Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days


a daily breath

  • oftentimes

    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.

  • Mondays are just young Fridays

    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.

     

  • on its own

    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
                                                       

  • Mondays are just young Fridays

    One year since. . . 

       The death toll rises each day in this certain uncertainty. A geopolitical conflict, its consequences spilling out across this planet and onto the streets of my city. Distanced from the direct atrocities of another war, it is more than tension we feel in the neighborhoods where we live.

       Every day the headlines speak to me. Every day there are more questions than answers.

       How many bombs?

       How many dead?

       How many prayers?

       How many times, in my lifetime, have I heard about the possibility of Middle East peace?

       I, still, can only try to understand.

       I too live with the fear, the grief, and the polarization of it all.

     

    10/07/2024                                                                                                                j.g.l.

  • It’s not nothing

    I would like to think it is nothing, at least I’d like to try. I know I can’t, but I will fool myself into believing it was less than what it is (I’m gullible that way).
       Still I know, deep down, it was more than what I was expecting. Certainly it was more than what I was prepared for.
       It’s always something; really, anything is.
       There is something in anything, worthwhile or not, that captures your imagination or sends your soul circling.
       Nothing matters then.
       It is always more than what you were counting on, even when there is nothing to compare it to.
       Always unlike anything else, you try to twist and turn it into something familiar, or something you can relate to, all the while knowing that nothing has been like that, or felt like this: ever.
       Yeah, it’s like that.
       It’s not nothing, but it can’t be everything. . . or maybe it is.

    © 2017 j.g. lewis