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
sit with me
no need to talk
or tell me opinions
excuses
to justify time
gone by
silence
even with undertones
is enough
presence is more
sit with me
that is all
it is everything
in a world rushing to
find out why
take a seat
for no other reason
than
being there
i will not say
a word
quiet
is enough
the right type of silence
sit with me
04/12/2018 j.g.l.
Posted on April 11, 2018 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Why don’t you meet me in Paris? Half a globe away,
another lifetime. They write songs about the city,
in April. I have never been. In any season.
Spring has yet to find its way here,
so Paris awaits.
Rendezvous. City of lights, city for lovers.
Should we not taste all Paris could be? Could we
not see nights from a tiny apartment,
streets below filled with people like us.
Experience I do not yet know, but I desire
to feel the city against your skin.
I have been told one night in Paris
is like a year in any other place. Language
I do not understand, but the art speaks to me.
Culture not found anywhere but Paris.
History unto itself.
Art knows no boundaries, no geographic space,
yet Paris, as I have been led to believe, is
the capital city.
Hemingway wrote of Paris, Fitzgerald as well.
Picasso found poetry in Paris, the painter found himself,
adopted the city, or it him.
Artists, from anywhere, are meant
to spend time in Paris, to discover, to recover,
from wherever they have lived. You don’t
get that feeling anywhere else.
Or so I am told. I need Paris.
I would write in Paris, I would paint,
perhaps on the street, because I can only imagine
what others have lived.
I can only imagine. In Paris. In poetry.
In April. We would meet in Paris,
we may never leave.
© 2018 j.g. lewis
Posted on April 10, 2018 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Delicate. Strength
subtly woven into each strand.
Luxury among mediocrity. Cashmere
faintly holds the fragrance of virulent lies,
perspiration, earned honesty,
recycled promises.
Natural fibres stretch,
in time, to accommodate the
weight of all she stood up to. Decisions
derived unwillingly, expansive circumstance
beyond control. Colour fades, becomes
less fashionable.
Old sweater. A favorite
will age. We all do. Once offered warmth,
now covers up mistakes, scars, neglect.
Modalities of poor choices an unworthy
excuse. Leave an impression. Finer threads
come with a price.
© 2018 j.g. lewis
Poem Kubili
An International Poetry Collective
visit us at
poemkubili.com
