eggs in a carton sitting
next to basket on counter
what could it possibly mean
and which came first
the basket or the eggs
in the fridge there is guiness
and I pull one out
meticulously pour its contents into
slightly larger than pint glass
I’m home alone
except for this here stout
and one dozen farm fresh eggs
latter of which has no idea
if they’re coming or going
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
she called me baby
like spider said to butterfly
giving pause for thought
and endless possibilities
youthful wings grow tired
folding in and suspended
giving into paralyzing sting
and singing in my sleep
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
she has slumbered into
some unrecognizable state
her smile not quite sincere
perhaps bordering on sinister
her dreams once beautifully relevant
now unabashedly contradictory
especially to the majority who know a
thing or two about wings and prayers
petty characters in fairy tales
continue to play their part in grander things
participating in tea parties and
feeling free to criticize alices and mad hatters
all the while ignorant and/or unconcerned
how their imaginary enemies may be
digging tunnels or scaling walls
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I imagine you’re sleepwalking
while I’m intermittently dreaming
your whitish curly haired lap dog
dressed in holiday sweater
leashed and pleading to go outside
to greet rising curved moon
it’s another mid-winter night
and I roam from room to room
trying to track you down
but as usual you’re one step ahead
sometimes disguised
as three blind mice
other times the carving knife
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
pretending new moon
shines upon streets of singapore
I am reminded
of candles in window
flashing lights scream across
inner city streets
red and blue and white hot
giving chase inside
some long forgotten dream
bursting open barriers
words make inner sounds
slowly raising my consciousness
at two twenty-two in the morning
unopposed to where I landed
I play out my part in the dark
arms raised
and mouth wide open
cornered in some well-lit alley
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s way past tea time
just like it was on the night
they called you away
you had no place to go
so you were told
and they strapped you in
one-way ticket in hand
everyone seemed indifferent
about seeing you go
but I was not convinced
pleaded with anyone who would listen
to please reel me back in
and explain one more time
why moon keeps changing her shape
nobody really knows
but there are better ways
to decipher between good or bad
reality versus fantasy
or better yet why this world
keeps spinning without you
it’s best to keep
bullets by your bedside
just in case night watchman
decides it’s your turn to take a ride
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
a brush with death
chance to change the world
comes but once in a lifetime
if at all
this path goes nowhere
or so it seems
sun shining from heaven
fading like a weeping child
something has to break
shut down
turn off
only to start back up again
like a weather vane
finding new direction
in rearview headlamps
flashing blues and reds and whites
gaining ground
reawakening borderline paranoia
inching ever closer to the edge
you pause and check
off more boxes
recalling particular vow to never
bow to the pressure
gliding back to earth
you land once again on your feet
resuming the journey
as if it’s business as usual
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
they were bootlegging bread
(manna for their souls)
across the desert aboard
solar-powered getaway carpets
there were many contracts out
bounties on their heads
dead or alive mattered not
not as long as they had bread
some say they were aliens
newly arrived for umpteenth time
practicing rituals underground
living on contraband flatbread
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I swear it was Stan sitting there
in the Iowa City ped mall
full head of hair and black beard no less
complete with Salem in hand
He appeared to be drawing
charcoal pencil on cotton paper
backpack and camera strapped across
bench made of iron and wood
Of course it couldn’t possibly be him
afterall it will be nineteen years
this summer since Stan
had vanished into thin air
I wanted to walk up to him
and ask him twenty questions
ending with exactly why he went away
and was it really the right decision
He must have detected my stare
and before I turned to face the crowd
I tried to put on a smile
he waving back with great uncertainty
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the world aches
is in so much pain
perhaps from all the dancing
party-going and binges
designed to make all things
temporarily forgotten
tiny islands go up in smoke
making trees weep
and birds migrate aimlessly
there are arrows flying in the sky
unfortunately not the kind
penetrating a young man’s heart
forever changed to love
it seems to be neither tears
nor laughter that remains
but unforgettable impressions
discovered at most unexpected times
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
someone had it right
not sure if it was eagles or
kid rock or red hot chili peppers
I’m done here
there’s nothing left to do
except buy me some cowboy boots
and head out west
I’ve been there before
san diego and napa valley
further north to humboldt bay
nothing’s ever permanent
but this time will be different
finding myself camping atop cliffs
inevitably crumbling into the sea
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s another saturday night and all I got
is some elton john and guess who
your aces and eights beating
my sixteens and seventeens and eighteens
it’s gotten to the point it’s not funny anymore
though I tell you to shuffle yet again
expecting a different outcome
you’ve got me hypnotized she would say
but all I could see was her wide awake eyes
showing me signs throughout the night
I’ve never once considered
I keep changing vinyls on turntable
mostly long plays but some forty-fives
plenty of sunshine stored in the fridge
otherwise keeping warm by candlelight
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
inside city park
faces inspiring or otherwise
come and go by day
and by night
uncaring free spirits sitting on benches
walking across water
or upon thin air
in the center
there is a god continually
creating
taking in all the inspired faces
(or otherwise)
rearranging destinies by way
of fortunes or falls
turning rain into sunshine
and night into day
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there are sunflower seeds
wrapped in paper towel inside
plastic sandwich bag
stowed away in kitchen drawer
above in cabinet canister of coffee
frequently removed from shelf
one or two scoops taken from within
right around sunrise
placed back nonchalantly
eventually container goes empty
the scoop left to its own devices
seeds still seemingly forgotten
dying to be found again
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the headlines are loud and clear
wars at home and abroad
national championship game
bull market stock run
millionaire lotto winners
cars swept away in mudslides
russian babies born in miami
they mean nothing when
stitched together haphazardly
presented in pretty picture frames
designed to throw us off course
like some juvenile giraffe
on a mission to make new friends
unable to see the wood for the trees
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
winter is a temporary affair
beautiful and inviting from the inside
fires burning in twilight
bodies warm and comfortable
dreams hot and cold and as real as life itself
she looked like an angel from afar
and especially up close
a winged creature who whispered
to me in my dreams
how winter is a temporary affair
and soon I will come back to life
and she will show me how to live again
how I wanted to believe her
but in the morning all was lost
those dreams I could easily touch
once again become out of reach
and as I go about my day
I repeat to myself
winter is a temporary affair
january two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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