How do we choose to travel?
What is reliable in the rain?
What is our ultimate destination,
for this time, this journey, or
this day?
We move at the speed of life.
Depending on traffic, others
may chose to follow your path,
but not your direction.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
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.
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.
The Moon woke me
there,
partially hidden
beneath the dark silken sheets.
Blushing. Concealed,
yet radiant.
She calls out in the aftermath,
a desire I hear often.
“Come closer,” I say,
I motion with my hand.
“You have touched me.”
She does not blink.
“Lay in your bed and
I shall look out
overhead,”
she promises, as she has before.
“Look out.
look up,
love me
more.”
Then she hides,
mischievously,
behind clouds
as thick as
root beer floats.
“You’ll find me again,”
she whispers.
And I will.
© 207 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.