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.
He wants to be forgiven
for memories he may only possess
of moments not shared, not
obviously or intimately.
What never was
just might have been the
principle or pastime
that caused this unorthodox pain.
He finds it easier to write
a common third-person narrative
than to admit my faults, my
needs or my struggle.
His search for wholeness is
an unforgiving quest to find a
semi-natural state in a world of
compromise and deceit.
My self, my view, my impulse
or intention goes long beyond
what I am or have now.
Deeper thought; a deeper longing.
An uncomfortable truth of
which has been comprised of
falsehoods. What is behind his
flawed and fragile shell?
What I don’t often ask is
often what I will not say and if
you do not address this dichotomy
you will end up going silent.
It is not obvious, nor is it
intentional. It is self-preservation
and so much easier than
having to admit this shame.
© 2022 j.g. lewis
Is this yours
this memory
a shard of remorse
a paper moon forgotten of course
lessons learned
Wound beneath the skin
pain requires a destination
spirit within
without a body outside of time
common sense disabled
wisdom left behind
What else do you need?
© 2020 j.g. lewis
What do we overlook?
What instances or occasions
do we choose to not observe, acknowledge, or
try to comprehend?
How can we ignore the shifting beauty
of the leaves, the final days of colour before
wicked winds, a nightly chill, turn our landscape
to a humble grey.
We will feel the deficit, unnoticed in the entirety.
What happens when we do not stop
to pay attention to the slight motion of a raindrop
in a puddle on a drizzly day, or look past
the kaleidoscope haze as errant drops diffuse
light on the lenses of your eyeglasses.
Our vision is not clear to the reality of
people passing by on the sidewalk, on the way
to work or school, perhaps paying as little attention
to the surroundings as we do.
© 2022 j.g. lewis
It takes but a night of rain
to wash away weeks and months.
The remainder of the season,
days of thought and reason.
Please wait, she said.
Her colour had changed, more
than the blush on her cheeks.
I’m not ready.
It’s time, autumn replied, as much
warmth in his voice
as intention.
Will you be gentle?
Summer shone, still possessing
the familiar beauty that was her gift.
I will try, he said.
I have been waiting so long
for this moment.
© 2015 j.g. lewis
Come under my blanket, literally or metaphorically.
Share my words, and time, beneath this moonless sky. Breathe
deeply. There is warmth here; we have a place to discover,
to dream, and to make this world a little smaller.
You are not like me. Obviously. The voice is foreign. Your skin
is different; or maybe it is mine. But let’s put those differences
on the table and sit, as equals, as strangers, as humans, under
the canopy of night, united by what makes us the same.
How different can we be? You are here. So am I. Should we all
not be allowed a place for art, for dancing, and dialogue, and
just allowing things to happen. Shouldn’t this city, this place
of all places, allow for a naturally-occurring random acts of belonging.
We belong here; we are all here, more likely than not strangers.
Regardless of where we come from, or where we have been,
there are more commonalities than differences. There has to be,
we are the same. We are all right here. Right now.
Can you let go of what you are used to? Can you imagine
becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable? Can we
as a species, as a people, as a force, take back the negativity
that exists outside this blanket? Can we try?
Communication, unhindered by race, or faith, or morals and
mindset, should be the easiest way to absolve the madness
that occurs daily on this planet. If poetry is the language,
it matters less about the accent and more about the intent.
You have a voice, and it is lovely, and unique, and has
a purpose. Speak up. Share, let others know how you feel, and
what you deal with daily, weekly, and now. You belong.
Come under the cover, and make room for others.
© 2016 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.
