Even in this new day, as we only try to wake from the darkness that enveloped us, comforted or confused us, through the night; even as we give pause to immediate thoughts in the disquiet of the world, this city, this coffee shop (or wherever you find yourself). Even then (or now) as we struggle less and less with the inspiration and more and more with our intentions, we are never quite sure if we will find or have found the clarity we seek. It is naturally, even organically, a process we value, a practice we attempt, that is far less than pedantic and far more than studied. It occurs on its own, full of questions and comments, each random line on the page is purposeful if only because the pencil leaves a trail of thought and indications you are alive and wondering, at all times, as we should be… shouldn’t we? Let not the questions cast doubt on what you know, but instead observe where the answers take you. Surely you are alive enough to count yourself in? This is the pattern of life: to question, to observe, to make use of your time — in whatever manner — to express yourself beyond the boundaries of what you have been told. Is there a better reason to write every damn day?

© 2022 j.g. lewis

I wish to leave
my shadow behind,
no longer
do I require a reminder
of where I am.
Translucent darkness
with rough edges, its ability
to stretch the truth
serves no purpose.
I am tired of its lazy ways,
the constant need
for attachment
and a deviant reflection
of where I stand.
Never knowing
its own direction, this shadow
has seen too much of me,
hiding when I could
use support,
believing it knows me
all too well, and carrying
the scent
of my scattered past.
A shadow only follows,
more suitable for
someone else to hide away.
Darkness,
I’m not going there.
I see the light.

© 2017 j.g. lewis

Winter arrives unexpectedly, as it always seems to do.
   We shouldn’t be surprised, but we are.
   It is, after all, mid-November. This is Canada, and morning’s early chill should have been reminder enough to pull gloves, scarves and hats out of storage.
   But winter is not a feeling; even less it is a date.
   Winter truly begins with the first snowfall.
   Yesterday morning it was only a few flakes.
   Then it was flurries, and soon the rooftops below were covered in white. You could hear the slushy sounds of cars eleven stories down as the wet snow continued to accumulate.
   Of course, soon, you were caught up in the cross-town traffic. Driving is not easy in the first snowfall; it never is, as restless cab drivers recklessly swerve in an out of the steady traffic with unsteady drivers getting the feel of the slick roads. Slow and steady are the rules of the road; drive with the conditions if not the confidence.
   Freezing and melting, the unpredictable temperatures will be here for a while and all we can do is live with it for however long it takes.
   Winter arrives, almost unexpectedly, and takes over our lives for months at a time. The first snowfall has a way of reminding us of a new reality.
   Winter has this way of slowing us down.

Turn it off. Weary the mind. You’ve had your say

now allow time for those working, or trying, and

believing there may still be opportunity, perhaps

prosperity. If allowed. Can the dream still exist?

More and more it becomes less and less important.

I will not listen; or cannot, a more apt description,

to the incessant ignorance spilling from your lips.

My ears bleed, my heart aches, among this crush

of bigotry, inequality and blind trust misplaced.

I put on my headphones commanding ear-splitting

silence to shut out the numbing narcissistic diatribe

with its women-hating violence. You’ve said all that

you needed to get what you wanted, you bullied,

and prophesied, and threatened and taunted. Now

perpetuating insult with that firm hypocritical

stance, adding insult to illusion, capitalizing on

chance. It’s less about being chosen, and now

what you choose, because my motherhood issues

are a far cry from your motherfucking truths.

                                                                                © 2022 j.g. lewis

We come and go, as routinely or as
regularly as we have before. The days
and destination vary, as expected, by
month or year, by happenstance, fate,
or intention. Our paths will cross with
others on a similar plane, acknowledge
our purpose, again and again, it is that
which is common we all wish to show.
We all want to belong. We wander, as
do so many lost souls, as purposely or
as randomly as it seems, Thoughts of
where, or why, cross our minds, so we
think more of the reasons than of the
time, a critical factor to common minds.
While where we go is as relevant as
why we stay, for how long remains the
bigger question. More a feeling than a
purpose, comfort comes when you least
expect it. Do we share the desire to stay
as deeply as we must? Or, are we more
influenced by wind direction, curiosity
or trust? We still want to belong. We
will stay when we feel welcome, often
accepting what little we know, always
uncertain when, or why, we have to go .

© 2022 j.g. lewis