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.
I have never been this age before; that itself a reason for celebration
or concern. I suppose it depends on how you look at past days and years
and the many more to come. My mindset matters with all considerations
of what is going on nowadays with others as much as myself. Life is good.
Years ago, and I can’t specifically recall how many they were or how
many times, I wondered what it would be like when I was older.
I am now, but perhaps not as old as I thought, or as I expected, or
what I was thinking. What is old? What should it feel like? Why?
In a decade or so will I consider old to be what I am, or what I was?
What am if I do not question what I am, if not where I am, in the
grand scheme of life? It’s the way it should be, naturally or curiously,
as we question life and how we should be living. Shouldn’t we?
© 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.