unplugged & roaming
without a care in the world
the palm of their hands
their very own road map
leading them from point A
to point B
mainly invisible
except by a select few
who somehow identify
w/their predicament
stuck here on this planet
w/o a skeleton key
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’m not interested in what
you have to say
I’ve pretty much tuned out
what comes out
of your not so pretty face
I’m not responsible
for the choices you’ve made
how they’ve impacted
a bottom line which used to be
a thing of beauty
you’re at your best
when going it alone
or at least that’s your contention
the rest us left in the dust
totally irresponsible
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it should have been different
than the way it transpired
the way the garden progressed
into a disarray of entanglement
above & below ground
the tame intermingling w/the wild
performing some kind of erotic ritual
—onlookers in awe & disbelief
mouths open & eyes fixated
unable to shake off the images
emblazoned into their psyche
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
what’s lost inside these lines
the ones once written
long ago
somehow suddenly
thrust back into the fold
did you not dream them up
in another life
only to make them come alive
time & time again
some images are difficult
to conjure
to bring back to life
to relive so to speak
like the terror
in someone’s eyes
the moment they are captured
through the lens
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
refreshing memories
of what’s been told before
this is not just a game
though we are always playing
sometimes serious
sometimes sincere
far in & far out
like some feline cosmonaut
I hear some suggesting
it’s not their first rodeo
but they look nothing like
any cat I’ve ever seen
further surprising me
by being able to speak
confirming my suspicions
about outer space
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the little hustler
running errands for the boss
testy like a rat
demon in disguise
changing appearance at will
little angel boy
his face is ageless
now you see him now you don’t
cool breath fills the air
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
an empty carton of milk
former half gallon of chocolate
she refills it with her own
measured concoction
the smell of powdered chalk
filling her nostrils
she doesn’t read the newspaper
instead shreds it into thin long slats
taking on the shape of a burial mound
piled high on the makeshift table
days goes by before having at it again
tearing into the carton to get to the solid block
from there carving & sanding
meticulously ensues
mimicking the miniature clay prototype
at rest on a shelf
in the corner of her eye
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
how long have you suffered
how long have you lived the dream
the two going hand in hand
how can they ever be separated
you walk a mile in your own shoes
you walk a mile in someone else’s
distinguishing between the two
an impossible proposition
when the heart becomes swollen
when the heart becomes weak
what do you do with your love
before it all goes away
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
this is the summer
the one that never ends
where boys & girls play ball
well into the night
this is the summer
the one made of dreams
where time becomes obsolete
the skies ever bright
this is the summer
the one for all the ages
little legs effortlessly in motion
circling the bases
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I fell though by no fault of my own
wavelengths in my brain
crisscrossing atmospheric conditions
with single grain whiskey
when I fell the weather radio went off
a mayhem of sounds of fury
highlighting the sightings of EF5
tornadoes racing across the plains
as I lay there lost & paralyzed
my eyes blinking as if in REM sleep
I witnessed past & future lives
barreling toward my rescue
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
seeing things in the peripheral
that are not there
a roman soldier delivering the mail
a mother suddenly in tears
an angel pirouetting
beneath the streetlamp
who’s to say what is not real
on this here & now planet
presenting images as she pleases
occasionally in obvious ways
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve been down this road before
but never alone
always before someone by my side
oh how times have changed
there is nothing bitter sweet
to endings & beginnings
—necessary cycles
in the grand scheme of things
you see that bird following me
has been there all along
lo these many years
only now have I taken notice
there is a certain style to her song
mainly repetitive but
occasionally improvising
as if to say see
you are just like me
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I woke up with a cut
on my arm
about the size of a centipede
mostly crimson red
the center body like a
freelance stitch
bruises come & go
as if having
a life of their own
I talk to them on occasion
but they rarely tell me
much of anything
it’s nothing like
when we were kids
each & every event
stored inside the cache
picking & choosing
when to resurface next
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
at work at the desk in the studio
open books
& scattered papers
given life by the light & the breeze
sweeping in from the lone
south-facing window
the artist’s movements ever so slight
advancing steadfastly
from creation to eternity
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
colors fading on a warm
summer day
a blanket of low lying clouds
forbidding the sun
to display its muscle
the boy asks if the sun
is a god
& I reply
maybe when it’s not raining
he nods his head
questioning the answer
[from within]
his lips moving
but his words unspoken
there’s much work to be done
I tell the boy
but since the colors are fading
we will wait in the wings
until the coast is clear
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in the dream I had no hair
not on my head or arms
not on my legs or chin
or anywhere else
for that matter
it was as if I was a hairless albino
but I was anything but white
my eyes blue like a flame
my lips a liquid hot pink
could it have been that I was melting
left hanging above a candle
my body slowly becoming the wax
creeping down all sides
of the cylinder
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 