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.
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
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.
Thoughts travel further this time of night. Gas station attendant struggles with the language, but that’s alright. Price at the pump keeps going up, and nobody can explain why anyway. There’s a pick-up game of softball in the Wal-Mart parking lot, a camper trailer from Nebraska parked past centre field, and late-model imports flow by on the four-lane. Everyone is immune to it all. Nightclubs are shutting down, last call a while ago. Someone is going home with somebody new, others are going home alone, or speed dialing a friend with benefits and hoping the benefits have not expired. The radio repeats the news that Philip Roth has left this earth, and at 2:27 all you can wonder is how many of his books you have read, and what someone else is thinking on a night where thoughts flow further, but you have no idea where they will end up. It used to be called insomnia.
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.