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.
Collar upturned, scarf scratching
against the skin, eyes tearing as furious winds
find their way, we protect ourselves
from the intermittently indifferent month
of November. As only we can.
Atmosphere duly moistened
by pent up frustration in joys not found,
unfostered friendships, and decline
in the value of our self-worth,
deceit flows freely in these darker hours.
Our hardened hearts impervious
to even favoured words, we can hardly
hear ourselves speak, and better we not.
Each question delivered during these days
cannot summon an answer; even decisions
arrived at in November will wait.
December, with its warmer spirit and
delicate snow is then a softer month
for broken promises or shattered hearts.
We count not the days, but tolerate
this month of indecision, our time instead
sorting out emotions, impositions,
and lack of interest.
How does it feel from the inside?
The bitter cold slams against our silhouette,
while souls cry out for attention, admonition,
gentle hands or comfortable shoulder.
Even young bones creak loudly against
this change of season.
Even old souls forever remember
the intolerable month of November.
© 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.