She first held my hand
five delicate fingers, swallowed up
in my palm. Fingers grasping
                            at my fingers.
Tiny.
No indication of such a big life.
                           There was comfort.
                           Reassurance.
                           A small hand, I thought I could
                           hold it forever.
             Tighter
              to keep it there.
              Stop it from growing

The hand has grown, still delicate
                         there
                         in my palm.
Now that of a woman
like no others
a part of me.
Like
no other woman.

                     She is full with
                     room to grow
                                        to emerge.
                               She is what I have, and
                               the one who is
                                                  always there.
As I have tried to be.

A strength more than physical
difficult
to comprehend.
A gentle patience, a
small hand,
wisdom larger than
life itself.

                                   I want to hold her hand
                                   a while longer
                                                         to reassure
                                   I have done something right
                                                               in this world.

When there
I have no questions.
None of myself, as a human being
                                      or otherwise.
                           I host
                           too many doubts
                           which have withered
                           my ability
                           to see.

In her I see what I am and
what I could be.
If nothing else,
the one good thing
I can be
and will always be
to her.

j.g. lewis
04/29/2015

We exist
suspended between delay and
that future we are told
is ahead of us. Little advances humanity.
We rush too much, as if it is demanded.
Each of us controls our pace,
or attempts to.

We are here,
bounded by missed connections
and unfortunate
misunderstandings. Nostalgia is not often
favorable. Blind curiosity. We fail to recognize
where we are.
We seek faith.

We do have
the communal capacity, but resist
assistance or the
temptation. Recycling our sins, striving to
keep up with the morally reprehensible,
we try to find
our own Jesus.

j.g.l.
02/21/2018

Rhythm and pattern easily obscured, it’s what you feel,
not what is heard. Polyphonic syncopation,                     bass line
holds the inspiration                 well before anticipation, a rush of melody pushes
to the fore                              you hear it again, but never have before.
Rim shot crack
cymbals crash,
the beat is burning, and falls
like ash.                                      It marches and it swings,
like laughter, it is tears.
Emotionally charged, by no means irreverent, it suddenly switches gears.
History more than the future, a time though, never passed.
As definite as prayer,
cool as a sweaty glass.                             Full moon rising
heroin highs
the music lives on
the player only dies.
Straight up from the psyche, deep down in the core, no matter the decade,
more than less though less is more.                                Solo piano
full of vigor                            the notes interpret all you have known.
Time signature changes, on a dime, or rolled up bill, the rhythm method,
it comes from the gut
no matter how it is played or how it is cut.                        Free form.
It is life, it is living, it is solid, it is forgiving. As simple or as complex as a saxophone riff,
no four-chord progressions.                         Never boring.                                  Never stiff.
Wholly original, as much as it is copied, and studied, sweated over, with notes cast asunder, improvisation,              muddied by emotion
perpetual motion,          realization, over and under.
Though practiced                 it is free, it is glossy, and messed up, so dirty it is clean.
Quietly you dream, completely obsessed.                     A blue note cries out
to lovers
and all the others,
calmer, smoother sounds, longer linear melodic lines, you don’t listen as much
as you go for a ride.                           Off the charts,
it’s art and it’s plastered with culture,
a contradiction not comprehensible, it is not responsible
should you dream a life totally possessed.
More about attitude than instrument of choice, the minor keys and major chords create it’s own noise. Structured silence played oh-so-slow in parts of deep reflection, blood rushing through the vein, it steps back then it rises up, triumphantly, again. Again
and again, and again.
Only a genre is to say night is just darkness, or a day is but a year,
it goes down easy with dinner, or a six pack of beer, seedy downtown club

or a scratchy vinyl disc
it comes with a purpose, arrives full of risk. It nourishes the soul from a rhythm, whatever it has,                  whatever it be
we should all live like jazz.

j.g.l.    04/20/2016

Lifeless mitten lays in wait. Abandoned, stiff
atop a crunchy snow bank. The sidewalk
passes by, unknowing. Throbbing red fingers,
a child’s frostbitten hand, shiver beneath a
coat sleeve. Somewhere. Seeking warmth,
comfort against winter’s harsh reality.

