Your whisper fair warns us, yet still

we are surprised. The calendar’s last page,

and we are left feeling more. Always.

Winter: a beginning comes near the end,

while the end craves new beginnings.

The longest season, physically, or

spiritually. Consistency, year over year,

over year, from one into the next.

Cold, as it is darker. Light is appreciated,

and necessary. We grow up knowing,

the facts of this season. Always,

our lives marked by winter.

Time, and years, have become forgotten,

but we are reminded. The soil

and silence, frozen. Our insular existence,

non-secular pain, wind-chafed emotions,

a reminder again. We desire

a warm touch; December, January or

otherwise. Hope, as with autumn’s last leaf,

dangling in a greater stillness.

A confessional. Always. Dormancy

until early spring, what we allow or when

we embrace. Silence. Darkness.

We need not be surprised.

Impulse knows. We have been here before.

©2017 j.g. lewis

Hourly we see the signs and statistics, daily and nightly, more than we need to and not as often as we should.
   We only see pieces, but never the complete picture.
   In an article a few months ago, the Toronto Star reported “an unrelenting increase in homelessness.” In one year, as of August, the number of actively homeless people in Toronto went from 8,479 to 9,724.
   More or less, at last count, give or take. The numbers are an underestimation of the crisis. Shocking and convenient, but how accurate can the assessment of an impermanent and transient population be?
   We see the problems daily, but not solutions. The politics of poverty hold much of the blame, but not the sole responsibility, and we see only pieces of the puzzle that don’t fit.
   There are social agencies, non-profit charities and church groups doing their damndest to stuff a finger in the dike. Lack of social housing, mental health issues some of us will never know (but we will know of), drug and alcohol addiction, and violence, all contribute to the flood they are facing.
   Our government, provincially, has confused homelessness with housing and its plans and promises going forward contain no real hope for unhoused, the unhealthy or the unholy, all out of luck, out of time, but never out of eyesight.
   On top of everything, inflation is climbing and the COVID-19 pandemic aftermath continues, as certain as it exists.
   Toronto’s shelter system, emergency or otherwise, is stretched to capacity. Nightly, as winter continues to come, the wicked winds leave little room for even the brave inside. Outside of overflowing shelters, the bold struggle to find a place in all-night coffee shops, cardboard upon cold concrete of tenement steps, or in tent cities that continue in city parks..
   It is a puzzle indeed, and not a pretty picture.
   Charity is a start, but it is never enough.
   Humanity hinders as often as it heals.
   How can we care for each other?
   Most of us have something to give, many of us have more than we ask for, while some of us can only ask because there is nothing left to give and even less to live for.
   This is the emotional ground that we walk on: daily, nightly, hourly.
   An incomplete puzzle, do we only see the pieces we want to see?
   Do we shield our eyes from that which makes us uncomfortable?
   Can we not consider the comfort of others?

© 2022 j.g. lewis

Year after year, for what seemed like weeks and weeks, my mother used to sit at the dining room table and write Christmas cards to friends and family.

   It was correspondence she enjoyed. It was a practice she was diligent about maintaining.

Some of the cards were addressed to faraway places, other envelopes were stamped and sent to houses right down the street.

  It was her way of sending holiday cheer.

Mom had a list she would update as required, or when a card from somebody else would arrive with a new address. Any change of address notice that had arrived throughout the year would be checked against the list to ensure accuracy.

  Each card was a handwritten. There were no photocopied form letters, and rarely was there a family photograph; it was just her beautiful handwriting.

  This was her way of telling people that all was well in the Lewis household, and her way of letting others know they were in her thoughts.

  I did not realize the true value of one of these cards until after I had moved away to another city and received one in the mail. The warmth of the season was abundantly clear. A Christmas card extends the spirit.

  I have been nowhere near as diligent with my holiday cards. I went through a few years where I didn’t send any at all. Through a few moves I’ve misplaced addresses, or lost contact with many people on my list (I’m not particularly good at keeping up with lists, or friendships in some cases), and we move around more frequently now than we did decades ago.

  It takes a little more effort to keep up with faraway friends.

  I’ve been trying a little harder over the past few years to re-establish my personal practice of sending cards. I sent off a few yesterday, and will write a few more throughout this week. I intended on starting earlier, but I’m a little behind. . . or perhaps that is simply a convenient excuse.

  I haven’t been in touch with some of the people on my list for a while (or longer), but now is a good time, I think, to make contact.

Writing a Christmas card takes very little time, and too much time has already passed between some people.

© 2018 j.g. lewis

© 2018 j.g. lewis

Daily we make up our lies with
pieces of the truth, indemnifying
ourselves from the current reality.
Hesitancy takes time, various stages
of indecision come back to hinder.
Arbitrary illusions provide a depth
only the imagination will grant.
Seize the moment, the inspiration,
in the obvious unaccounted for.
Can you face up to the falsities?
Time heals all wounds, but only if
you loosen the bandages, only if
you believe you have been hurt.

© 2022 j.g. lewis

In any language, a scream is a scream,

a cry is a cry, and a tear

a tear.

At a sidewalk café or concert hall,

laughter should be laughter, and music

should be heard. In a civilized nation,

life should be lived without fear,

and with the freedom

to enjoy simple pleasures,

to give, and to love, as we do.

Think not of them, idealistically, but

of you and of me. Life, and our

civil lives,

now compressed to fight or flight.

In any language, on any night,

thoughts remain

bursting with pain, the

shadow of terrorism rising

again. In every country, our hearts

have been crushed.

Restless night, clouded by sorrow and

the news. The images, and views,

the questions,

the why, and why there. Again,

why? Knowing, without question,

it could be anywhere. The streets are

not safe, not tonight, in any country.

Where is here. You cannot see, or

comprehend inhumanity. Not on

that scale, or of that type.

In every language, evil lurks, unexpectedly

displaying its brutal cowardice. We cannot

be shocked,

for it happens, on so many levels,

in so many countries, to many people

on too many streets. Blood is blood.

Knives at home, elsewhere guns

or worse. We see it. We know it.

Yet, on a global scale, our minds

are numb.

Hatred begets violence, justice benign

against those who chose to

use themselves

as weapons of destruction. We

are not safe, not there, not here.

These damaged souls believe

in what they believe; wholly

and without question.

If there is no understanding,

there is only resistance.

Prayers, or a hymn, cannot be offered to

unbelievers, for they will not, or chose not,

to listen.

Guided by spirits, their Gods, and dictators

who know nothing but this atrocious devotion

to another type of mankind. Historically

and now, they cannot know love

or recognize the value of

a human life. For they

cannot be human.

Grieving, raging, and still, beneath our

confusion, above our cries for revenge

or retribution,

lies a love, unpronounced but unfolding.

A heartbeat, sympathies and empathy

to the powerless struggles,

in every language. We, as a civilization,

in any nation, must stand

united in our sense of humanity,

and do so with a fortified will.

We must continue believing in love,

and hope, charity, and trust,

and peace.

Right now, however, there is so little

to those words. We must have faith,

in what we believe, in every heart,

in every body. Difficult to imagine,

but we must. To deny

this resurgence of compassion

is to give in to all this terror stands for.

 © 2015 j.g. lewis