Place to place
across city or continent,
further perhaps.
Destinations. Obligations.
We travel as required, often
to stay where we are.
A journey.
Where we end up
is not always planned.
No place feels exactly
like home. We cannot
always remember, yet
we are reminded of
the signs. Cities, countries,
locations in between,
loved ones left behind,
or waiting. Come home.
Regardless of
where you go, no matter
the baggage,
I wish you all the best.
I wish you safe passage.
© 2018 j.g. lewis
Finding our direction may take miles or days, or years.
Detours, disruptions and distractions – no matter how
purposeful or meaningful as they may be – are certain to
prolong our progress. It takes time to know. The journey
is involved. Each step of the path allows reflection. We
are guided by instinct or instruments, our moral compass
not often strong. Finding our true destination will take
years and decades. Or longer. And should I wonder (and
oh, how I shall) how poetry should get the best of me on a
bitter winter’s morn. Even on, or especially on, a brighter
summer’s day where thoughts like common flowers will
blossom naturally, a poem will have its way with me. Some
random poem by one of the greats, Billy Collins, has before
captured both my heart and the times of our lives, as I do.
I have passed through the 2000s, and the ‘90s before (right
back through to the early ‘60s). I remember, poetically, how
it was. Collins himself more articulate than I, although I try.
A random poem, my daily indulgence. ‘Marginalia’ today by
Collins. Yes, I too have always been attracted to words or
messages scribbled haphazardly on the page. A surprise when
discovered in a text or library book, and how it stains the page
at any stage of life as we know it. Today, page 94 of Collin’s
book ‘Sailing Alone Around The Room’ grabbed me and won’t
let go. The poem ‘Marginalia’ spoke to me. I’ll leave it at that.
© 2026 j.g. lewis
April is Poetry Month
Misplaced memories,
back and forth, back
and forth, back and
forth, like a pendulum.
Moments measured
but wasted anyway.
Who knows how much,
how far, how fast or
not swift enough to be
noticed or remembered.
The collective fate of
humanity. Over and over.
We wake up and do it all
again and again. Again.
So, what will we notice
for ourselves today, if
not the shifting, if not
the sway of our time?
© 2026 j.g. lewis
I will work in the present, honing skills into craft, accepting where I am while envisioning where I would like to surface. Progress, of course, a destination; it is the action of, or sense of, doing that which will allow me to create a modicum of personal satisfaction.
I am guided by both curiosity and resiliency. Art, my art, may currently be only a reference point on this creative path. Don’t we all have varied mediums and methods that have ushered us through our artistic lives? Even amateurish attempts of our youth — crayon renderings or finger paintings, irregularly shaped pottery vessels, pastel smudges — have contributed to our most immediate desire to create.
As artists, the style never mattered as much as the will to fashion something with our hands from our imagination. Today, this modus operandi holds true no matter how sophisticated our attempt. The results now, perhaps polished or near perfect, remain maddening in an unfulfilled promise. Should it not be better? Don’t we want to do more? Could our efforts not be deeper, more meaningful?
The inevitable and everbearing drive for excellence.
It is so.
The words of my first photography teacher still hang in my head: ‘You are only as good as your last shot’. Humiliating as it is; humbling, yet ever inspiring.
Inspiration: it is what keeps us going, learning, and trying. Striving. For should our art become patently perfect, we know we may well lose that continued urge to create.
© 2026 j.g. lewis
I am so done with winter.
Yesterday’s snowfall only deepened my contempt for this climate and the particular place I am at this stage of my life.
It is still March.
The month of March is one of both indecision and uncertainty. Forget all that ‘in like a lion, out like a lamb’ crap (or the reverse); it’s folklore, at best. This entire month of March continues to creep on sloth-like.
I have lost my motivation. I slept in this morning. Seasonal depression hovers like consistent cloud-cover.
Spring, calendrically, is only a few days away. Even then we’ve got to wait until April, at least, for spring showers to wash away all the debris and desolation of this past winter.
I’m feeling it now.
It never used to be this way.
It’s funny how I never remember the cold of winter from my youth. For years, I could not wait for snow to arrive. I could not wait to get out on the ski slopes.
I, now, simply can’t get nostalgic about frostbite, long johns, or new skis.
The most exciting thing about this past winter was buying snow tires. Really.
Does my age have anything to do with my lack of appreciation for winter or is it only the weather?
Whether it is, or weather or not, this winter becoming a memory cannot happen soon enough.
© 2026 j.g. lewis