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.
I have never been to the Orient, or anywhere near that corner of the planet. Yet, with some frequent irregularity, there is a repeated scene in one of my regular infrequent dreams.
It is tranquil, a sea or large body of water, and yet the sound is not waves but a continual drip echoing into my psyche. It is too noisy to see past the place I’ve been to so many times before, but I can taste the silence.
It is only in my dreams. As much as it is relaxing, it is confusing because, apparently, we only dream of what we know and what we see in life
I’ve never been to the Orient, and this dream has become familiar enough that I may now recognize the lucidity of it all.
There is safety in this dream, and serenity. I crave both in my life. Maybe that is why I go there.
I go there often.
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.