The night
accepts the silence,
      appreciates
     the soft, steady breath
         of lovers
        and dogs.

        New Moon
shows as no moon can.
      High resolution
     darkness softening
          hard edges
        and difficult lives,

         Here we are,
part of the silence,
      immune to
     time and temperature,
         and words
      once spoken.
©2017 j.g. lewis

Walls surround me; people tell me, even ask me
where I’ve been. I can’t find the answers, or
the reason from within. If home is the place
where you lay your head, I’ve got no room left
for what goes on when the walls are closing in.

No longer seeking safety or salvation, but simply
common ground. There were never second chances the
first time around. It’s been years since I have come home,
though I’m not without my blame, I’m not without
my judgment and not without my shame.

No reminders. No residue.
No solutions, nor the pain.

More a feeling than a destination, home is not
about geography. Even less the physical location.
The whisper of home gets hard to understand,
even mundane decisions become more difficult
when you take life in your own hands.

Driving forward, moving slowly, the place between
here and this. Listen to music you chose, the next
track on the disc. Melancholy melody, even lyrically
it stokes a chord. We all remember taking chances,
but too often forget about the risk.

Nothing there, nothing lost.
Nothing left. Nothing gained

Of course I’m still dreaming of home, it helps me
pass the time. Past mistakes and memories,
I own them; they are all mine. My mind often loaded
with gentle thoughts of you, yet it still provides
no direction of where I’m going to.

©2017 j.g. lewis

No matter how quickly our technologies evolve, or how fast our processors process, we still rely on ancient methods to make our way through each day.

Just yesterday I wrote in my journal, printed out a card to a loved one, and tapped a text message to my daughter. I started a letter to a friend, composed a forceful email to a pharmaceutical company, and contributed to ongoing dialogue with a curious collection of sensitive souls.

I scribbled out a couple of lines to a poem, added onto the grocery list, jotted down an upcoming appointment in my agenda, and recorded a client concern warranting further investigation.

I wrote with a pencil in a notebook and used a pen on a preprinted form. I also employed a laptop, then a desktop computer, and made use of a few apps on my mobile device.

Through it all, my daily communication — regardless of the format, font or function — was done using the same standard 26 letters and 10 digits that have been used for centuries, along with a handful of punctuation marks for proper order.

In a society that wants to do everything differently than we have on the past, we are stuck on such a simple practice. My country is bilingual; both languages (English and French) use the same characters.

In my life as a writer I have used all the traditional hand-held writing instruments from crayon to fountain pen, and mechanical devices including typewriter, mainframe computer, tablets and my phone.

But the alphabet has not changed in my lifetime, nor that of my father’s, or my father’s father.

The alphabet is old, its roots dating back to 2700 BC. Since the early days of hieroglyphics, we have used similar symbols to show love and anger, and to emphasize sadness or fear. Our wants, our struggles, and our fantasies are illustrated as they always have been.

The letters remain the same. A combination of curves and lines, an R is always an r, the S is the same, again and again, like an A is an a: upper case or lower. We have barely even altered how the letters are used. Today’s Apple keyboards are essentially laid out the same as the keys on yesteryear’s Underwood.

Even the meanings of words can change, but not how they are produced. Words keep the world moving, and learning; they maintain order or spell out anarchy. And we understand. At the turn of the millennium, the printing press was named the greatest invention of all time because of its ability to help spread the written word.

We use the written word more than we ever have. Yes, the format has changed (again) but it is still both our primary form of communication and the essential instrument in recording history.

Years ago, just as this whole digital thing was really catching on, as personal computer sales began to dramatically increase, there was talk about a paperless society. Oh how wrong they were. Newspaper and magazine sales (and production) have declined, but we still shuffle an awful lot of paper at the office.

While we don’t mail letters like we used to, yet our email inboxes continue to fill up.

It’s only words.

We can boast about how society has changed or evolved (even improved), but the foundation of communication are the letters that grew from symbols once scratched out on the walls of caves.

How simple; how profound; how enduring.

©2017 j.g. lewis

The flowers now bloom, even
on the graves. The severity of
the winter has passed.
Everything has blossomed again.
The birds sing, even in darkness,
because they can,
even on nights when
we cannot sleep.

A love of mine now destroyed,
even amid the beauty
of where we are, and
how we live, there is a sadness.
The birds sing, even as
the stars cry, everything seems right.
A summer’s night
and the flowers bloom.

Life is played, through the days. When
talking of the past, how far
do you want to go? Every detail,
every place, or struggle.
Things you one time wanted
to know. I think you should go.
The flowers still bloom. How often
do you think of that day?

How relevant is whatever it is,
to what is you? Now and
present. Just as we are comprised
of flesh and bone, and psyche,
the flowers still bloom. We water them
because everything has life,
but how do we care
for ourselves?

The birds sing, early, to remind of
another day. Our life, from the ground
up, is built on meaning,
moments, and relationships with
people and places. See what
is beautiful, remember what
is beautiful.
The flowers bloom.

©2013 j.g. lewis

Unrestrained now,
not always so. No longer
a tangle of censored actions, insecurities,
or efforts to blend into mindless,
matter-of-course, societal ways.
Today, resurrected
to unexpected wiles, barely the
shadow of a once-cautious child.

An impervious spirit,
no longer pacified by attention
from just anyone. Once mistaking paltry
pick-up lines for poetry, sucking in the
seduction of each stanza, forever
confusing choice with
chance. Always learning the
difference the hard way.

Now bypassing innocuous
thought, ideals embraced
only by the tame. Tried that before. Never
again. Wild heart now, not always so,
no longer does it pulse for the pleasure of
someone else. Security comes
from knowing blood rushes only
for favour of the self.

©2017 j.g. lewis