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.
Month: April 2017
Aren’t we all somewhat flawed, slightly
tainted and, perhaps, even odd?
Stuck in our ways, we will surely refuse
to admit, our faults are apparent more
than a little bit.
Unforgotten deeds, lack of contempt,
we usually wonder where the money went.
Self-centered worries consume so much
precious time, restricting intentions and
thoughts sublime.
In so many ways I am often in awe we can
struggle through a Wednesday, or Thursday, in
spite of it all. Regardless of advice, we continue
to forge on, even when it appears all hope
is long gone.
I’m not sure if it’s right, or when it goes wrong,
but we fool ourselves all along. Each week
presents obstacles we seem to push our way
through, I’m not always sure I can make it,
how about you?
©2017 j.g. lewis
04/07/17
Posted on April 6, 2017 by j.g.lewis // 1 Comment
Equal part dawn and dusk, a dash of
diesel and tractor rust. A root of youth
which once was mine, fleeting glimpse
of that city’s skyline. One mouthful
of rain, a belly full of fire, a hint of
the envy I confused with desire.
An ounce of misfortune to keep you
on your toes, a whisper of the truth
that few people know. Swift whiff of
autumn and its soothing earthy scent,
seven crackling leaves heaven-sent.
Two hearty dollops of acute curiosity,
diluted by a cup of casual simplicity.
The naïve blush of an unsure teenager
standing only in her panties. A smile,
hallelujah on bated breath and bended
knees. A spade full of soil stolen from
Indian land, with six blades of tall
prairie grass from where Wal-Mart
now stands. A layer of dust off the
library stacks, nourishment from the
lunches my mother packed. Clavicle of
the lover who should’ve known better,
who gave only because she took, and
only because I let her. Six droplets of
her blood add opportunity to the mix,
ground into tongue of a lawyer, or liar,
and his big bag of tricks. A shot of
Southern Comfort to combat any fear,
and the shock of this Northern wind
and my reality here. Off the lakeshore
where I first learned to swim, a few
grains of sand and a dead fish’s fin.
Several of my obvious flaws tossed in
for good measure, with the shadow of
the full Moon I’ve come to cherish
and treasure. Three white tears to
consecrate my intention, and a fourth
for the secrets I neglected to mention.
Wax of a turquoise-colored crayon to
bind it together, cured with the wave
of an ancient Eagle feather. Not elixir,
but a potion for dreams so she’ll know
where I come from, and feel all I mean.
©2017 j.g. lewis
Convenient refuge from the torrential deluge,
unexpected, a Tiki bar; he without an umbrella,
she without an excuse. First date, foreign film,
fix-up by a friend. Free of folly
or awkward moments associated
with ideas you don’t own.
Dusty rubber plants, bamboo walls
and red vinyl booths. Rum drinks
in fake pineapple tumblers from the Sixties,
Doobie Brothers from the Seventies
playing on the jukebox,
and enough shared stories of the decades since
to inspire second date.
They both read Franzen, cursed Netflix,
watched public television, and loved Matisse.
He talked about art and
how he always wished he could paint,
she spoke of Chilhuly like she knew about fragility.
Air conditioned comfort
a contrast to downtown’s August humidity.
No tension. No rush for time.
She liked his affable face, attentiveness,
and manners. He liked how
she seemed genuinely interested
and the way she jiggled
when she laughed, all tits and ribs.
They stopped talking about common friends
and then only referenced themselves, as if
they each recognized each other’s loneliness.
No tension. No checking the time.
Another couple of rounds of exotic drinks,
then a slow walk up the puddled street.
She linked her arm into his, like
it belonged there.
A half-block from his subway station,
a few steps from her apartment, decisions
under a streetlamp. An embrace in the rain,
the thin cotton blouse clung to her bony frame,
until it was removed.
It poured right through the night,
the scent of the city alive with promise,
or something other than crowds and concrete.
No tension. No need to check the clock.
She fell asleep watching traffic lights from below
paint murals across her ceiling, and finding
new comfort in an old bed.
His mind, miles away, ran through reasons
why something felt right
when nothing else had.
He had no excuse. She had few questions.
Slipping out for morning coffee,
he returned with the Sunday paper.
© 2017 j.g. lewis
