Qualifying questions, remedial response.
Knowledge of situations often haunt.
What we know or have been told.
We tell ourselves we just don’t know.
Answers formed by thoughts untold.
Rumour and misinformation often sold.
Conspiracy theories tend to rule the day.
Bare truth and logic will get in the way.
04/22/2024 j.g.l.
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
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.
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.
My mother passed away 30 years ago.
I almost wrote that I lost my mother decades ago, but in so many ways, she is still with me. I feel her presence now; how could I not, my mother was all about love.
She loved me, I know; she loved all of her children individually and collectively, giving more of herself to each one of us, supporting us, providing for us, giving us the home and the family she believed we needed.
It was a beautiful family. She was the spirit.
My mother was the support system for the entire family. She was from the last generation of homemakers, a time where being a mom meant being at home. She was there for us: my father and his professional life, my brother, my sister, and me.
My parents encouraged involvement and creativity. They were both understanding parents who allowed us to pursue our desires and interests (hell, they allowed a set of drums – mine – into the house).
My mother was happiest when her children were content. She was there for us, anytime, all the time. She was dedicated, to us.
With three children intensely involved in a wide range of activities and competitive sports, my mother and my father involved themselves in our pursuits as a means of being involved in our lives. My mom was the one you could hear shouting the loudest at volleyball games, track meets, and on the ski hill. Yes, even in those -40 degree Manitoba winters, she was the one who was standing out on the course cheering me on, or my sister, or any of our friends. She was the mother who would drive a station wagon full of kids to track meets a couple of hours away on a regular basis.
I always knew she was there for us. My friends always knew she was there for support. She was that kind of mother.
She taught me that being involved in your children’s lives was the most important thing a parent could do. It was a lesson that became so obvious when I became a parent myself.
I always wanted to be there for my daughter. I knew the importance of being there. I was taught well.
When my mother passed away, I remember how difficult it was telling my daughter, barely three, that her grandma has died. My mother had a heart condition.
I ended up telling her that Grandma’s heart was so full of love that it just couldn’t keep up.
My mother had a big heart.
I miss her dearly, but still feel her love; especially today.
01/03/2020 j.g.l.
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.