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.
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
We do not touch the money, now
only digits on a screen. Ingredients
in our foods unknown, or what
scientists contribute to the scheme.
Price at the pump keeps going up,
still our cars can’t seem
to get enough.
Politicians are not worth knowing, or
deeds in which they partake, sin or
scandal widely-known, we
elect them anyway.
Damn truth be told,
between utter lies; they won’t salute
the dead, so many innocents die.
We won’t wash our hands, but
still waste the water
and share the blame.
We don’t care if we don’t want to,
our days continue just the same.
© 2018 j,g, lewis
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.
The spontaneity of life’s
humanity deftly narrated
printed in his own words.
We can read not what was there
but what he saw.
Unlike those who came before.
Now another dead poet
amongst the others we know
those who breathe substance
onto the page
into the world
so generously documented for us.
He was an American
who travelled
‘dwelt in a hundred cities
where trees were books’
who wrote of the country he knew.
Its people occupied
streets beyond the periphery
of his soul.
Perception personified.
An autobiography,
he gave to us a focus
so we could feel
an America
more sharply delineated
than a history book
or with more colour than
the six o’clock news.
A parade ended Monday
but the beat lives on.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
“I see another war is coming
But I won’t be there to fight it.
I have read the writing
on the outhouse wall.
I helped Kilroy write it.”
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
1919 – 2021
Rest in peace
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.