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.
And I,
without a pencil,
thought of myself
as weak.
I, without a pencil,
have lesser goals
to seek. Still I,
without my pencil,
hold a desire
to disclose thoughts,
decent or deviant,
depending on mood
or misfortune,
gains or loss.
Without a pencil
in hand, my
mind remains a mess,
though not enough
to permit me
to forget
a day, a scoundrel,
some lover, another
night or the one
to follow.
My shortcomings,
sinfulness,
or solitude, I,
with or
without a pencil,
remember.
04/01/2019 j.g.l.
APRIL IS POETRY MONTH
check back each day for fresh poetry
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.