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.
Does he have a daughter?
I said.
I asked.
He spoke of technical items
in nonsensical terms, jargon, perhaps,
familiar to those who may possess
such instruments, I suppose.
And he talked of both the large and
the small dots in an atlas, the rivers
that ran through them,
or sacred places nearby,
as if he had visited
to each one of them.
He prattled on about romance;
not the type written in pulp fiction,
or an epic Victorian tale
that captures all sensibilities,
but more that of
a television gum commercial.
She shrugged
her shoulders.
I noticed.
When he articulated his feelings,
common emotions were described
with plagiaristic hyperbole,
the air laden with hollow words
tangled up in metaphor and
complicated thesaurian terms
that took up so much space,
but really meant little.
Even less
than brittle excuses.
I know nothing
of his family, she said,
a reply that seemed
more proper
than obvious.
The parlour continued to fill
with a one-man chorus
holding court among the gadflies,
gumshoe grifters, monomaniacs,
and mealy-mouthed mavens
brandishing insecurities
over intellect, as they offered
comment and critique, a want to
ever so badly be included
in the conversation.
He doesn’t,
I said.
My confident reply.
I knew.
Should he have a daughter,
he would know
how to properly speak
of wonder,
gentle understanding,
or incidental beauty
and of love.
© 2018 j.g. lewis
POEM KUBILI
International Poetry Collective
poemkubili.com
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.