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.
Bruised. Beat up.
Each day we hurt; each day we heal some way:
physically, spiritually, superficially
in most cases.
We exist with pain
we cannot forget, nor will we get past.
It moves with us
through phantom limbs. What is, what it was,
or what will never be. No matter how
we squirm, meditate, medicate
or mask our wounds
we bleed.
You cannot wipe
the taste of an old lover from your lips,
a parent’s words echo, mistakes sustained.
Thoughts better left for dead,
and very much alive.
Terminal disappointment.
Remove the dressing,
scars remain: reminders; where we have been,
what we have done or
what has been done
to us. Excuses solemnly validate
our existence.
This art of living
involves exquisite deception. Calloused knees bent,
we pick at scabs from prayer
or surrender. Impressions remain
pressed into the skin.
Of course we hurt.
Who better would know
the fundamental truth of the human experience?
Tear off the bandage,
the wounds will breathe. Proof
we have done something that can and will
make us stronger.
© 2019 j.g. lewis
April is Poetry Month
it moves with us
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.