jdubqca

poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “survival”

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

harvesting the spoils


they worked conspiracy hill
like well programmed robots
carrying handheld devices
and tagging certain grids
with various colored flags
teleporting data
back to mother

the hill had taken a pounding
from the cosmic bullets
raining from above
vaporizing the rebel forces
and forever altering the
surrounding mineral
composition

they had flattened this hill
before and fully intend
to mine it again
transporting the riches
through the ancient routes
terminating far inside
orion’s belt


august two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

locked inside pandora’s box


I hunker down in a hawkish grotto
where nobody can find my prize
where the light of day
seems a light year away
and hound dogs
are just a figment of my imagination

there is plenty of food for thought
and sweet nectar can be tapped
from these ancient walls
measuring ten stories tall
adorned with objects
painted on throughout the centuries

exiled into this self-imposed solitude
I am at peace with my new mission
guarding the evils
locked inside this silo
hoping and praying
the world lives beyond its darkest days



april 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.



‘Springtime in Russia’ youtube video

january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

fertility


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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