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.
Errors and misfortunes freely
broadcast across unregulated
airspace
for all to see. And devour.
No space, no time for indignation.
No place for pride, nor gentlemen
worthy
of such ambition.
Nothing remains safe or sacred
in the mesh of sound bites and
sensationalism.
Nothing is permanent.
Except for the scars. Nothing is
everything and then
not at all.
It is all about the power.
All concepts requiring brave
thought overshadowed by a
corrupt few
recklessly tending to so many.
Politics, like commerce, once an
honorable vocation. Now a lowly
blood sport.
We continue watching, transfixed.
Withered victims writhe upon society’s
sidewalks of faith and hope.
Promises
promised. Promises passed over.
Collateral damage in everyone’s
war. A domestic crisis where
nothing
is everything it once was.
©2014 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.