friday night in east village
streetlamps aglow
passersby breathing visibly
hands either gloved
or formed as fists
stuffed inside coat pockets
meteorological winter
yet weeks away
but for tonight
is clear and present
the cloudless sky
boasting all its shiny lanterns
december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
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I’m no closer to being found than I was
a year or decade or lifetime ago
yet I continue to pick up words and
rearrange them in ways unimaginable
along the way I often get the shit
kicked out of me by unnamed sources
and while sometimes I pretend to like it
truth is I never do
there are these places inside your head
you often forget how to find
isolated places where stars are
bright and perfectly aligned
dying to be wished upon as they
race by in rarefied darkness
april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
she said we were friends
but I never believed her for fear
it was only a dream
I never knew who to believe
ever since I was five years old
when neighborhood boys
kicked the crap out of me for
reasons never known
on christmas eve restless eyes
survey the skies from darkened
room with oval window
bringing in the faintest lights from
places secretly existing
I spot a particular star dying to be seen
a little gem with a wry smile
promising myself I’ll revisit her
as often as possible
as long as she would have me
december two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
what don’t you know
you’ve already been told before
about those bits and pieces
picked up via satellite or
ground-based microwaves
oh my pretty rising star
where have you gone
even the clouds have parted
(in hopes of)
welcoming your return
people throughout the centuries
(from this land
and many others)
are buying one way tickets
to get a glimpse of
what they missed the first time
you sailed away
august two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I stepped onto a rocket ship
hoping it would take me away
from all earthly woes
a couple hundred bucks seemed
like a fair trade toward becoming
more or less ungrounded
the view from the top supersedes
all things seen and unseen
no matter how fleeting
like a beauty queen
unstrapped and plummeting
supersonically
gravity fought the law and
contained me
inside an asylum disguised
as a yellow submarine
far below the oily surface
september two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
she wished upon a star
so many years ago
sitting on the front porch step
I don’t even remember
if she knew I was there
she spotted them falling
one after the other
and was certain she caught
the first very one
and I wondered
what she had wished for
across the way
a street lamp flickered on
and I waltzed home in the twilight
may two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
out in the fields
bonfires consume the air
pushed by the wind and shoving back
sparkling like stars
and speaking in new tongues
eons away prehistoric microlife awaken
hypnotic and unknowingly
attracted to the light
traveling at the speed of a lifetime
before effortlessly giving in
with unmitigated enthusiasm
february two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the famous and fortunate
descendants of royalty and paupers
never worry about dying
for their light shines bright
deep inside their minds
flying past obscurity
they find themselves mainstream
craving to be recognized
like poets or painters
philosophers or prophets
musical artists luring you
closer to the stage
it matters not who they are
or why they were sent here
for sadly the multitude
gaze their eyes skyward
for entirely different reasons
december two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
they say there is no setting
or rising of the sun
they say it is always there
and it’s just your imagination
that sometimes it is not
with that in mind I stood at the
doorstep and handed a child
paper and markers and
asked her to interpret the
world as she knew it
from inside her mind she drew
countless circles orbiting
infinite stars
and every now and then
she placed a new moon
where you’d least expect it
I wondered how many of her
suns supported life as we know it
and as I was about to ask her
she told me she needed
more space and time
september two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
stars are brightest in the desert
and from there you can clearly
see the other worlds
beneath the sand the past lives on
beating shallow breathes and
awaiting the next impact
time travelers land without incident
collecting precious data
left behind by meteorites
full moon pushes old photographs
onto the new shoreline
giving rise to the possibility
that life somehow lived on
june two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
nobody asked me to share
my dreams with anyone
so I kept them to myself
nurtured them as best I could
in the middle of the night
silence awakened me
beckoned me to walk alone
in streets that never sleep
along the way I imagined
the sad ones called my name
reaching out like lonely stars
dying to find a home
I gathered them in jars
full of oxygen and hope
promised to return again
when eyes are laid down low
september two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Thousands of miles from home, viewing gardens
I’ve been meaning to plant, I sit and sketch
with charcoal on textured paper a perfect,
utopian presence like that place in Genesis.
The hotel makes me honestly welcomed
from the “Sirs” to the stars to the telephone
in the commode. In the drawing I see myself
never leaving, ever. I am drawn to be within
The shades of grass and green, contemplating
the reasons I should ever leave the stone
and glass and fabric and hospitality
that has enveloped me in this lofty balcony.
Below the waters are warm. The bodies
are near and brown, living out temporary
yet simple days, their imperfections hidden
beneath the moonlight, their conversations distant,
Calming and inviting. It takes almost nothing
to remove myself from a world a million miles
away; takes a conscious effort to check out
and return with nothing but a vestigial drawing.
original version penned nineteen ninety-eight
rewritten and recorded july two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
