jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “survival”

the natural order of things


it’s true when they say
adam didn’t belong here
that he had no
inherent security
—at this point not even an
instinct to eliminate
when necessary

formed from the clay
of the earth
he learned from animals
that had organically
evolved here
coming to appreciate
to kill or be killed

the natural order of things
didn’t absolutely
pertain to his kind—
thriving despite warring
in constant search
of his maker
here at home & beyond


may two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

out of the water


out of the water
near the persian gulf
refugees have no idea
where they are

survival skills
come out of nowhere
or perhaps
from the lessons
of the younger dryas

this desert
once under water
possesses knowledge
buried inside an ark


april two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

carrying on


it’s not a matter of what you think
you deserve or don’t deserve

or whether or not everything is
fair in love & war

or if karma is only something
that’s imagined

oh no at this stage the only thing
that seems to matter

is how you’ll carry on once everything
you ever cared about

has been systematically taken
away from you


march two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

the rising of a people


I am the aftermath
alive within the bubble
protected by the almighty
permitting me to return to my feet
and walk again among
the living & the dead
[in & out of the rubble]
just as I had once done
thousands of years ago


october two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

heading east


I am new to the city
but not lost
internal instincts
telling me which way
to turn and when

the old city is long gone
once flattened
by supernatural forces
other times sacked
at the hands of men

having found comfort
underground
there’s a relative sense
of security here
finding a little light to map
my next leg
further from the border


august two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

space wars one oh one


strikes stem from the skies
originating between
the clouds & the stars
randomized citizenry
jolted back to life
in the dead of the night

what used to be
infrequent close encounters
has become hell on earth
as if an alien race
nobody can see
plays god from the ether


april two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

on international waters


battling winds & tide
we do not need a new enemy
one leaving us w/real-time bruises
flashbacks refusing
to fade away

we live to fish & survive
not to defend saltwater territory
by raising arms or clenching fists
provoked into protecting
what is rightfully ours





august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

saturday evening post


it’s evening
and everything is still
as if the earth has stopped spinning

the clouds in the sky don’t move
the water falling
down the rocks
makes not a sound
or if it does
is drowned out
by noisy high flyers

some of them are drones
others real wildlife
the former surveilling and well-
equipped
with all kinds of weaponry
the latter
doing their part
by participating in the
natural selection of order

in the suburbs
ordinary people are cleaning their guns
while in the inner city
a not-so-silent war [of sorts]
rages on





june two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

on the peninsula


in the great wide open
cinnamon & rose-colored horses
gather near a natural pier
murmuring to one another
about rebellion

they realize they’re wild
but not free
not like the prevailing winds
which seem to commandeer
the next tempest

subsequent to each run
the herd becomes thinner
the law of attrition
taking its toll
the natural order of things
galloping at high speeds
long past rising
and now in a freefall





october two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

white flags and civil wars


it’s only a matter of time
before the next city gets sacked

it could be yours whether or not
you like being alive or dead

you could be sitting in a mosque
or a church or a temple
or in a gazebo in a meadow
or on a deck overlooking a lake
or out on the river fishing for trout
or out on the sea fishing for men
or inside a corner tavern
open for business on any given sunday

everywhere there are people
inhabiting this place
putting two and two together
questioning the laws of nature
ninety-nine plus percent certain
killing has nothing to do with survival



september two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

down but not out


sirens atop wooden poles
wail high and low throughout the city
slight breezes unable to move
tattered flags and worn out windsocks

beneath the dome dark and bloated
clouds float slowly and unnoticed
moving plainly like zeppelins hunting for
landmines on easter sunday

below ground microcosms evolve
instinctively and haphazardly
struggling to survive differently
afraid to breach the surface
lest there be light

like an unattended candle
nothing is capable of turning off
the sirens
and eventually
they will burn out all on their own


september two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

surviving the illusion of security


humble currents bring bountiful
trace elements and
serenity to the shoreline
introducing essential nutrients capable of
feeding the masses through next winter

alas the abundance is but an illusion
and once impenetrable clans
(feeding freely upon the land)
find themselves fighting behind the lines
find themselves questioning
their time and place in history





october two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

spider queen


santa ana winds fan
the flames and further
separate the queen
from her entourage

armed with rain clouds
pawns venture in unafraid
questing to rescue the
queen of the stone age

her king relocates castle
closer to the shoreline
petitions clergymen
for a wing and a prayer

backed into a corner
queen abandons her netting
races with her babies
spraying pepper mace


june two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

lost continents


they sailed along silver waves
in search of higher lands
the maps in their hands
aligned with ancient stars
that never shined so bright

under the bridge women rocked
stitching winter clothing
the children praying
for a higher power
to free them from their plight

as years turned into decades
mountains slowly emerged
caverns like beacons
calling forth their vessels
to dock within the light


september two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

stick hand


pretend you’re a stick figure
wearing a beret
and twirling a baton

out of nowhere a number two
pencil eraser rubs
against your thigh

you resist with all your might
pushing back
and kicking back

eventually you become stuck
like in quick sand
your mouth wide open

absorbing into another medium
you reach out
one last time

to be saved


march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Springtime in Russia


The six-month winter miraculously
segues into a psychedelic fever
of blossoming apple trees
and awakening white birches
as white-fronted geese
flock along an endless sky
painted robin’s-egg blue.

Outside the city garden plots
become reacquainted
with agrarian hands skilled
from generation’s past
furiously planting and artfully
nurturing all that is necessary
to survive the next winter.




january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Post Navigation