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.
We seek shelter, a leafy tree,
tenement steps, even pressing closer
to a random building
in hopes we may be spared.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Ignoring the signs, we forget the distinction
between lightning and thunder,
not counting the seconds between,
or caring.
Overcast, overcome with the immediacy
of the moment. Summer weather
a reminder of the turmoil we live with,
or clouds we live under.
A day as promising as a politician’s smile,
just as deceiving. Unnoticed, but not
unexpected. Forced,
by chance, to deal with inclement emotions
and torrential pain. Crushing humidity,
atmospheric pressure bucking
under its own weight. Our thoughts
hold us hostage.
Days rarely go as planned.
Night will come, as surely as our breath.
Here we are, huddled with strangers,
waiting out another storm.
© 2019 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.