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.
We want to know what
we don’t know, or hadn’t thought of,
or forgot.
What mattered then,
or what mattered when, shifts over time.
We notice.
Perception is what you don’t see.
Deception is what know.
You see it differently through your aloneness.
The truth behind a lie,
you question how and why.
It made sense.
Anticipation keeps us waiting
for only so long. Will it matter
if you felt it never did?
© 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.
A proverbial line in the sand, twists and bends
a rubber band, ideals and morals
stretching and straining
until it snaps.
You, there now, wondering
what to accept.
Everything you hope, along with
anything you don’t
blurred.
No tears, not that you will admit, still
the vision is not clear. Where you are,
what can you see?
It can only be
uncertainty.
Within our dead wisdom and cluttered minds
boundaries are defined, so we can know
who to allow
into our lives,
or how far we will let them go
before we say no.
Always within the shadow of the question,
exorbitant explanations
were true before,
but now?
Was it not evermore? What we don’t see
cannot hurt us, still the pain resonates.
It can.
And will.
Have you forsaken those with a powerful presence
for fear you will be crushed? Are you not
strong enough?
You won’t know until you try.
Do you compromise your self
for a quick rush, to see how it feels, Did
did you like where
it touched? A temporary crutch?
Promises may have been illusions,
or may have been true.
Grieving dreams,
you second-guess the honesty,
a reply to which
you won’t believe.
Is darkness looming at the door, or
is it light? It’s been there before,
and the vices chosen
to medicate
and the thoughts once used to meditate
don’t take away what is there.
You look both ways, crossing
a road travelled many times before.
Will you open up the sturdy door?
Or question how you will, or did,
or can
have the courage to ask. With
more trials than tasks,
what will you accept?
© 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.