One last burst of courage
shocking beyond definition
                       for only a time.

A few moments into November, a few months
before a new year when January’s breath arrives
with darkness.

                       A bleak forecast.

Temperatures drop slowly
each night as days shorten;
notably noticeable in November’s most gradient scale of time.

We wake to this splendor only for a few days,
each sight promising more again next year.

Until then, more grey before winter white or worse.

©2021 j.g. lewis

I light a candle to illuminate
thoughts this world holds. Some
I cannot understand,
others simply trying to land
but hover instead. And this song
keeps playing in my head.

I can’t find my way home.

I feel there will be no peace,
not now, not among this culture
of shame and blame.
Not when you question others,
but refuse to question yourself.
Still I light a candle.

I can’t find my way home.

Just beyond the candlelight, I
watch days slip into night, amidst
a maelstrom of discontent,
you never know what is meant.
Look over your shoulder. Look
further through your past.

I can’t find my way home.

Fistfuls of violence, mouthfuls
of reality escape. Thoughts which
should not be free, peace
should not be a luxury. I strike
a match to light up a candle,
to shine a light for hope.

I can’t find my way home.

©2017 j.g. lewis

We exist within a conundrum: a hollow promise,
less than a guarantee, with far too much fine print
and hyperbole disguising immodest claims by the
local chamber of commerce.
              Selling features surpass the benefits
             of living there or here, or wherever.

Often we question why we live
                                  where we live.
     It is greater than geography,
     more than an address or identity.
Our company of cohorts and companions
changes over time.
                            We move, as do they.

                                How do we settle?

Location, location, uncertain destination,
what you see in the rearview mirror will
likely greet you further down the highway.
                    They say you can’t go back.
                                  Yet, you usually do.
    City to neighbourhood, dwellings or
    simply shelter, we seek comfort. Or
    contentment.
        A place to sleep, to eat, or ignore
        what goes on outside the window.

Across the street or 27 stories down below.

High-density urban sprawl, demographics,
economics, overpopulation, the mechanics
of increased consumption of once-precious
resources. We are all what we are made of.

Humanities: the quality or state of being.
Home is what, home is where, we make it.
                          Home is a place you accept
                    more than you will understand.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

Gather, you beggars. Assemble 

like pigeons, seeking morsels of kindness 

on these filthy city streets. We notice but do not acknowledge.  

Or apologize. 

I cannot deal with all I see. 

Any spare change? No answer. No chance.  

I saunter by in my warm parka, well-rested, belly full 

of breakfast. I know no hunger, though not immune  

to the pang. Sunglasses shield my eyes.  

I have witnessed too much. 

There, but by the grace of God, go I. 

They remain. Unrecognizable 

even to those who have loved them. A person’s sister, somebody’s  

brother, somebody’s child. A somebody; 

another vacant bed or private hell 

another excuse or story to tell. 

We do not want to hear. 

Nor dare to breathe. Ask no questions. 

I am only what I ask myself to be. If 

charity begins at home, what then of the homeless? Nothing. 

I know where I will sleep tonight. 

Ashamed. I do little but look away. 

Filthy pigeons stare back.  

Then scatter. 

©2021 j.g. lewis

by Angela Felzmann

Have you ever left home? How did it make you feel?
Excited? Scared? Relieved?
Was it your first steps to independence and becoming an adult?
Did you escape toxic dynamics, patterns and history to make your own way?
Did it change things?
Did it change you?
Changes create disturbance
To that which we have known.

I’ve left “home” twice and come back.
But it begs the question, once you leave, can you ever really come back?
Things may seem the same, yet they are not.
Because you created a change
And there’s really no coming back from that
Changes create disturbance
To that which we have known.

Home seems to beckon us to a place of comfort, of things
familiar and common. Solace and security.
Stability and firmly rooted footing.
Sometimes it’s warm and welcoming.
Other times, it’s contradictory.
Awkward and incongruent. Bittersweet.
Like taking too many steps backwards towards a direction
we thought we were finished with.
Stagnant. Stale. Old. Outworn. Outgrown.
Sometimes, life demands changes.
Because you created a change
And there’s really no coming back from that.

And what of this last year and a half?
In this unprecedented, exceptional, uncertain time?
With changes and restrictions and rules the world had to adjust to?
That changed our everyday lives?
A pandemic of endemics that will likely stay,
How did you mold and morph?
How did you adapt?
Things may seem the same, yet they are not.
Because there was a forced, imposed change
And there’s really no coming back from that.
Changes create disturbance
To that which we have known.

Did it cause you to pause?

To re-evaluate yourself? Your life?
What is important? What matters?
Did you take stock of your values?
Did family take on more meaning?
Become somehow important and invaluable?
Did you make newfound efforts to stay connected?
Did others reciprocate the same?
Who checked in on you?
And there’s really no coming back from that.
Changes create disturbance
To that which we have known.

It brought the world to a grinding halt.
It stopped us all in our tracks.
It brought quiet, silence and retreat.
Remember the video of stillness around the world?
I watched it with amazement and disbelief, all one in the same.
And I felt to my core, there are lessons here for us to take to heart.
This is the warning call, the universe screaming at us
to take heed without making a sound.

Things may seem the same, yet they are not.
Because there was a forced, imposed change
And there’s really no coming back from that.
Changes create disturbance
To that which we have known.

There have been unforeseen changes that have been
so necessary and needed. There are things and ways
of doing and being that I don’t want to go back to.
Being that slave to the grind. Running the never-ending rat race.
The glorification of busy and go, go, go with never a moment to spare.
Living to exist and being exhausted living every single day like this
And somehow permitting society to say and dictate that is a life.
I found relief and breath and decompression.
I finally was able to actually have a work/life balance
rather than just listening to empty words about it.
And I was able to breathe.
And I breathed.
The deepest of breaths.

Things may seem the same, yet they are not.
Changes create disturbance
To that which we have known.

I tended to things that had been long forgotten.
I completed COVID creations in my home and with myself.

And I had more time.
And these 4 walls became my creative space, my safe haven,
my security, my stability. And I was able to breathe.
And I breathed.
And I felt gratitude like I never have before.
Gratitude.
And there was calm.
Life was calm.
Calm.

Things may seem the same, yet they are not.
Because you created a change
And there’s really no coming back from that.

And as we wait for life to return, the question becomes, to what?
And it makes me wonder about my life and what I want in a home.
Where is my home? Is it somewhere over the rainbow?
Where the grass is greener?
Some alternate universe?
Is it in this city? This province? This country?
With these people? With these politics?
Because society is being stretched and challenged and tested
In every way possible to its utmost limits.
And it bestows the question of what has become of our humanity?
I don’t see how we overcome this division and anger and strife.
And I seek my escape.

And there’s really no coming back from that.
Changes create disturbance
To that which we have known.

Home begins with all of us.
Until we accept all that is.
Successes and failures, rises and falls, rights and wrongs.
Endeavors for a collective good, not just for benefit of a few
Until we are comfortable with who we are, how we are
That we recognize and accept
Honor and respect
Humanity as one.
It’s buried in our marrow, rests on our bones.
It is that simple. It is that complex.
Embrace yourself.
Find your breath.
Continue on.
Carve out your space.

Create your own path.
And find your way home.

Things may seem the same, yet they are not.
Because there was a forced, imposed change
And there’s really no coming back from that.
Changes create disturbance
To that which we have known.

Forge your own way home.

Angela Felzmann is an Alberta-based writer.