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.
Even at lower volume it resonates,
station to station, year to ear,
recounting mere memories. Beyond
weather forecasts and politics,
high school dance, an awkward kiss,
friendships then
now gone amiss
contribute
to a never-ending soundtrack.
Owned by the soul
on spirit radio.
A Mother’s voice, a lover’s scent,
not where it was, but what it meant
and what you know.
Landscape crackles with the night,
turned up
it is
always right.
You cannot negate the silence of
moments hardly since forgotten,
hidden
between volume and verse.
Sun-riddled afternoons, soft snow
in October, hailstorms in June, each
phase of the moon shines.
How
we lived, when they died, always
there, all along.
A soothing tone,
the ever-present comfort, we find
our past in melody, honesty,
and the lyric of a song.
© 2016 j.g. lewis
.
.
.
.
April is Poetry Month
something new every day
spread the words
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.