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.
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.
just a boy
it was his eyes
versions of them
staring out
or lashing out
from various points
of his
short-lived career
a few photographs
still move me
like his music
rarely-seen glimpses
of a boy
struggling to be a man
fighting an image
of what people wanted
him
to be
he was
just a boy
his lyrics spoke to
a generation much younger
and they spoke to me.
he was
not much younger
than i
he will never grow to be
as old as me
he will not
grow old
as I will
he was
as strong as
he could be
not strong enough
to deal with
a 24-hour news cycle
still in its infancy
as much as he
obtained fame
he fought to dismiss it
he could not have lived
in a world where
each phone was a camera
each person carried a camera
like a gun
he was just a boy who could
not have taken
more attention
he was fragile
he could not handle
all that he had
he was
a poet
lived his words
and died
among them
music always lives on
not the musician
he
made us think
we still do
“I really miss being able to blend in with people.”
Kurt Cobain
February 20, 1967 – April 5, 1994
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.