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.
Each street has a function, a name, and familiarity
to someone. Not merely a destination, but a place on which lives
are lived. More than lines on a map indicating territory, a street
defines a place. Vehicles drive and humans wander, tripping through
what others leave behind. Cigarette butts, empty bottles, and dog shit
reminders that we are not alone on this path. The human race,
not without a whisper or trace of humanity.
Traffic patterns become the regularity marking our time,
coming and going on the same street, the same route, the pedestrian
nature of what we do, and how we live. We travel with frequency
along indistinguishable streets to get done what we need to, and enjoy it
as we can. Little happens at night, silence stretching to fill the space as
taxicabs and cowards leave little light behind. You can’t imagine streets
not being there, yet man and beast travelled before they existed.
Fate or destiny, missed turns along the way. Calm or cold,
you decide if it is late, or early, when you arrive. Even rush hour moves
forward. Lanes merge and we struggle with speed and direction.
Congestion on major arteries, blood pressure measured with the click of
the turn signal. We come to dislike traffic and our place in it. There is
no point between A and B, frustrations articulated by the contrast. We each
have an address and every street takes somebody home.
© 2016 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.