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.
Words that were there, affixed
to a streetlamp or storefront window.
A public notice. Not a poem
with words as bold as Neruda, or as cynical
as Bukowski. Perhaps pro-Palestine proclamations,
explanation or justification of a conflict
on the other side of this world.
Political turmoil, opposing views attempting
to indemnify culture and common cause.
Inhumanity’s debate seeps further into our space
here in this country or city, then removed
Torn away from the realities we face.
We cannot understand the sentiment;
even a sentence. Nary a word is now
comprehendible, but it meant something
to someone. Defenseless. How can we
explain what was there when you, yourself, cannot
understand your own thoughts.
Yet you do know the need for expression,
communication, even protest.
We have all left words behind for somebody else
to read or relate to. Unappreciated offerings.
Like a poem, protest has
so many meanings and misunderstandings.
© 2024 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.