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.
Nightly news ends the day,
high-definition Technicolor sending its shadow
into the night.
Beyond sleep, in dreary dreams, unforgettable atrocities live on.
You can change channels by remote control to
a different perspective on the same scenes of violence,
hatred and heartbreak.
Death defies even the most optimistic insight.
Politics play out in accustomed inferiority.
A stance is only a stance when symptoms
become less obvious than the solution.
Ideology counters idealism.
The ever-present conflict and
humanitarian efforts dammed by inaction.
Nothing changes, if ever. It only grows worse.
Internationally. Nationally. And locally.
Few prospects for peace, one month in,
events of the days accelerate.
How hopeless are we? How hapless?
Each of us; all of us know the cause and effect.
The news reports bring it all home, into
our comfortable bedrooms.
How can we sleep?
© 2023 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.