Today might not be what it is
without yesterday being all
that it was.
In a succession of events,
unplanned or programmed,
rarely do we consider
what has happened,
as it happens.
Sometimes we speak less
about things that matter
as we think we have
more time, as such.
Oftentimes
we do not speak of
things we should
as they are happening,
in the time that remains.
In the time we are given,
the present persists.
10/15/2024 j.g.l.
Pick up what’s left of the shadow that has been trailing you for a week or three, the one you have noticed even when the sun hasn’t been shining as it should.
Of course there have been distractions (there always is), even as your nerves are beginning to fray, and all those anxieties still follow you, surprisingly so, on any old day.
Intermittent rain washes away hopes and plans dreamed on and diminished now. Still, you have the time and, more importantly, you have the mind to make it all happen. You’ve got something more important to say.
10/14/2023 j.g.l.
Poetry is power, and poetry is
a weakness, as much cowardice
as courage. A delightful
contradiction, it sucks at your
soul, and, like a fussy infant,
cannot wait to be fed. More.
Not to be silenced until sated.
Nourished then,
it so slips into gentle slumber,
life’s rhythm allowing dreams and
sweet solace, only to wake soiled
and screaming. Comfort comes
with a soothing voice, gentle touch,
and reassurance. Flesh and blood,
innocent for only a while, it grows
alongside you, until it stands
on its own.
Poetry.
You give it life, then it to you.
© 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.
Each word, brush stroke, and
movement (physical or musical),
conveys a maze of emotions, a
moral or motive,
and
it does so with intention. Art
has a purpose, even in the most
conservative or mundane setting,
it brightens walls, pumps life
into the our superficially sterile
environment,
filling space
often reserved for mediocrity. Art,
any art, is a celebration, an occasion,
a happening or happenstance,
behind which rests a soul
struggling
to release frustration and fact.
The premise of art
is simple,
though in all its complexity
lives are lived and memories retold.
Sometimes the moments are
hardly even bold, but in
each nuance there is blood rushing,
and a voice dying (no, living)
to be heard.
Art, any art,
is an attempt
not to dream, and not to believe,
but to breathe.
Art is a reason for being.
To uncap your mind, and
open your eyes,
is to brush away the cobwebs, and
clear out the channels limiting
society’s authentic ways. To embrace,
or accept,
or even acknowledge effort,
is to allow a word to exist on
a weather-beaten page, an abstract
concept to play out on another plane,
a sound to survive yet another day,
and a dance to be
negotiated through an
inevitably cramped space.
Art, any
art,
is communication
if not
confrontation.
Address your demons, speak up
for those who choose not to,
push back
minds who see investment and value
as only monetary concerns.
Increase your worth. Don’t let art
become just another choice,
shape your work
in the rhythm of a voice.
©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.