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
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
I don’t know how old I am
but my newest bicycle turned seven
last week
the other day it did a number on my lower back
—come next morning I was hunchbacked
& girl scouts had to help me
with my socks & shoes
in the freezer in the basement
is where I keep a few boxes of thin mints
there’s a lock on the door
the key misplaced for weeks or months
this house is much too big for me anymore
one doorbell and too many key holes
sometimes I think it’s the dead of winter
but the air conditioner runs nonstop
forcing me to wear long johns & sweaters
in the garage is where I work on my bicycle
until I am unable to stand up straight
it is summer again & I am tired
like an overstuffed bear
july two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it is summer again
though this time it’s different
aerial artists spelling out words
across a clear blue sky
resonating with how you feel
there is no changing of the guard
or replacing the old with the new
there is only forward progression
as if living inside a movie reel
with each passing summer
something new dies
and as another night draws near
you find more artists in the sky
spelling out their names
march two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was late summer and the heat
and the humidity
were unbelievable
as unreal as december hummingbirds
reminding me of long goodbyes
and last hurrahs
all the doors and windows
were locked tight
hundreds of candles
lighting up the entire roost
unable to keep out the sirens
screaming from within
I refused to open up to new ideas
as long as all the old ones
hadn’t run their course
not until every candle
had burned out on its own volition
replaced by a natural light
september two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
just because class is back in session
doesn’t mean summer is over
out in the country
barn doors are still not shut
horses running free
chasing southern sun falling fast
back in town old school windows
are thrown wide open
faces sticking out and tongues wagging
uninterested in arithmetic
doodling one wild idea after another
sometimes october never arrives
forever waiting in the wings
oh yes sometimes
september is simply perpetual
august two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the flight of the single line kite
dressed in fire engine red
with hawk like eyes
is somewhat controlled
by slow tugs
and sharp yanks
tactfully waiting
for a cyclonic burst
to blast it toward the enemy
rearing its cunning sharp blade
may two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 