Winter will come
without warning, but
it is not unexpected.
Winter will know when
you are at your weakest.
Winter will weaken
you further. Willingly.
Winter will wait and
winter will know.
Winter’s will arrives
with spirit and snow.
© 2019 j.g. lewis
Subjective or suggestive, visually,
physically, experimentally accounting for
a specific period of time.
Inevitably art confronts the realities faced
to the point where we are allowed a view
beyond what is presented to why it is so.
More complicated than mathematics, as
simple as politics, lines converging into
our present from past
misunderstandings. Can you not see
or hear the tonal range, words dripping
from a page? Open your mind.
A camera recording what is not always there
but should be. Possibility or probability,
classic or contemporary.
This is art. Representational mystery,
soothing reckless souls, enraptured and
necessary to deal with the pain of life itself.
© 2023 j.g. lewis
Even in this new day, as we only try to wake from the darkness that enveloped us, comforted or confused us, through the night; even as we give pause to immediate thoughts in the disquiet of the world, this city, this coffee shop (or wherever you find yourself). Even then (or now) as we struggle less and less with the inspiration and more and more with our intentions, we are never quite sure if we will find or have found the clarity we seek. It is naturally, even organically, a process we value, a practice we attempt, that is far less than pedantic and far more than studied. It occurs on its own, full of questions and comments, each random line on the page is purposeful if only because the pencil leaves a trail of thought and indications you are alive and wondering, at all times, as we should be… shouldn’t we? Let not the questions cast doubt on what you know, but instead observe where the answers take you. Surely you are alive enough to count yourself in? This is the pattern of life: to question, to observe, to make use of your time — in whatever manner — to express yourself beyond the boundaries of what you have been told. Is there a better reason to write every damn day?
© 2022 j.g. lewis
Collar upturned, scarf scratching
against the skin, eyes tearing as furious winds
find their way, we protect ourselves
from the intermittently indifferent month
of November. As only we can.
Atmosphere duly moistened
by pent up frustration in joys not found,
unfostered friendships, and decline
in the value of our self-worth,
deceit flows freely in these darker hours.
Our hardened hearts impervious
to even favoured words, we can hardly
hear ourselves speak, and better we not.
Each question delivered during these days
cannot summon an answer; even decisions
arrived at in November will wait.
December, with its warmer spirit and
delicate snow is then a softer month
for broken promises or shattered hearts.
We count not the days, but tolerate
this month of indecision, our time instead
sorting out emotions, impositions,
and lack of interest.
How does it feel from the inside?
The bitter cold slams against our silhouette,
while souls cry out for attention, admonition,
gentle hands or comfortable shoulder.
Even young bones creak loudly against
this change of season.
Even old souls forever remember
the intolerable month of November.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
What happens to the sleep we didn’t get,
words we did not heed, or tears never allowed
to travel down our cheek?
Those weeks, or months,
you refuse to speak of; what happened?
Then.
What became
of the people we didn’t need, or like,
or replaced? Have you given any thought to
what you meant to them? Once upon a time
fairy tale or delusion.
Shared.
Then, remember
the personalities or prospects,
the ones where you didn’t have the self-respect
to introduce yourself to.
Where was your confidence,
or willingness to bare your soul?
Easier, is it not, to confide in a stranger?
Those familiar with your ways,
those who have read a few chapters of your story
may not understand
your reservation.
Someone back when
knew you well, wanted to know more,
then gave up.
Or was that you?
Emotions enrich our lives,
as easily as they can destroy
all we stay alive for.
Is that a reason to hold back?
There was once value in vulnerability.
Now; well, you know.
If you rephrase the question,
are the answers still the same?
Long past a series of coincidences,
the obscenity of silence remains.
© 2018 j.g. lewis