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
Slow down: even with the ideas that come to quicky. Take the time to acknowledge the feelings that arrive, as they arrive.
Write it down. How else will you remember what you were thinking?
Print neatly. You hardly understand the thoughts at the time, why make it more difficult to comprehend weeks or years from now?
Follow your own logic; only you need to truly make sense of what is happening, or all that has happened.
Pay attention to the lessons of the past. Be mindful that not all are worth repeating.
Clarity. Make corrections as you go. Flaws become more difficult to correct the longer you live with them.
11/14/2024 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.
Fading. A matter of time.
Deep consideration for those
left behind. The choice, quiet and clean.
Always leave a lasting impression.
Hidden exhaustion; tired of trying, of
wanting, of waiting for a question
that would never arrive. Now questions
unanswered; final thoughts never
to be known. Expectations claw
dangerously at the soul until
little remains. One-sided memories
redolent in cologne-scented images:
his smile, his habits, his voice, his lips
and the deceit that spewed from them.
Lips that had, once, served her well.
She could still feel tingles by herself,
gasping at the thought of a touch.
An indulgent afternoon. Shopping,
hair and manicure. Elegance. New shoes,
matching clutch. A pretty dress. Dinner
at La Maquette, two bottles of Chablis,
then Tiramisu, a final treat. Credit card.
Big tip for a waiter who fawned over her,
as always. Acknowledged. Appreciated.
Dining alone tonight?
Now home. Solitude, not tranquility.
A sumptuous life, mostly, as she chose
to remember. Gently slipping into
somnolence. Her own comfort, finally.
Fresh bed linens, fragrance, fine lingerie,
a favourite lipstick unmistakably marking
the edge of another glass of wine.
Glamourous, yes, she would
leave behind a beautiful corpse.
©2017 j.g. lewis
Poem Kubili is an international
companionship of poets with
a common love of writing and
reading poetry. To read more of
of the group’s collected works
visit poemkubili.com
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.
