The angel at the table glares back across the clutter. Dirty dishes,
candy bar wrappers and tuna tins. Self-rolled cigarette smolders
on a side plate, the ashes of those before spilling over. Ignored.
Kitchen bulb, harsh and bare, casts bearded shadows across
the squalor. Joni Mitchell crackles from the speakers — a record
once played for a daughter — offering only the slightest comfort
needed on a day like today. A day where she
could use a friend as much as a fix. Depression familiar
to women who’ve lost a child, a fortune fit for no one.
A decade has passed, but not the pain.
The philandering husband who chose to grieve in other ways,
salt in a wound that never heals.
Self-medicating.
First doctor prescribed, then vintage imbibed. Now whatever
is there, whatever it takes, whatever she can find. She can
ill afford to be picky. The dollar-store diet, fortified by
middle-of-the-night gas station cravings, her pallid skin and
coarse complexion more becoming of an anorexic,
or crack whore.
Years of low-wages, welfare, and tricks turned in-between.
Home is now a third-floor walk-up furnished with a bed, table,
two chairs, a suitcase, and an old stereo. Nothing much.
Not even a photograph.
Inconsequential items pawned off, lost, or left behind.
Addictions, afflictions, and poverty can prune away all that
does not matter, and all that does not belong. Stagnant air
seasoned by sour milk and cigarettes, and bed sheets soiled
by the sweat of men who visit. It should never have been.
The angel has watched it all unfold.
Of course she cries, but only to herself.
Who else will weep?
A random ambulance screams into the night, flashing lights
animate the roomful of nothing. Street-level shouts from
a crowd of drunks, the white noise of her dark days. Searching
for a vein between the scabs and bruises, lesions that mark
a dead-end journey, finding space at the elbow’s crease
next to the ripening furuncle. She ties off and with hinky hand
stabs the needle into a tiny patch of waiting flesh.
A fervent rush consumes her entire being. Staring back at
the angel’s emerald eyes, her vision goes from transparent
to translucent, and then, not at all.
The angel wistfully watches,
a scene played out countless times before, shakes her head,
rises to her feet and shuts the battered door.

© 2016 j.g. lewis

 

Midnight arrives. No moon, new moon, clouds buffer the sky,
shifting moods, stars align. Where did the day go? Time stands still
without the presence of people, and a sense of substance.

Questions now. We carry into consciousness a dog-eared confusion
never hoped for. The longer it goes, the less you know. You want
little more to ignore the impendent humidity of a Van Gogh night.

Young hearts will find a way
old souls still remain,
but where would you go
if you knew the difference?

Deep breath. Full stop, amidst the barren dreams, night tremors, and
flashbacks casting dispersions on emotions and moments of repose.
Unsteadied in the innocence, unmoved by a prophecy unknown.

Reach out. All, which you see, cannot always be felt. Confronted by
constraints of an ever-changing sky, a complete spectrum of wonder.
All told, there are less reasons to know than less reasons to be.

Young heart will find its way
old soul knows the pain,
now would you go there
if you knew the difference?
© 2016 j.g. lewis

There is a tree on the highway between Brandon and Winnipeg, one I have passed hundreds of times, which marks the halfway point of the journey.

Roots deep and strong, the tree has been there my whole life, surviving deep-freeze winters, occasional drought, and the widening of the highway. It is an important tree, familiar to anybody who grew up in the area. Mention “the tree” and people immediately know where you were.

The landmark helped answer the ‘how much farther’ question from a restless kid in the back of a sweltering station wagon, and came in handy on any of the bloodshot drives across the barren prairies at 4 a.m., winter or summer.

The tree is a part of me, even now, if only in memory.

It’s too bad there aren’t more trees in our lives, markers to let us know something is halfway done. Yes, we have battery meters that let us know when our laptop or personal device is running low, gas gauges in the car, and clocks and calendars, but we need more organic clues to help us navigate this journey.

Don’t we often question if the glass is half empty, or half full?

We tend to do things differently when we get onto the second half of anything.. Knowing there is only one more lap around the track, we naturally pick up the pace to put in our best performance? If we are caught up in a particularly enjoyable evening, don’t we tend to ease up a little at the halfway point, trying to stretch out the pleasure to avoid the inevitable?

There can be increased optimism if something is nearly done, or added sadness because time is expiring. If we don’t know where we are, how can we know how to react?

June is, for all intents and purposes, the halfway point of the year. By its very nature it is a wonderful month for reminding us where we have been, and what we have done, while still allowing time to look ahead at the possibilities. Summer comes with June; and color, and optimism. Longer days allow a review of the grief and glory we have experienced, and provide increased light to renew your intentions and review your values.

This month is a pulse check. How is your heart beating? What remains unfinished, what is still undone, what more can you do? How will you do it? Should you even bother? Of course there are more questions, but there is still time for answers.

