Mythos & Marginalia

life notes; flaws and all

j.g. lewis

original content and images ©j.g. lewis

a daily breath...

A thought du jour, my daily breath includes collected and conceived observations, questions of life, fortune cookie philosophies, reminders, messages of peace and simplicity, unsolicited advice, inspirations, quotes and words that got me thinking. They may get you thinking too . . .

pocket poem 2024

                 Current Thoughts

           Open your mouth, let words
   bypass lips. Converse consciously
   to brethren or bystanders.
       Reach out to
   close friends gone amiss.
       Be not afraid, not now, of
   articulating current thoughts and
   accomplishments of which
   you are proud, and even your sins
   (for we have all owned a few)
        might seem far less tragic
         from an altered point of view.
               Give fresh voice
   to insecurities and anxieties hidden
   within your self, speak highly of
      those dusty dreams
            languishing on a shelf.
   Past sullen moments cast a
   lengthy shadow, short-term
   expectations tend to dull down
   long-term possibilities.
      Talk freely around all you want,
   or hope, or desire to be.
      Each intention will resonate
      with those who wholly believe.
   Understanding takes effort.

© 2024 j.g. lewis

April 18th is Poem in Your Pocket Day
a day to celebrate poetry by selecting a poem,
carrying it in your pocket, and sharing with the
friends and strangers who cross your path.
Share a poem wherever the day takes you, as you
would share a smile, a gesture, or your kindness.
Sharing is caring.

April is Poetry Month
take a poem to lunch

cloud songs

        Our paths shift, circumstance and
              attitude shaping our trajectory.
   The company we keep alters both
       our outlook and destination.
           We are where we are
        mainly because of who we are 
                          and whom we are with.

 

04/16/2024                                                                              j.g.l.

Mondays are just young Fridays

A wish for words more delicate and 
refined will only lead to
an unnecessary edit, constrained curiosity,
and a smudge of indifference.
Emotions scoured from the page,
its patina reflective now of a chaotic mind, 
you are no longer (or never have been) 
satisfied with what is there.
Speaking freely, nowhere near the truth, 
a humane reaction may not be soothed.
Not always. No matter what.
No longer plain and simple. Perhaps
it never was?
You question the questions.
The flaws in your self can only add up
to a greater expression of your being.

04/15/2024                                                                                       j.g.l.

 

April is Poetry Month
flaws and all

 

I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.

j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.

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My January Breath

Posted on January 7, 2015 by j.g.lewis Leave a comment

 

January Breath

My January Breath

Snowflakes. Only movement.                                                                                                                           Twilight comes until twilight goes.                                                                                                              Daylight leaves too early. Swiftly.                                                                                                                 The deeper the night, the colder                                                                                                            the darkness.

My January breath suspended,                                                                                                                 my thoughts wishing to go                                                                                                        somewhere. Anywhere, other                                                                                                                than here. A deafening                                                                                                                         winter silence.

The air is slow.Still. Almost.                                                                                                                   Alone, even in the shadow                                                                                                                            of the streetlamps. Nobody to                                                                                                              shield your ears from the cold,                                                                                                                   or dampen the inevitable.

Pointless the task, reviewing patterns                                                                                                   and paths carved into the cartography of                                                                                              the ego. Realization. What once was,                                                                                                     may never be. This season                                                                                                                       stays the longest.

Even with full sunlight. The wind,                                                                                                     should it decide, rips through me.                                                                                                      Harsh. I am not here, not really.                                                                                                 Permanent as my                                                                                                                                 January breath.

Flurries obscure constellations and                                                                                                         the moon. Isolation. The circumference                                                                                                   of my being is reduced. Limited.                                                                                                      Blinded by temporal                                                                                                                             beauty, or tears.

Nothing has happened, or is                                                                                                        happening. The brazen wind chill                                                                                                    clashes with body heat, the atmosphere                                                                                                the victor. Obvious. The world                                                                                                                 still gets in your eyes.

Time agape with a grey known only                                                                                                           to the night. A solitary trek through the                                                                                      ordinary. Undisturbed. Each step resonates                                                                                         the soul-crunching scream of                                                                                                                      a thousand snowflakes.

Beneath winter’s fickle facade, the ice                                                                                             cracks. The fragility of the planet apparent.                                                                            Vulnerable. Each season has precious moments.                                                                             Gone. Time stands still. This is                                                                                                                   my January breath.

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