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 2018
Lazy summer days to an entire year of honour, I am
celebrated as much as scorned. The beast
allowed into your home and bed, my definition or
exhibition of loyalty, and love, is to be questioned
as it is accepted.
Companionship influenced
by kind voice or treats offered. Easily convinced.
Temptation or transgressions, it takes little
to capture my attention, much more to hold it.
Contrary to belief, I cannot be trained.
Pedigree required to act on command. A mongrel,
comfortable in its identity, knows better
ways of the street.
Not meant to stand still. Often,
I have strained at the leash, welts on my neck
from collar tight, firm hand, and fierce effort.
I have and will, without notice, escape
into the greater world.
Mischief has been made in the night.
I have howled at many moons, carelessly run
with the pack of unsuitable delinquents, and lain down
with bitches of convenience who led me astray.
I’ve sniffed, slobbered ravenously,
at opportunities seized. Feral at heart, mindlessly foolish,
each moment an occurrence to be appreciated
and savoured. Biologically stimulated,
there is no thought process to primal urge.
Even Pavlov was mistaken when it came to reward.
I have pissed in places I shouldn’t have; begged
for food, release, comfort, or companionship.
Deliriously exhausted, I will curl up
on your comfortable couch and offer no reason
or excuse for my whereabouts or behaviour.
Sleeping dogs lie. Dream of what happened
and when again, ears twitch in afternoon silence.
Another night soon will come.
Scratch my back until I growl,
receive my wet nose and attention unconditionally.
Hose me down when I smell, take me for a car ride
once in a while, so I can see other possibilities.
Understand, however, my need for independence.
I will run out, dart into traffic, as
I try to find my own way.
Yes, I will stray, yet miraculously or mysteriously,
always find my way home. I am a dog.
© 2018 j.g. lewis
Posted on April 17, 2018 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
I am old, he said,
not in regret but as fact.
Tea splashed on the table as
he tried to offer hospitality. All
he could afford. Too many days
between pension cheques,
not enough time to enjoy them.
His smile was genuine,
teeth brown, or broken.
I have no milk. His head shook.
His hands shook.
I take it clear, I replied.
A smile again, not as long
but very real.
Conversation
revolved around
a story he heard
on talk radio,
or memory.
More tea?
He talked about dust, as if
it meant something; where
it travelled, why it settled.
Everything begins in the wind,
he paused to catch his breath
or to let the words find
a more profound meaning.
It never lets up.
He was old.
His small room smelled
of cheap after shave,
stale cigarettes, and loneliness.
He welcomed me, regularly,
as he would anyone
with time to spend.
It was all he could offer.
Tea and dust.
© 2018 j.g. lewis
Posted on April 16, 2018 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Steadfastly we move.
Independently inching along
the same route,
in each direction.
Determined
or despondent, rarely it is clear.
We are all going somewhere.
Our destination uncertain.
Our paths differ.
Frequently we slip,
we may fall.
Someone might be there to
lift us up. Or we have
to get along
by ourselves.
Still we walk,
surely survive.
We can get there, autonomously,
in time. We may
assist somebody.
Along the way.
04/16/2018 j.g.l.
APRIL IS POETRY MONTH
Take a poem to lunch
