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.
We want to know what
we don’t know, or hadn’t thought of,
or forgot.
What mattered then,
or what mattered when, shifts over time.
We notice.
Perception is what you don’t see.
Deception is what know.
You see it differently through your aloneness.
The truth behind a lie,
you question how and why.
It made sense.
Anticipation keeps us waiting
for only so long. Will it matter
if you felt it never did?
© 2021 j.g. lewis
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.
From whence we came and where we go, landscapes
follow, flashbacks flow from childhood homes so far-away,
to skeletal evidence of sorrows, secrets, and songs of yesterday.
Weather-beaten dairies or deeply-faded photographs hrdly hold
mere traces of what was truly there, our minds rush over details
and dialogue of kindred spirits found,
then left along the way.
Do people come and go, or do we?
Faulty fragments of what we have collected
travel with us. Destination to designation; another apartment,
another home, immemorial addresses on report cards, bank
statements, divorce certificate, a parent’s obituary.
Disappointments remain undeniably present and unaccounted for.
Our recollection of fact and fiction, over time, is rarely as accurate
as what it once was. We remember our first phone number, but
must think hard to recall the ones that followed. Even now,
area codes blur from one city to the next.
Where am I now?
Impending move to a familiar place, months away but still
a trace of anxiety. Or is it apprehension?
What will be there when I return?
© 2024 j.g. lewis
You will find my passage clearly marked
with mental breadcrumbs and seeds
encountered between ravens and me.
We are each hungry, seeking attention
from both young women and widows who
may take us in, nature us, share their compassion,
desires, and grilled cheese sandwiches.
Nutrition comes in many forms;
only I will ascertain when I am adequately sated.
Once fulfilled, I shall leave behind my handkerchief
under the table or apple tree, not accidentally, so
I may have a reason to return.
© 2024 j.g. lewis
The greater the body of water,
the more questionable where a wave comes from.
Pebble in a puddle, a most obvious start,
a drip from a drop. Ripple resonates, doubles, then triples.
Evermore a pattern.
The bigger the lake, the more we can see.
Surge and swell on a monumental ocean
changes with the sunset, seaside tide, or a notion.
It ends on the shoreline,
from where does it come?
Unforeseen origin, man-made or natural?
On the stillest of days, wind hardly a whisper,
you will notice a rhythm but rarely the source.
Undertow and currents may alter your course.
True flow you may never know, shining surf leaving you
in its wake. What will it leave behind for another day?
© 2024 j.g. lewis
April is Poetry Month
you will notice a rhythm
Urban sprawl, now vertically inclined,
sacrificing our skyline.
Everywhere we look, sky-high density,
our common view condensed in an
uncommon sense of overdevelopment
and zoning changes.
Our perspective shifts
as familiar landscapes are altered into
sites we have never before seen, but
will grow to know.
The population increases, yet
the humanity of it all is diminished.
Progress is never what it appears to be.
© 2024 j.g. lewis
I bought a new bike. Unexpectedly, even accidentally, I decided on the spot; swiftly, decisively, but not at all thoughtfully.
I usually take more time selecting which chocolate bar to treat myself to than I did this bike.
The sale price was attractive, substantially reduced, in a store I don’t frequent often. I was there tending to other matters when this shiny bike caught my eye.
A recognizable and respected brand name was boldly emblazoned on the cross bar, with a card hanging from the handlebars listing the many, many features.
Normally, or habitually, I would mull over such a purchase, then leave the store and ponder both the merits and need over a few days. I would read up on the brand and research the model with intense interest in each detail. True consideration takes time, I believe, especially when I expect a product to last me years and years, as my other bike did.
But not this time.
I surprised myself.
I bought the bike, as if it was a textbook case of impulse buying, at a time when I didn’t think I needed any sort of retail therapy. I already have enough stuff, but nothing as shiny and fancy as this new bike.
I haven’t been cycling as much as I should over the past couple of years, although I had been before that. For many years, upon my move to Toronto, I enjoyed a proximity to bike lanes and bike trails where you can, pretty much, get anywhere. Many times, my weekends were spent exploring the city on a bike.
It is more than transportation. You see things on a bike that you don’t even notice as you whizz by in a car. Cycling, I believe, is a more humane experience. You feel a connection to the road, hands vibrating with the rough pavement beneath the wheels, as you move at your own pace. It is a tactile experience.
I took a tumble a few years back. It knocked me senseless, scratched up my arms and legs, smashed a decent pair of sunglasses and cracked the helmet I was wearing at the time. Genuinely feeling the pain, I even went to the hospital emergency room to have my head checked, fearing concussion (or worse).
I was a mess.
The incident left scrapes and scabs on my cheek, chin, and nose that proved I was up to something. They took weeks to disappear.
The scars on my psyche have taken even longer to heal.
It took a while for me to climb back on the bike that summer. I can’t even remember last year.
Traffic has truly become a concerning clusterfuck these days in downtown Toronto. Bike lanes have changed, some even eliminated because of all the cranes and construction in the core area. Motorists are notoriously impatient and I’d been hearing too many times about accidents (and deaths) of cyclists.
This is a dangerous city (in so many ways) and even the route to the safer lakeshore trails can become cluttered and confusing. You’ve got to keep your eyes wide-open. Bicycle versus automobile is not an experience I wish to experience; and there have been several close calls.
Yet, I wasn’t even thinking about that with the shiny new bike standing before me on the store’s sales floor. All I could feel was my intoxicating need to own it. Right then.
A new bike for me is now, and has always been, inspiring.
From the time I learned to ride, all those decades ago, a bicycle has always meant freedom and adventure. Like a kid, I stood in the store on Sunday momentarily dreaming of the glorious trips here and there throughout the city; mindful, of course, of traffic.
I believe the new bike will inspire me again to get back on the saddle and participate in an activity I have enjoyed my whole life. Of course, I didn’t think about all this at the time of purchase, but I have a great deal since.
Now I can travel as swiftly as my thoughts.
© 2024 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.
