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.
by Patricia Morgan
Home is movement of the heart
And a conversation with nature.
It’s the place of awe and wonder
At unseen connections
That brings all to a stop
For a moment.
Home is hearing what is
Whispered, trilled, whooshed, or trickled.
Hissed, soughed, or scratched…
When the roar of humanity is silenced.
It is the space that allows a deep exhale
And a settling of the bones,
The relaxation of the muscles to stay…
To stay here today. Tomorrow, maybe there.
Home is this song that has arrived
When the heart quiets
And a weaving of mind, body and spirit
Forms its own state, free
Of boundaries, barriers and walls,
And the perseveration of thoughts.
Home is a mobile tuning fork
In harmony with its surroundings,
Coming to rest in perfect attunement
With community
And nature
And heart
So perfectly
There’s no need to leave…
Until there is because
Home is movement.
Patricia Morgan has lived a migratory existence from Maryland to the South Pacific,
from Oregon to Costa Rica, and currently resides in Washington.
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.