yesterday
       today
was
      tomorrow
             I had so much to do
      things I had put off
   consciously or
unconsciously              it mattered not
         I was determined to get them
Done
   one (or all of them)
by
   one
done             today
when it was tomorrow
           it seemed easier
           it seemed manageable
           it seemed as if there would
be time
           when today
                        was tomorrow
yet as tomorrow came,
            as it always does
            as yesterday lost hold of
the hours and
its way
and tomorrow just happened
        anyway
it seemed
                                  as if
           time had passed me by
                                  as if a day;
                       today or any day
slipped off the calendar
falling like a rose petal or
            disgraced politician
into the basket of days misspent
or wasted
days which promised more
                     but delivered less
tomorrows do that
they never quite live up to
today
                   and all too often
                           become a yesterday

© 2014 j.g.lewis

Hello September,
such a surprise to see you before me,

not even a rumour of your impending arrival.

           So unlike the ninth month

to simply arrive unannounced,
as your usually-reliable predecessor will often
drop subtle hints;

the chill at night, even a warning of frost at times.
We often stop and admire those early sunsets with
that melancholic mood you feel
                   when the end is near.

August seemed to drag its heels, this year,

as summer instead gave us this unrelenting heat
by day, and all those sweaty nights. Night after
night, days without rain. No reminders
                      of what time it was.

One month seemed to become larger than intended,

flowing right into the next.

September usually stands alone.
Now it arrives without a rest,

and I just notice.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

We probably don’t need to be reminded,
every day, people in this world, in this life,
are hurting. Even yourself.
You can feel it, some days more than others.
Most times you are able to
get past the doubt and delusion
for a little while. Most times. It comes back.
You know. You don’t need to be reminded,
but you are. Often.
A scrap of paper, a certain date, a song
from a passing car, can easily evoke
feelings of anger, of discontent,
of a pain greater than discomfort. It’s there,
in the pit of your being. Cracks flow
deep beyond the surface. It is ugly,
and unwanted. A true hurt. A scar slices deep
into the marrow of your existence.
Fractures and faults. You know hurting,
or inching your way through the pain,
can make you stronger. You are not sure
how. Or when.
You do not know why. You know it hurts,
and you hate to be reminded.
How strong do you need to be?
How do you find empathy?
How is it you can see
circumstances have changed over the years,
but not the cause of the pain.
All that remains is the hurt.

©2017 j.g. lewis

Two nights ago, I was listening to The London Howlin’ Wolf Sessions, the 1971 album where the Chicago bluesman is backed by Eric Clapton, Steve Winwood, Bill Wyman, and Charlie Watts.
   Yesterday, walking home from a mid-day appointment in downtown Toronto, a hopped-up ‘70s muscle car stopped at a red light, the sounds of Shattered (from the Rolling Stone’s 1978 Some Girls) blaring through its open windows. It’s one of those songs where you especially notice the strength, simplicity, and sophistication of Charlie Watts’ drumming.
   When I arrived home yesterday, I heard the news that Watts had died, at age 80, peacefully in his sleep.
   Often you hear the news of a famous musician passing away, but so few cause me to reflect as I have been.
   See, as far as I’m concerned, Charlie Watts was always there.
   He was the heartbeat of the Rolling Stones; in fact, he was a Rolling Stone about as long as I’ve been a human being.
   The music was always there. Certain Rolling Stones albums, or songs, mark my life as they do most anybody from my generation (or older or younger).
   As a drummer in my younger days, I always marveled at how Watts could get such a big sound from a small kit. He was not flashy, yet his jazzy inflections tastefully or tenderly anchored the band’s blues-based sound.
   Watts did not compete for attention, but allowed the space for his band mates to create.
   You could hear him, right there.
   I was a big fan. I’ve got more Charlie Watts solo albums than I do those by any other individual Rolling Stone.
   Somehow today, I cherish these albums a little more than I did yesterday.
   R.I.P. Charlie Watts.

Brightening sky, the questioning why,
each day.     World not awake, not yet,
and neither are you.     Off to work, or
off to where?               The road ahead,
you only stare.
This is not living, but coping. Existing,
at this hour.          We do
what we must, as we can, in the space
stretching between silence and
satisfaction.                         Biding time,
tempted by what we know
and what we need.     Questioning why.
Another try, day for day,
find your way.                   Another wait.
Familiar road.    Days the same, no one
to blame, but your self.    If you choose,
if you see,
if you try, if you feel.
The bills arrive, of that we know.
Is this the only way to go?              Live,
  as you can, and must, amid the truth,
 without the trust.       Questioning sky,
common day, recognizable road,
is there another way?
   It is as much about how you navigate
                     your way through daylight,
                  as it is through the darkness.
Take the time, know what is right,
sustain yourself through the light.

© 2016 j.g. lewis