ones
rising up from hellbent ashes
I’ve never been to heaven but I’ve been
to southern california
newly arrived house sparrows build nests
using hammer and nail and trust
in central park all is calm and quite cool
long before all hallow’s eve
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 