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.
Within the solemnness of night
I’ve watched
vacant face without a trace,
of thought.
Stillness.
Solitude without distance.
Eyes flicker, and only then
I wonder how you dream and
where you go. Alone,
the unconscious mind
takes you away, where
you want to be.
I know,
I’ve been there too.
To all, to yourself, each night
a gift recounting
and caring about people or places.
Circumstances beyond
all control,
conditions only
you know.
Timeline a blur,
yesterday becomes today, as
months and days recovered.
So many years travelled
in the blink of an eye,
all sorts of when,
all kinds of why.
How can it be only memory
when you are
the only one who will see?
What about me?
I hold moments
in my heart,
only a soul
could tell them apart
from a reality
once planned,
never realized.
Is it ever as it seems?
Do I appear
in your dreams?
@ 2017 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.