I thought of you.
Often I do. Nothing specific,
not always. No particular time
or place. No clear dimensions.
Sometimes. Wide awake.
Even with night on my eyelids.
When you are not there,
I can still think.
I am moved
by gravity or grace.
It could be a mood, perhaps
a song, the scent
of remembrance.
I know it as I know you.
Daydreaming or otherwise.
© 2019 j.g. lewis
April is Poetry Month
Coordinates unclear,
the first wonder of a new day.
Open your eyes,
light diffused, a little confused,
gradually you wake. Go slow.
Morning coffee:
is there a better type
to wash away remnants
of the darkness that exists?
A cloudy day any way,
No need to rush.
You sit and settle
into this reality, every cell
of your being readjusting.
Recalibrate your emotions.
Don’t rush it.
No need today.
Yesterday no longer matters.
© 2017 j.g. lewis
April is Poetry Month
Poetry in the present dictates
internal presence, deep regard
for a past only accounted for
line by line.
Words blur into one cohesive
attempt to detail or describe
lovers, past and present, and
even those who were not as
kind or considerate.
Emotions realized, only at
the time, replicated in a
straightforward voice.
Moments are accounted for
word by word. Poetry exists.
Our lives become stanzas
documenting only what
we remember.
© 2023 j.g. lewis
April is Poetry Month
Equal part dawn and dusk, a dash of
diesel and tractor rust. A root of youth
which once was mine, fleeting glimpse
of that city’s skyline. One mouthful
of rain, a belly full of fire, a hint of
the envy I confused with desire.
An ounce of misfortune to keep you
on your toes, a whisper of the truth
that few people know. Swift whiff of
autumn and its soothing earthy scent,
seven crackling leaves heaven-sent.
Two hearty dollops of acute curiosity,
diluted by a cup of casual simplicity.
The naïve blush of an unsure teenager
standing only in her panties. A smile,
hallelujah on bated breath and bended
knees. A spade full of soil stolen from
Indian land, with six blades of tall
prairie grass from where Wal-Mart
now stands. A layer of dust off the
library stacks, nourishment from the
lunches my mother packed. Clavicle of
the lover who should’ve known better,
who gave only because she took, and
only because I let her. Six droplets of
her blood add opportunity to the mix,
ground into tongue of a lawyer, or liar,
and his big bag of tricks. A shot of
Southern Comfort to combat any fear,
and the shock of this Northern wind
and my reality here. Off the lakeshore
where I first learned to swim, a few
grains of sand and a dead fish’s fin.
Several of my obvious flaws tossed in
for good measure, with the shadow of
the full Moon I’ve come to cherish
and treasure. Three white tears to
consecrate my intention, and a fourth
for the secrets I neglected to mention.
Wax of a turquoise-colored crayon to
bind it together, cured with the wave
of an ancient Eagle feather. Not elixir,
but a potion for dreams so she’ll know
where I come from, and feel all I mean.
© 2017 j.g. lewis
we cannot help but
listen
not to the clamour of everyday time
but the space between
a thought
a smile
or
a goodbye
sometimes we tell secrets
mostly
the silence gives it away
© 2019 j.g. lewis