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.
Seconds drag their muddy feet
while humidity gathers, in
remorseful heat.
Bones found in the garden.
Politicians proffer,
a luxury of newfound power,
freshly-polished right-wing
veneer barely hiding contempt
for immigrants, scientists,
and spirit for a welcoming land.
No more room for those
who cannot pay their way,
no more coffee for bureaucrats,
empathy for victims, or
money for a brother’s widow.
Petty cash hidden under a
mattress stained with deceit.
The homeless remain homeless,
the electorate clueless
over all that has transpired.
The rain will dry,
flowers will bloom, and
more bones will grow up from
the garden. A serial killer says
nothing behind bars; politicians
have words for everybody.
07/17/2018 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.