How do we choose to travel?
What is reliable in the rain?
What is our ultimate destination,
for this time, this journey, or
this day?
We move at the speed of life.
Depending on traffic, others
may chose to follow your path,
but not your direction.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
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.
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.
Gather, you beggars. Assemble
like pigeons, seeking morsels of kindness
on these filthy city streets. We notice but do not acknowledge.
Or apologize.
I cannot deal with all I see.
Any spare change? No answer. No chance.
I saunter by in my warm parka, well-rested, belly full
of breakfast. I know no hunger, though not immune
to the pang. Sunglasses shield my eyes.
I have witnessed too much.
There, but by the grace of God, go I.
They remain. Unrecognizable
even to those who have loved them. A person’s sister, somebody’s
brother, somebody’s child. A somebody;
another vacant bed or private hell
another excuse or story to tell.
We do not want to hear.
Nor dare to breathe. Ask no questions.
I am only what I ask myself to be. If
charity begins at home, what then of the homeless? Nothing.
I know where I will sleep tonight.
Ashamed. I do little but look away.
Filthy pigeons stare back.
Then scatter.
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.