jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “questions”

feeding the flock


they awaken on sundays
and praise the one who gave them life

they put on their finest clothes
and take to the streets
huddled together like little lambs
moving at the command of their shepherd
who leads them down the narrow way
toward the altar of life

as they march they recite
words from the ancient book
raising their hands
toward the open sky
asking for forgiveness
and vowing to repent

when the hour comes
to prepare the table
they shamelessly offer
the most innocent
as an imperfect sacrifice


february two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Racing Toward the End


What goes on down here sometimes doesn’t make sense;
seems we’re all running around doing a bunch of nothing,
like buying Gold or picking up a 30 pack on the way home.

Just about everyone’s got an agenda these days;
some like to push theirs where they don’t belong,
others keep them propped to their ear when behind the wheel,
while the silent majority keep it to themselves
like it’s some big secret.

Everything is so plugged in that when the electricity fails
chains of events lead to even bigger headlines
such as “Man loses dog.”

Now that we number seven billion it’s high time
we call back Einstein, maybe even Darwin,
ask them to figure out how to get out of this mess
before something really serious happens.



july two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

reflect


i’m borrowing this rock
i keep in my pocket
uncovered years ago
when starting the garden

i washed it off
in the birdbath
dirtying the water
and giving it new life
for however long i can



july two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Minor League Ritual


Exactly one hour before the game
the young player leaves his mother
for the solitude of his bedroom
on a late Saturday morning.

Closing the door behind him
he walks past prior year trophies
of Louisville sluggers atop silver bases
spanning across the dresser.

His lucky number seven uniform
lies across the double bed
nearly spotless except for stains
detergents will never call out.

Transforming himself bit by bit
from stirrups and pants to jersey and cap
his mind centers on catch and throw
on aluminum bat ripping cowhide.



june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Season After Season


The garden beds never existed
twenty years ago where a sloping
hill begged to be cut into by an old man
in a bobcat, while younger men

With shovels and levels laid stone blocks
across the yard with precision
and speed, like a kid building
a lego wall for the umpteenth time.

As youngsters we ran carefully through
the new garden, leaping on one stone
circle after another placed in no
particular pattern by my father,

While in between young flowering plants
and herbs and shrubs learned
to adapt and prosper in the rich soil.
Season after season my father

Experimented in the garden,
purchasing deer resistant perennials
from the nursery, using his spade
to plant the new and rearrange

The old, pruning in the Spring
and deadheading in the fall,
raising them as if they were
his second set of children.

In midsummer we visit with our own
little ones who love to hop through
the fully mature garden, abloom
in shades of red and green,

Yellow and purple, blue and orange,
with barely enough room
for anything new, still babied
by the man who raised them so strong.



june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

yesterday


what kind of life is this
with all the dirt and disease and dangers
having to bring out your dead
once a month
not to mention
not having access to wikipedia dot org
nor understanding the concept
of pursuing happiness





june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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