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.
The spontaneity of life’s
humanity deftly narrated
printed in his own words.
We can read not what was there
but what he saw.
Unlike those who came before.
Now another dead poet
amongst the others we know
those who breathe substance
onto the page
into the world
so generously documented for us.
He was an American
who travelled
‘dwelt in a hundred cities
where trees were books’
who wrote of the country he knew.
Its people occupied
streets beyond the periphery
of his soul.
Perception personified.
An autobiography,
he gave to us a focus
so we could feel
an America
more sharply delineated
than a history book
or with more colour than
the six o’clock news.
A parade ended Monday
but the beat lives on.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
“I see another war is coming
But I won’t be there to fight it.
I have read the writing
on the outhouse wall.
I helped Kilroy write it.”
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
1919 – 2021
Rest in peace
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.