I’m not sure I can kneel down before you, or
give in to your power. Not like before.
A situation such that I am unsure whom or what
I can trust, let alone myself. Still I look up.
Here I stand, pockets full of dust, starry eyes
gazing through the ozone. Toxins leech freely
into the atmosphere. Degradation of the night sky
deprives us of opportunity to see
what we once believed. You are there.
See me for what I am as I try to listen
through misaligned radio frequencies.
I cannot know where you have been.
You hide. It is your way.
My hands are not big enough
to grasp the message.
I’m not looking for the sky to save me, nor
am I waiting for the time to be right. I need
to go home now and find what is so far away.
I’ve lost my balance.
I’m losing my fear of heights.

Equality may never be, the darkness and bright
allow us only to see what we want, not what
we could have been. A level of light is expected,
my immeasurable impatience is being taunted.
However you look at it, whether you believe
in you, or believe me, this poetic justice
is all I have known. Your shadow remains
blended with the heavens. A starry night
will not dissuade your presence
in the lives you alter, or the ones you destroy.
Yet, in this moment, I know I would try again.
How could I not?
The option of a moonless night
is more of what I have been living, than how I
want to live. Between particles of unknown origin
in an ever-increasing pool of light pollution, space
junk, and refracted thought of a thousand
nameless faceless constellations,
you are still there.
I’m not looking for the sky to save me.
© 2016 j.g. lewis

It’s one of those songs that rushes through my head in times of strife, or disappointment, or when my wholly humble heart can hold no more.

Recorded in the ‘70s by Elvis Costello & The Attractions, the song title immediately rings out when the absurdity of this crazy cruel planet becomes so obvious.

“What’s so funny ‘bout peace, love and understanding.”

We have to question society, and ourselves, as we hear about the senseless tragedies occurring each and every day. Sunday’s vicious massacre is immediately top of mind; but there was Paris last fall, 9/11’s long tall shadow, and in between too many wars, school shootings, workplace massacres, and street-level attacks demonstrating how violent this world has become. And how hatred continues to spread like the disease it is.

We watch, we listen, and we grieve.

We wonder why, or how, or when it will happen again. We know it will. Sadly. Surely. In spite of all we talk about and listen to, regardless of the over-analyzed theories and reasoning, from all angles, we know it will happen again. History can, and will, dictate the future.

I hate to question if peace, love, and understanding is even possible, but I can only come up with one answer; and I have to believe it is YES. It is not an immediate YES, and sadly it’s not a resounding YES, but it is a YES one we ALL must strive for.

We must.

We all need to, individually and collectively, try more, and try harder, to understand those around us and those on the other side of the world. People are different everywhere, and differences should be celebrated, not shot down in the street or a nightclub.

There are too many questions about what is going on, and to say the solutions are peace, love, and understanding, is far too simplistic. But they are real. What else have we got? These are not Pollyanna ramblings of an unknowing man, I have seen too much to fall into that category (and I, truly, may be closer to a pessimist that an optimist). I am a realist, a humanist, a pacifist, and I’m tired of reading about hate crimes.

I’m tired of politicians and potential leaders making statements that cater more to the jealous, or uninformed, or misinformed, or imbalanced.

I’m tired of people sucking it up, and I’m tired of those who believe their right to bear arms eclipses the rights of those who only want to walk through their own lives safely.

I’m tired of bloodshed.

I’m tired of the posturing, and the lack of will, or effort, and courage to face the issues. There will be talk, and debate, over gun control, but it will fall off. It always does. But these heinous acts will continue. It will happen again.

It has become so obvious how much we need peace, love, and understanding. Right now.
If peace is to counter war, and love contrary to hate, then the opposite of understanding is ignorance, and there is far too much of that going around. Ignorance is not limited by faith, or gender, or culture or country, and it carries such destructive forces.

I can’t propose immediate solutions – I can’t even come close – but I can ask that we all think a little more, and talk a little more; about peace; about love; and about understanding.
It is, or should be, the three things we are capable of, and it is, right now, what we seem to lack most of all. But if we all took a step forward towards understanding, we might begin to see how this world could look, instead of how it is looking now.
© 2016 j.g. lewis

“(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace Love And Understanding”

As I walk on through this wicked world,
Searching for light in the darkness of insanity,
I ask myself, Is all hope lost?
Is there only pain, and hatred, and misery?

And each time I feel like this inside,
There’s one thing I wanna know,
What’s so funny ’bout peace, love, and understanding?,
What’s so funny ’bout peace, love, and understanding?

And as I walked on through troubled times,
My spirit gets so downhearted sometimes,
So where are the strong?,
And who are the trusted?,
And where is the harmony?,
Sweet harmony

‘Cause each time I feel it slipping away, just makes me wanna cry,
What’s so funny ’bout peace, love, and understanding?,
What’s so funny ’bout peace, love, and understanding?
                                                                              © 1974 Nick Lowe