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.
A house is not a home.
It is not about the furnishings, or
accessories. It’s not the photographs
or artwork displayed on the walls.
Yes, they are reminders of were you
have been, or how your tastes ran, but
possessions are not what it is about.
They are not what you are about.
As comfortable as the bed may be,
it is not where you sleep each night,
and it’s not about what you dream;
but it is a place you can dream.
You live in various places at
different stages of your life. The
houses, apartments, condos change,
as do neighbourhoods and cities.
The people you live with will change
as well, as will you.
But the bricks and mortar do not
make a home. It is much stronger
than that. Home is a feeling, it is
where you become comfortable, it is
where you are fully aware of your self,
and the life around you.
It fluctuates, as a living essence
contained within in your mind and soul.
It can move you, and move with you,
and, conveniently, does not have to be
sorted through or boxed up (that’s
just stuff).It goes where you go, or can.
Sometimes it can be hard to find, and
you can leave it in one place, expecting
to find it again along the way.
It is not always there. There are always
people who contribute to this feeling of
home — family, friends, and lovers —
but they are not always there. At times,
you are alone, but it does not mean you
are not at home.
Home is where you belong. And, often,
there are people who make you feel you
belong there. It can be difficult to put
into words. It can be loud and confusing;
where too much goes on and so much
has to. Yet, in spite of the noise, and
hype, and the pace and demands of
the day, you can still find silence at home.
Home is comfort.
Home is a place you can be yourself.
Home is where you can express yourself.
Home.
I want to go home.
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.