How do we choose to travel?
What is reliable in the rain?
What is our ultimate destination,
for this time, this journey, or
this day?
We move at the speed of life.
Depending on traffic, others
may chose to follow your path,
but not your direction.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
A little cold, little wet,
a little tired and yet
I am here. Still,
full of wonder.
The morning chill leaves
little to the imagination
and much less
to hope for.
Expected, perhaps, as it
always is, this time, this
season is only what
we ask of it.
11/21/2024 j.g.l.
The answers are far less certain
than even last week, to all those
perennial questions or solutions
you might seek.
What do you believe, or
what do you believe in?
Come Monday, you have fewer
questions than you had last week.
For a while there are less doubts
in what you believe.
Whom do you believe in,
and who believes in you?
11/18/2024 j.g.l.
Consider each moment
leading up to now.
Cause and effect
affects where you are,
whom you have been, and all
you are now.
Any possibility sustains every reality.
To doubt is to question;
to ask is to reply.
11/22/2024 j.g.l.
As of late, for reasons as varied as they are non-existent, I have not been writing in the manner of which I have come to expect of myself. I am neither as prolific nor as detailed as, I feel, I usually am.
My poetry, while still insightful, does not command the length or breadth I feel I am capable of. Revisions to a manuscript I have toiled away on for some time have become painful (perhaps a sign that the work is closer to completion than I care to acknowledge), and my mind wanders to another project that requires the same diligence.
My daily writing is less than it once was (I feel guilty about that), and even the scant sentences I jot down in my journal seem to only document my time here on earth. Nothing extravagant, nothing more than a slight glimpse of where I am. Nothing that memorable, sadly.
I’ve been feeling for months that I am ready to embark on another kind of writing but have yet to determine exactly what that might be. I am full or ideas, characters, dialogue and circumstance, but it doesn’t quite feel like it has the backbone it needs to pull me in a certain direction. I even, a few weeks back, bought a fresh new notebook to keep these thoughts separate from all the others. The notes I have included in this book are random, undeveloped, at times personal, and (as of yet) make little sense. I reread these notes, almost daily, and I am inspired enough to clarify or expand on certain streams of thought, but it needs a more definite direction.
Perhaps I do as well?
11/17/2024 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.
This eleventh month comes suddenly.
You notice the morning chill
but only remembered the night before.
Dawn is the lifeline connecting
what you avoid and all you face.
Daily, hourly, incrementally towards full sun,
or a reasonable facsimile.
Daily it changes, the hour uncertain,
we split our time between the gentle
light of the moon and the day’s reflection
of the silent senseless wonder
Memories capsized, plans revert to
what we don’t know and never expect
Anticipation. The confluence of influence
undeniably intricate.
Once force to another, a morning
monopolizing time. Night a natural
state of wonder, senseless as it seems.
November brings us closer to the edge
of a new year. All we can do is wait.
© 2023 j.g. lewis
In the bigger picture there is love.
In this life there is evil, hatred, and death.
Even greater misfortunes compound and
threaten our existence. Inconceivably so.
Wars rage against humanity, our prayers
for peace continually ignored.
I cannot understand what I can do.
Unfortunate we can’t feel it all, or feel at all,
through the depths of desolation and abomination
we read about or view on technicolor screens
within our comfortable existence on
this side of the planet.
This uncomfortable world.
I feel hopeless when I want to feel love.
Hatred has spread like ash across the globe with
a greater vengeance than the fires that consumed us
throughout the year. Fingertips trace our hopes,
deftly scratching the surface, a dignified definition
we can only dream on. The climate has changed
geopolitically and environmentally.
I can’t understand the cause.
I cannot comprehend the convictions.
Humankind needs to scratch deeper; we need to feel.
We cannot accept that which we do not understand.
I can only want love, even more than peace.
I hear the cries, even from a distance.
Still, we watch. And still we wait, understandably so.
© 2023 j.g. lewis
Silently, or suspiciously standing in one place,
in between unsteady steps I take throughout the day.
Waiting, even for a moment. Respite for the time being,
perhaps, not even knowing why. Questioning, unquestionably,
each of us continuously striving to keep moving at our own pace,
Caught up in this human race, surviving, maybe thriving as we try to
determine the flow we know is best. We think.
A little later today, earlier for some, we all have a path; a better way,
leading to better day. Moving in different directions, sometimes hastily,
as required. Some of us are simply limping along.
The weight on our shoulders slows us down. We must, once
in a while, stop and let it settle. Far more than waiting. Unconscious
thinking, our minds move, even if our feet are firmly planted. Progress
not always certain, we can only hope our intentions continue
propelling us further. It has to be more than hope,
yet we still we try to keep it all in stride.
© 2023 j.g. lewis
I hear you, more than I listen to myself.
Messages of caution or concern,
statements of grace, sentiment
not fallen on inattentive ears.
The words we can,
the words we must,
the words we say.
The words we trust
And this. And we, are we
even comfortable with our vocabulary?
Do we know or can we tell,
right words from the wrong?
Conversation or confrontation, depending
on your situation, those same words mean
something else to someone else.
It’s becomes even more difficult to tell.
The words we say.
The words we hear,
spell out misunderstanding.
Injustice. Pain or fear
Shared experience, descriptions,
details, doubt and deception at times
difficult to put into words.
Our emotions demand that they must.
Honesty is what it is, as it has
always been, but spoken less and less
more and more. It matters not how you
express yourself, only that you do.
© 2020 j.g. lewis
It is not what I have done, but what I still must do.
Reminders, lists; they come to you, without warning.
A song. A sound, a scent; shades of the past, of
time long expired or relationships that didn’t last.
Grocery lists of what to get, sticky notes remind you
of what not to forget. Still, I often do. Or I will try.
How can I decide? Indecision pushes it all to the side
or out of sight. Only recall allows it to survive. Inside.
Little bits and pieces of unnecessary nonsense strewn
about the stacks of essential things that must get done.
Amidst the mental clutter, superfluous stuff to be silently
sacrificed. Forgotten, until memories come rushing back.
Trauma will not disappear. It will, over time, dissipate,
but always remains close enough to feel. Unneeded.
Reminders are varied, something that serves to keep alive
clandestine keepsakes. Observed only by yourself.
© 2023 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.
