poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “tree”

twenty stories tall

some hypothetical trees are hard to fall
madmen with chainsaws & ropes & pulleys
make calculations and smoke cigarettes
from sunup to sundown they undertake
this nearly impossible task

this one must be made of steel
one of them says
the rest nodding in agreement
scratching their heads and looking skywards

it’s only a matter of time another says
and they bow their heads in silence
grasping the gravity of their predicament

march two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

the old man and the tree

that tree is still there
the one in the background
one hundred years old or more
the one you climbed to the top
again and again and again
presenting a world in its most
simplistic state
colorful and melodious and calming
shielded from life’s uncertainties
if only for a brief moment in time
when the days were long
and the nights unfolded
limitless possibilities

june two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

to the queen’s rescue

court jester hoists me up
far enough
my hands grasping the bow
feet skimming along the bark
stepping vertically until
finding myself in seated position
like a fisherman

from there I cast my line
past the edge
hook motioning like a pendulum
butterfly bait caught in
capillary branches
fluttering and struggling
to belabor a million breaths

crawling out on bloodline branch
the fate of coin weighs
heavily upon a commoner’s quest
either flipping and falling
straight to the ground
or forever hailed as the
queen’s guardian angel

march two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

where have all the leaves gone

I’ve seen that tree die before
long after exploding with
shades of every living color

I’ve watched her time and again
come to life by the breath of a
thousand birds

She lives in my heart and
comforts my ailing mind
sharing her knowledge with a
world dying for light

november two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

Falling Down

The insects inside you bore away
for decades, feasting on your tasty
wood as if it were a never ending meal.

Despite the damage you continued
to morph by extending your roots
and creating more rings,
rising above the majestic blue spruces,
your branches and prolific leaves
scrubbing the air around you.

While I always considered your species
a wild and ugly member of the copse,
I never imagined that on the inside
you were eaten alive by starving parasites
hell bent on sending you tumbling down.

june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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