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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
after the lights went out
and the snow plows were grounded
the people took their arms
and left for the country
to find fuel for the fire
a decade later and a
generation forsaken
all the little girls turned into mothers
sooner than anyone
could ever have imagined
december two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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