Meaning Comes With Age

   Summer doesn’t speak;
it whispers a conscious melody
to high-heeled fashionistas with open toes,
sunburnt brats with runny noses, and
old men who know
evening air is sweeter
when dusk has had its way.     Humidity.
Sweat of the glass,
                                 Tangueray and tonic
will take away the pain,
Mosquito bites, lonely nights
sitting on an ever- creaky veranda,
Dinah Washington crackles from the speaker.

Suddenly you appear. . .

   Any other day
flowers stand taller, like
the younger women strolling by,
getting younger by the day.
Watch them
                      and wipe
the perspiration from your brow;
the once-crisp handkerchief has
soaked up many nights of lustful thoughts.
Old men just grow older,
the meaning comes with age.     Humility.
Summer lasts as long
as a savings account wastefully spent.

Then you are gone. . .

   Over time
most of the flowers will perish
well before first frost,
mostly from neglect.     Naturally.
We will all grow tired
of looking at them,
                                 or forget the beauty.
Our minds go to other places.
Yet summer, in its capricious wisdom,
will breathe again
to those of us who will listen.
To young women
and older men.

© 2018 j.g. lewis

Watercolour painting by Kevi Remple

* selected lyrics from Invitation.
Written by Bronislaw Kaper/Paul Francis Webster,
the jazz standard was memorably recorded
by Dinah Washington in 1962. Has desire ever
been captured more sensually in a musical state?

Any Given Day

You begin to understand, at a certain age,
it is not about understanding everything.
It doesn’t make sense, any more, any less,
but becomes easier to understand
or accept. Nevertheless,
in this realm of limited-time offers and
best-before dates, coming of age seems right.
Come what may, give or take,
to trial and error, it no longer matters, now,
who wasn’t there. Destination straight ahead,
on a certain date, in a certain way,
you carry any range of emotions
more purposefully, on any given day.
Often you have more to say, yet wisely choose
whom you repeat it to.
Every day is not the same.
Glimpses of yesterday rarely appear. Anyway.
This was the tomorrow we looked forward to.

©2018 j.g. lewis

Only Wednesday (again)

Wednesday sits naked
         and ordinary
           waiting

between the bookends of a social Saturday
and restive Sunday. The day is
        little more

than a cluster of hours or a step on the
 treadmill. Indecisive and
      lonely

nobody chooses a Wednesday. Nothing
happens
           on a Wednesday

and it’s the same each week.

© 2014 j.g. lewis

 

My life is marked by Wednesdays.

Come hell or high water, each week I post something on this website on a Wednesday. Actually, I post something every day, but Wednesday is the day I originally chose to let out whatever is on my mind. I have, every Wednesday, every week, for the past three-and-a-half years.

My thoughts.

I didn’t know exactly what I would be writing, or posting, when I originally started mythosandmarginalia.com. I knew I’d be slapping something up every day, as my daily breath, but these were intended to be short statements of why, or how, I was doing what I was doing, or what I was wondering.

I write.

I #writeeverydamnday.

Then Mondays started to become young Fridays, and Sundays were a day for a quotes that moved me, and every other day, including Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, and Tuesday too, began to take shape.

Once in a while, usually in March (but this year, also in May) I’ve been inviting other writers to share this space with me. It’s never been because I couldn’t fill the space, but more because I believed these others writers and friends, could also offer another opinion, or a fresh thought on whatever topic was on my mind.

There will be changes, certainly in the coming months, as I intend to expand the way subject matter is handled. Of course I have plans, but nothing fixed, per se. There has never been deliberate thought on what appears here, only the intention that something must.

And it does.

Lately I’ve been thinking more on what I write, or what I am doing as a writer, a poet, and a human being. I think it comes with the territory; how can you write what you are thinking, if you don’t acknowledge your thoughts?

I’ve always hoped this is more than navel gazing. I truly and totally appreciate the comments readers provide, how they might resonate with you; or how your thoughts or feelings are contrary to mine. Diversity in any form, but especially in opinion, is important.

I have reposted this poem today to remind myself, more than anything, that Wednesday is just another day. I do so knowing I will put up something else tomorrow, and Friday, and every other day.

I stake claim to Wednesdays. I rely on Wednesday, but I must remember each day is important for one reason or another.