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.
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
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.