Ideas change, like
the places, like the faces.
Much like me; different,
each time the mirror
looks back. I can see
lines on my face becoming
deeper as the years progress,
altering a view I only think
I have witnessed
in the past.
Do I see my father, or my
mother in me? Familiarity.
A resemblance; always
meant to be.
© 2026 j.g. lewis
Independent, a loner, or
part of a community.
Enabler, imbiber, victim
or survivor. How do you
identify?
Me, myself, or I.
She, them, or why? People.
I am human.
What are your pronouns?
Occupation or gender, by
country, religion or race;
it’s not all black and white.
Questioning or queer?
Who we are
is how we deal with
what happens every day.
It changes along the way.
Do you consider yourself
a consumer or a provider?
Be honest.
Painstaking label-making
gets complicated.
If you can fool others, are
you not then deceiving
yourself?
Who are you?
I come about my inadequacy
naturally. What I feel is like
nothing else. Honestly.
I am nobody. We all are.
Even when we are something
to someone else.
I am somebody. Like you?
© 2021 j.g. lewis
I‘m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
-Emily Dickinson
April is Poetry Month
How do you deal with a rumour?
Do you accept it and hold it inside?
Will you question, or ponder its
relevance, or truth (however unkind)?
Have you known them who are
the subjects, or suspects, however
it may be?
Have you truthfully considered
all options, or is there another side
to be believed? Is the damage
irreparable, nothing comparable in
the least. If it is known to be true,
what would you say if it was
said about you?
© 2026 j.g. lewis
April is Poetry Month
Amongst the darkness as daylight
gives in to nights we yearn for,
will we find the solace which has
evaded us for hours.
Comfort comes unknowingly, not
always in the presence of others.
Alone, but not lonely. Contentment
requires compassion.
Companionship is illusive, at times,
when it is better left unsaid. Unspoken.
With whom would you tell when
unaware of what to say.
© 2026 j.g. lewis
Is poetry written, or does it
write itself. Mysterious and
measured words lay plainly
on the page, further pulling
you into the curse, by line or
stanza or by verse. Poem or
prose; emotion flows naturally
from the shadows of birth and
death, in memory or breath.
April is Poetry Month
A cause for celebration or pause,
a month for thinking as, day by day,
it draws us closer to life’s meaning.
As simple or complex as you allow
it to be. Take some time to read,
to feel, to believe and see.
Mythos & Marginalia
fresh poetry every day
j.g. lewis