Unclaimed. A mitten separated from its
purpose. We all, young and older, leave
pieces of ourselves scattered throughout time.
Paperbacks, pens, sunglasses, yoga mats,
carelessly or accidentally discarded.
A laundromat sock with no mate.

Possessions or promises, more lost
than found. Feelings, emotions cast
astray. Hopelessly lost. A lone mitten,
pieces of ourselves. Where do we
go when a bit of us is missing, when
our purpose is unrealized?

Where then, when we seek warmth.
are we? Waiting to be reunited with
missing parts? Another hand to hold?
Another day. Our fingers still numb, the
lone mitten still there. The sidewalk
passes by. We remain incomplete.

j.g.l.
02/18/2015.

April will not be as it was.

It has become a custom of mine to purchase a new book of poetry in the days leading up to the month. While not unusual for me to pick, or be gifted with, volumes of poetry throughout the year, come springtime I always select another book to purposefully celebrate words that express more than words often can.

April is poetry month.

While I enjoy poetry throughout the year — rarely will you find me without something poetic tucked in my bag — April is the month where it gets my full attention. Like the season, poetry is all about hope.

Poetry enlivens the mind, fires up your neurons, and touches memory, nostalgia and emotion. Poetry can alter your life and, by sampling a small dose each day, your outlook, compassion and tolerance are fortified and improved.

Just one poem a day provides time away from the attention-seeking mobile device, shocking news of the day, or dreary inter-office memo. Poetry allows a little latitude with your attitude.

But this year is different, for me and everybody else. We, right now, are dealing with something that even a month ago we had no idea it would be like this. Scared, concerned and anxious about the coronavirus, we are now living in isolation and physically distancing ourselves from friends and strangers. We, right now, need to be touched. We need to be soothed. Poetry can do that.

This year, the bookstores, as non-essential businesses, had been shut down by the time I would normally make the trip to increase my ever-expanding poetry collection. I have nothing new to celebrate.

Instead I’m going to flip through the poetry that already fills my bookshelves. I’m going to reacquaint myself with a few of the masters, read the words of close and talented friends, and reread some of the fresh voices I have encountered in past years. I know I will dwell on some favorites, but I’m also open to allowing words I’ve read before to resonate with me differently. I am open-minded in all the right places.

I think, in the turmoil we all face in this pandemic period, it’s a great time to escape into the craft. Poetry provides comfort.

April is poetry month.

It’s also a month where I normally write nothing but poetry. It allows me to scratch the surface a little deeper, unfold certain crevices of my mind, and deal with stray thoughts looking for a home. I apply pressure to my passion, am empowered in ways I cannot understand, and don’t bother trying to figure it out. I just do it.

This year, however, I’m not going to do that.

Yes, I will still write poetry, but I will work without expectation, deadlines, self-imposed pressure and definitely without rushing. I will not commit to posting a new poem every day on this page as I have done each of the past five years. This month, this year, I need time with my poetry; I have some work that needs my attention.

Word count, line count, I intend to make it count, but you won’t be reading it this month. I have ideas I need to establish and some hesitations I need to get past. I am confused. I need a bit of change.

This is a time to return to what I already have. Over the coming month I’m going to fill this space with poetry I’ve written over the past five years. Maybe this is an attempt to refocus and see where I am, or where I have been. Or, perhaps, I need to see how I’ve changed; or if I have at all.

Now, depending on my mood, something new may appear here or there (I know myself a little too well), but for the most part, over the next 30 days, I’m going to republish poems of my past.

Some may be favourites; others will just fit my mood, align with my spirit, or reflect the climate of the word around us. I don’t know yet; I haven’t even selected what poems I will use, not even for tomorrow. I want to surprise myself, or rediscover my words. I need poetry month to show me what it can be.

Maybe, at a time when everything seems to be changing, I need to become more familiar with myself. I think poetry can do that.

I think there has never been a more important time to read poetry.

April is Poetry Month
Poetry all month, all the time, at mythosandmarginalia.com
Come back and have a look