Unprepared

June 15

The moment comes.
You. Unprepared.
Forsooth, even dialogue
run time or again
on bated breath
in not complete,
or available.
Or forthcoming.
It is not true, not then.
Vulnerable as you are
to say goodbye,
you do.
Reality viscerally
bestows itself
in the pregnant pause.
Mouth gaping.
Heart clings to life.
Feeling the words is easy.
Saying them
never is.

Poem Kubili
CASTING SHADOWS
poemkubili.com

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j.g. lewis

original content and images ©j.g. lewis

a decade of days…

2025 is an anthology of thoughts du jour, unsolicited advice, messages of peace, philosophy, poetry, and photographs from the past decade of Mythos & Marginalia. In unchronological order, the years not as important as the dates, each post a reminder (if only to myself) that I do indeed write every damn day.

April 6

recipe

Equal part dawn and dusk, a dash of
diesel and tractor rust. A root of youth
which once was mine, fleeting glimpse
of that city’s skyline. One mouthful
of rain, a belly full of fire, a hint of
the envy I confused with desire.
An ounce of misfortune to keep you
on your toes, a whisper of the truth
that few people know. Swift whiff of
autumn and its soothing earthy scent,
seven crackling leaves heaven-sent.
Two hearty dollops of acute curiosity,
diluted by a cup of casual simplicity.
The naïve blush of an unsure teenager
standing only in her panties. A smile,
hallelujah on bated breath and bended
knees. A spade full of soil stolen from
Indian land, with six blades of tall
prairie grass from where Wal-Mart
now stands. A layer of dust off the
library stacks, nourishment from the
lunches my mother packed. Clavicle of
the lover who should’ve known better,
who gave only because she took, and
only because I let her. Six droplets of
her blood add opportunity to the mix,
ground into tongue of a lawyer, or liar,
and his big bag of tricks. A shot of
Southern Comfort to combat any fear,
and the shock of this Northern wind
and my reality here. Off the lakeshore
where I first learned to swim, a few
grains of sand and a dead fish’s fin.
Several of my obvious flaws tossed in
for good measure, with the shadow of
the full Moon I’ve come to cherish
and treasure. Three white tears to
consecrate my intention, and a fourth
for the secrets I neglected to mention.
Wax of a turquoise-colored crayon to
bind it together, cured with the wave
of an ancient Eagle feather. Not elixir,
but a potion for dreams so she’ll know
where I come from, and feel all I mean.

© 2017 j.g. lewis

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April 4

mostly

we cannot help but

listen

not to the clamour of everyday time
but the space between

a thought

a smile

or

a goodbye

sometimes we tell secrets

mostly

the silence gives it away

© 2019 j.g. lewis

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April 1

letters and words

© 2022 j.g. lewis

April is Poetry Month

April is a celebration of letters and words;

all poetry, all the time, every day of the month.

www.mythosandmarginalia.com

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April 5

thereafter

The Father they speak of accepts
                           the scent, custom or tradition,
                                          of burnt offerings

                   incense                                  incensed

                              God shall know
                             thou shall not

                                  confuse disclosures

             ‘Father, I have sinned’
            common confession
                      for those who

                      do not understand

               a candle lit
                                   provides protection from the flame

                                  Evil ways

         cast no doubt
         on disbelievers

                     The silent thereafter hangs
                      as smoke above an alter
                      I know so little about

© 2023 j.g. lewis

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April 2

this natural state

4:57 a.m.

at this hour

few are awake
fewer will notice

from warm beds

high above the streets

only the streetlights know
silence or the night chill

or both

quiet as can be

in a city that never sleeps
in a park that always listens

at a time for mysteries
of this natural state

sleep

darkness will soon be over

daylight will hide the secrets

the world will wake
and few will wonder

where you have been

© 2021 j.g. lewis

April is Poetry Month

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March 31

propaganda or verse

Poets say
              April showers bring May flowers
So too say the liars, the preachers and prostitutes
who come to express what they’ve heard, but not
what they know.
   Unlike poets,
the doubtful and the disenchanted
often cry foul as we together mourn the loss of
common sense and decency.
A tarnished soul with a litany of pleas, a poet learns
words are worth little more than sand if not spoken
with wisdom derived from a broken heart, physical
traits of emotional details, and second-hand lessons
from third-rate teachers.
       It hurts to bleed.
       It hurts to need validation.
Honesty is not worth what it once was, but comes
at a significant cost.
       April soon, May will surely follow,
and politicians will say only what they want to hear
(like the prostitutes and preachers). Fraudsters all.
Only the poet sees the crime, unless
you know wherein the message lies.
       Society becomes as calm as it is
corrupt, when we take the words of a televangelist or
talk-show host as truth. Moving swiftly through topic
of the day – fentanyl crisis or racial pain – they don’t
know any better when speaking of so much worse.
Nor can they tell the difference between
propaganda and verse.
       The poet writes not of spring flowers,
       but of the dread instead.
Whom else but a poet (or discarded lover)
would sit in the rain and wait for tulips to bloom?
Other souls think it too impractical, too illogical, or
simply too wet to care.
          Them who cannot taste the difference
          between raindrops and a salty tear
          may never know bona fide honesty
                                      until they read about it.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

April is Poetry Month
all poetry all the time
right here

poetry every day

Leave a comment: propaganda or verse