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.
She first held my hand
five delicate fingers, swallowed up
in my palm. Fingers grasping
at my fingers.
Tiny.
No indication of such a big life.
There was comfort.
Reassurance.
A small hand, I thought I could
hold it forever.
Tighter
to keep it there.
Stop it from growing
The hand has grown, still delicate
there
in my palm.
Now that of a woman
like no others
a part of me.
Like
no other woman.
She is full with
room to grow
to emerge.
She is what I have, and
the one who is
always there.
As I have tried to be.
A strength more than physical
difficult
to comprehend.
A gentle patience, a
small hand,
wisdom larger than
life itself.
I want to hold her hand
a while longer
to reassure
I have done something right
in this world.
When there
I have no questions.
None of myself, as a human being
or otherwise.
I host
too many doubts
which have withered
my ability
to see.
In her I see what I am and
what I could be.
If nothing else,
the one good thing
I can be
and will always be
to her.
j.g. lewis
04/29/2015
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.