Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days

  • this Moon alone

    I capitalize the Moon. Proper noun, proper sphere; a sign of respect. I write about the Moon.

    I write about what I know.

    This Moon tonight is the only one I truly know. Yes, this magnificent universe, and possibly the one beyond, has many moons, but this Earth has only one. The others (181 and counting) appear to us only as stars, small planets, space junk, and such.

    Our Moon, full a few weeks back, is the only one I care about. I do not have the need, or the bandwidth, to concern myself with any, or all, of the others. This Moon alone is above my reach, but never beyond my imagination.

    Planetary science has nothing to do with my Moon, it is all about the dreams and the space allowed.

    At the age when I viewed the first Moon landing only on television, and not outside with the naked eye, I realized the Moon was never as close as it appeared. From that time this orbital delight has become a fascination to me. As I grow older, with each orbit around the Sun, my allure (some may say obsession) with this Moon has only become heightened.

    By high school, certainly by my time in the compulsory rocks & stars university course, I was pretty much done with a practical scientific view of the element. Even my view of the Moon through photography has been more of art than of science.

    Should I choose to read of the Moon, my preference has been poetry, where the words have not only been more accurate, but deeply personal. The Moon is routinely a theme or topic of many favourite poems, as familiar as love and heartbreak, pain and persistence, and so often intertwined.

    You learn about yourself, as you learn of the Moon. Life lessons are to be learned.

    Of Shakespeare’s 160 sonnets, four, I feel, mark the passage of man, through life or the ages. These four sonnets, I believe, speak directly of, or to, the Moon.

    Thus I pass by, at any age, in any phase, as does the moon; dependent upon the light of others, always a part of the landscape, noticeable more at night, and consistent if not dependable.

    I respect the Moon as I respect myself, and, even then, not enough.

    © 2018 j.g. lewis

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  • more than waiting

    Silently, or suspiciously standing in one place, 
    in between unsteady steps I take throughout the day. 
    Waiting, even for a moment. Respite for the time being, 
    perhaps, not even knowing why. Questioning, unquestionably,
    each of us continuously striving to keep moving at our own pace, 
    Caught up in this human race, surviving, maybe thriving as we try to 
    determine the flow we know is best. We think. 
    A little later today, earlier for some, we all have a path; a better way, 
    leading to better day. Moving in different directions, sometimes hastily, 
    as required. Some of us are simply limping along. 
    The weight on our shoulders slows us down. We must, once 
    in a while, stop and let it settle. Far more than waiting. Unconscious 
    thinking, our minds move, even if our feet are firmly planted. Progress 
    not always certain, we can only hope our intentions continue 
    propelling us further. It has to be more than hope, 
    yet we still we try to keep it all in stride.

    © 2023 j.g. lewis

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  • right here right now

    Come under my blanket, literally or metaphorically.
    Share my words, and time, beneath this moonless sky. Breathe
    deeply. There is warmth here; we have a place to discover,
    to dream, and to make this world a little smaller.

    You are not like me. Obviously. The voice is foreign. Your skin
    is different; or maybe it is mine. But let’s put those differences
    on the table and sit, as equals, as strangers, as humans, under
    the canopy of night, united by what makes us the same.

    How different can we be? You are here. So am I. Should we all
    not be allowed a place for art, for dancing, and dialogue, and
    just allowing things to happen. Shouldn’t this city, this place
    of all places, allow for a naturally-occurring random acts of belonging.

    We belong here; we are all here, more likely than not strangers.
    Regardless of where we come from, or where we have been,
    there are more commonalities than differences. There has to be,
    we are the same. We are all right here. Right now.

    Can you let go of what you are used to? Can you imagine
    becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable? Can we
    as a species, as a people, as a force, take back the negativity
    that exists outside this blanket? Can we try?

    Communication, unhindered by race, or faith, or morals and
    mindset, should be the easiest way to absolve the madness
    that occurs daily on this planet. If poetry is the language,
    it matters less about the accent and more about the intent.

    You have a voice, and it is lovely, and unique, and has
    a purpose. Speak up. Share, let others know how you feel, and
    what you deal with daily, weekly, and now. You belong.
    Come under the cover, and make room for others.

    © 2016 j.g. lewis

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  • spoken truth

    I hear you, more than I listen to myself. 
    Messages of caution or concern, 
    statements of grace, sentiment 
    not fallen on inattentive ears.

    The words we can,
    the words we must,
    the words we say.
    The words we trust

    And this. And we, are we 
    even comfortable with our vocabulary? 
    Do we know or can we tell, 
    right words from the wrong?

    Conversation or confrontation, depending 
    on your situation, those same words mean
    something else to someone else.
    It’s becomes even more difficult to tell.

    The words we say. 
    The words we hear, 
    spell out misunderstanding. 
    Injustice. Pain or fear

    Shared experience, descriptions, 
    details, doubt and deception at times 
    difficult to put into words.
    Our emotions demand that they must.

    Honesty is what it is, as it has 
    always been, but spoken less and less 
    more and more. It matters not how you 
    express yourself, only that you do.

    © 2020 j.g. lewis

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  • between here and this

    Walls surround me; people tell me, even ask me 
    where I’ve been. I can’t find the answers, or 
    the reason from within. If home is the place 
    where you lay your head, I’ve got no room left 
    for what goes on when the walls are closing in.

    No longer seeking safety or salvation, but simply 
    common ground. There were never second chances the 
    first time around. It’s been years since I have come home, 
    though I’m not without my blame, I’m not without
    my judgment and not without my shame.

    No reminders. No residue.
    No solutions, nor the pain.

    More a feeling than a destination, home is not 
    about geography. Even less the physical location. 
    The whisper of home gets hard to understand, 
    even mundane decisions become more difficult
    when you take life in your own hands.

    Driving forward, moving slowly, the place between 
    here and this. Listen to music you chose, the next 
    track on the disc. Melancholy melody, even lyrically 
    it stokes a chord. We all remember taking chances, 
    but too often forget about the risk.

    Nothing there, nothing lost.
    Nothing left. Nothing gained

    Of course I’m still dreaming of home, it helps me 
    pass the time. Past mistakes and memories,
    I own them; they are all mine. My mind often loaded
    with gentle thoughts of you, yet it still provides
    no direction of where I’m going to.

    © 2017 j.g. lewis

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