it was saturday morning
and you promised we would
pick flowers unless it rained
the rain never came
and neither did you
and I was left rearranging
my hopes inside a brown paper bag
next day the sun shined
like it had never done before
and for a brief moment I believed
this time you would come around
august two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we learned to swim in arizona bay
long after the great shake
the one predicted ad nauseum
for a century or more
predicated on the fact
tectonic plates eventually
can’t help themselves
we talked often about migrating
down to all saints bay
but by the time paper dreams
developed into concrete plans
santa monica was already
crumbling into the sea
flashbacks take over in no particular order
replaying those days somewhere
near baghdad
digging trenches west of the euphrates
smoking camels and breathing
out fire and sand
promising ourselves under starlight
one day we’ll make it back
all the way to southern california
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
these untold stories keep piling up
more than a few good men
wasting their lives on promises
that can’t possibly add up
big brother has never been scarier
whether on penny lane or haifa street
hey joseph
what are you doing
with that AK-47 in your hand
it’s friday night shouldn’t you be down
where the pretty ladies want
to see your smiling face
wouldn’t you rather be learning
how to make the world a brighter place
in a figurative sort of way
I once walked the streets of Athens
because I wanted to know what it was like
to walk in history’s shoes
but I’ll be damned
and dead by now
if I ever walked in yours
july two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
you come in and out of my life
like a thief in the night
robbing me of dreams
I once held promisingly
sometimes you are the moon
cloaked by daylight
following my every move
without ever knowing
sometimes you are the rain
the kind that falls softly
comforting the troubles
that seem to haunt me
and although I can’t touch you
I can feel you are near
like a promise once made
kept dear in my heart
may two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
she couldn’t find her stuffed bear
anywhere
except for the places
she was too afraid to look
beneath her bed
a trap door led to a stairwell
introducing a network of caverns
anywhere that poor bear
could be hiding
could be hiding anywhere
climbing up a tree barely
out of reach from
her bedroom window
someone picks crabapples
and gets ever so sleepy
dreaming of floating on air
down below a little girl
dressed in a onesie and
tears in her eyes
shouts through her funneled hands
wake up
wake up
wake up and jump
I promise I’ll never lose you again
october two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I walk down the steps into an open
foyer with the lights on
the morning sun sprays itself into the
house from everywhere
I walk across the wooden floor
sabotaged by kitty toys
and broken promises
I open the refrigerator door
for more artificial light
and orange juice concentrate
things are starting to come back to me now
I say to myself
audibly clearer than a whisper
I wonder out loud
what lies in the next room
december two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there’s something
terribly wrong with me
it seems everyone knows
what it is but me
I ask the doctor
what the hell could it be
I don’t know he says
try talking to your friends
sleepless friends whisper
empty promises
and in the morning
those promises live on
october two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
you entered the ward
with a smile in your eye
quietly knelt beside me
and whispered of a world
where the dazzling white light
promises to free me
from the pain inside
october two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
