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
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.
No light no longer
No longer young
Decommissioned ship in the harbor
Eleven floors down
Elegant still
Naked then on twisted hotel sheets
Restless as a taxicab
Sunday night in July
A night
Following a day following a night
Sunlight not once disturbing the
Prurient darkness of air-conditioned anonymity
Mascara-streaked pillowcase
Necktie carelessly discarded on the carpet
Slender fingers
Nicotine-stained
Nervously twisting through unkempt hair
Glamorous yesterday
Bedhead now
Give me space
First give me a light
Deceit sticks to the skin in the ugliest manner
Like humidity
Her husband is on the phone
I’ll step out
But can’t
Walk away
©2015 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.