i am the bird
resting
alone on a wire
listening to the wind
and waiting
for something to die
i am the wind
blowing from the east
bringing fresh air
to a flower
desperate
for better days
i am the sunrise
on a cloudless morning
burning the sky
with intensity
and promising
life after life
december two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
A team of urban gauchos
surround a wandering cow
on a colorful street in Delhi
the sacred animal managing
to snarl traffic for over an hour
The arrival of city-hired cowboys
with their oversized truck
and ropes and bells
bring applause and protests
by the neighboring swarm
of residents and tourists
Calls of instructions compete
with the constant honking of horns
some warning the cowhands
not to harm the beast
while others suggest transporting her
to the nearest butcher shop
Eventually the cow catchers
convince their newfound friend
to mosey up the plank
and into the truck bed
casually whispering into her ear
the grass is much greener
outside the city
october, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I stayed in the house for four straight days
in mid December, discovered the world
did not miss me one iota, nor me the world.
To pass the time I would look out the window
each time finding something new: a bird, a child,
the wind. I would capture the images
in my mind, later jot them down.
When the telephone rang I did not answer
and one time when someone knocked
I cowered behind the comfy chair
until certain no one was there.
By the end of the fourth day
before I fell asleep, I created a list
of the things I would need
to spend the remaining days until Christmas.
december, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
The automatic garage door opens
Its overhead light merging
With the Audi headlamps
Pulling into the drive
Early Sunday morning.
The neighboring homes
Shuttered in darkness
Keep its occupants isolated
From the disturbance
Of mechanisms and motors
Nearly all long gone in deep sleep.
Upstairs, a mother and child
Turn their bodies in reaction
To creaks on the floor
Which subconsciously
Feeds their minds
With secrets and lies.
december, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Rumors of his arrival circulated for days
before riding into town on horseback.
He slowed the Mustang to a halting walk
as both man and beast lifted their nostrils
and breathed in the dust and dead air.
The Zuni Indian, dressed in dark loincloth
and white headband, dismounted
the horse and entered City Hall.
Word quickly spread from town to country
of the prearranged meeting finally taking place.
In short order Main Street swelled with people
as if a holiday parade was soon to start.
When the Mayor and the Rainmaker
swung open the doors
cheers and gunshots could be heard
from as far away as the nearest clouds.
november, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Diving deep inside your mind
I found the place
You speak about so often
Where laughter sounds like
Pretty cries and memories
Are but a movie seen
So many times
In this place I heard
Hummingbirds feeding
On red Bee Balms
And in the distance
Silhouettes walked
Into the falling sun
Along the coastal sands
In the background music
Could be heard
And after a while
I pretended the voice
Belonged to you
august, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Check out the YouTube video poem by clicking here
In my mind I draw a square
in the very center of the garden
From there I dig into the earth
using the seasoned spade
usually reserved for plantings
The hole slowly turns into a cube
as three mounds resemble
Egyptian resting places
Further down the soil
becomes hard and cold
the clay malleable enough
to mold eternal companions
Satisfied the opening
is mathematically sound
I hold the spade at my side
sweat falling off my forehead
silently instructing the child
to bring forth her loved one
to the newly built altar
november two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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