l

Circumstance may take you there,      though time
will not wait. Music louder today than yesterday,
its velocity peeling off the walls,
a madness only eighties metal can muster.
Cocksure and belligerent, intended for simple minds
with little reason and less soul.
Barely enough bodies to suck up the sound,
less people and a lesser me. Less alcohol,
shades of last night’s dose amplify the
sounds. Smells like teen spirit, or even my youth.
This bar, once familiar, hosts that wretched stench.
Been here more the last two days, than the past two decades.
The rhythm is the same, the mood the same, it feels the same.
I felt it. For a moment, last night, as some wickedly-fit kid
spit out lyrics of love, regret, or injustice and yearning,
chocking the guitar like he meant it.
The vengeance of the volume did not go unnoticed.
I was here. So was she.
Last night. And back today.
Seen her more the past two days than the last two decades.
Or three. It was nothing then, as nothing goes,
and nothing now. 
Nothing changes if nothing changes.
I have. She had. Changed.
The hourglass figure running out
of time. Eyes black as revenge, a voice now bitter.
You can only reminisce so long, then talk about
nothing and how it has changed. The music was loud,
louder than it was. Then.
Music, fashionable as it was before now.
Nothing changes.

ll

We talked, between songs, or shouted
and laughed an unfamiliar laugh. When we could.
Not a lot to do but listen and drink, and curse.
Dance. Or sweat.
This place smelled just like then: beer-stained carpet
and generations of perfume, cheap dope,
hormones, and industrial-strength cleaner.
Dirty
rock and roll. 
She came back tonight. Like it was all
she had to do. Like it meant something.
Last night we danced.
Nothing else to do, but drink
and sweat, and dance.
We last danced 33 years ago, she whispered.
Decades ago.
She danced the same, her scent the same, it
wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the same.
My T-shirt no longer ripped, or cheap. It stuck to me.
We talked, or shouted.
She moved. Closer. As she did
she whispered, or shouted
to be heard. She had
to be heard.
I knew nothing of
where she had been or what
she had done.
She knew
more about me, than I admitted
I knew
about her.

lll

Decades on.
Heavy eyes, dark shadows like her hair. Like
she always dyed her hair,
before for fashion, now to hide the reality.
The unquiet circling her eyes only hinted
of her time
or her temptations.
She danced, she pressed closer,
ignoring the noise, confronting the noise,
then said
take anything you want from me.
Or something like that.
Or it sounded like that,
or it might have been a song
in my head. It might have been
what I wanted to hear. It was loud.
I couldn’t take. Not from her,
not what I wanted.
Already she had been taken,
too many times.
Taken advantage of, taken
for a ride or for a fool, taken for granted.
I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. 
Three decades
takes a lot to forget, more to remember.
I went back tonight. So did she.
The place smelled just like always, stale with time, the rot
of ten-million cigarettes, and carpet soaked with memory.
I have been here more than I care to remember.
Take anything you want.
It takes a lot to forget.

© 2014 j.g. lewis

“If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind,
of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?”
                                        -Albert Einstein

Too long now I’ve been trying to find the essence of poetry, to break it down to a simple format or formula, and completely understand how it moves and why it speaks.

It can’t be all that difficult, I supposed, for if something as significant as the Special Theory of Relativity can be explained so simply and eloquently, why couldn’t then be poetry.

E = mc2

In demonstrating that mass and energy are the same, Albert Einstein used but a few letters to universally explain. Admitting though, at the time, the concept itself was somewhat above the average mind.

Physics, calculus, and specialized sciences have always made use of equations to express a question or solution for every occasion. In mathematics, a rule or principal is frequently spelled out in algebraic symbols. With math, or chemistry, equations quantify anything large into something more compact, like poetry does within the boundaries of language.

Formulas are easily understood by those familiar with the topic, but difficult for those without specific knowledge. One need not acquire specific wisdom to understand, enjoy, and write poetry.

Simply stated (without an equation), prose and verse is about life. Poetry is logic.

Although logic, and life itself, gets complicated, it is more easily understood in poetic form. Like life itself, poetry is not a concept unfamiliar to us; it is expression of the soul and of the senses. We have been surrounded by poetry since we were mere babes, weaned on nursery rhymes and raised with music, popular lyrics consciously or subconsciously showing us rhythm and meter and cadence and phrasing. Each of us has an inner knowledge of poetry, whether we admit it or not.

So, like Einstein’s E and m and c, can we not find an equation for poetry? It’s not a complicated question like Why doesn’t the moon crash into the earth? Or it shouldn’t be. So I continue searching for something that should be rudimentary, but with a subject so seemingly simple, why has this search become more of a quest?

Each day, with an open mind and a cluttered desk, or a wandering mind at a sunlit park bench, I try to put my thoughts to rest. I imagine it should be simple like the X and Y of equations gone by, but will chose my own letters and continue to try.

My L can represent Love and my S might be sorrow, Y may be yellow (colours are a precious tool to play with, and to borrow). V, of course, is volume or velocity, and T, well time is a given, as now it might be.

So I come up with something that seems to make sense, except mornings, before coffee, when my mind is so bloody dense.

P=S ± (T+e) /V x L [m/L + s/L + f/L ]+A x π+g x M

Poetry equals Senses plus or minus time and emotion, divided by the velocity of our motion. We can only feel those feelings at times we cannot express, but they are there, they are whole, even when they’ve gone amiss.

And then there is Love; mindful love and soulful love or lustful love, dying love, a love not returned or acknowledged, even so it must so be added. Love goes to the highest power, for it may be the most basic tenet of poetry.

Your attitude, on any given day, impacts the circumference of your being; easily marked with the symbol Pi, it’s not how hard you live, but how hard you try. Throw in a little geography, the places we’ve travelled or the settings of which we dream, and with it all it is mind over matter. So make it matter, as poetry does.

Now, I’ve never been much with mathematics, or any of its sub-genres or derivatives, preferring study of the less absurd; the uncalculated pleasures of the profound written word.
But my lesser knowledge of calculus, or trigonometry, cannot take away from what is a part of me.

So I, in many ways, use a basic math. You add feelings, time references, and thought, divide up your musings and subtract the words that get in the way. Then it gets messy, for many times the words preventing you from moving ahead are unspoken and can’t be said and therefore must only be represented by an X, Y or a Z, but can’t always be summed up with an M or a C.

The thing is, I don’t want my letters to simply represent something, I want them to be part of it; a piece of everything poetry is and what it stands for.

My letters form words, and yes my S might not be sorrow, but it can also sizzle, sensual, or a shadow. The T is part of temptation and tsunami, and is even part of style. And the beloved X works well for a xenophile, or an easy exit, the text on which we rely. My words are whole and my words are true, they represent a life shared by me, or by you. Whether linear, or constructive, or lyrical verse, words become quite ubiquitous, or sometimes even terse.

So as simple as poetry is, it can seem very complicated. There are no equations, quotients, and its powers can’t be expressed by number. It cannot be squared, it simply has to be free and a poem cannot be summed up by an E, m, or C. Poetry in all its forms, be it whispered or spoken from pages torn, in all the states or divinity might better be expressed by nothing less, or more, than infinity.

∞

© 2016 j.g. lewis

“Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas.”
                                                                                    -Albert Einstein

Can I say I’ve never really been a believer in Tarot cards?

Can I admit I’ve never given them a lot of consideration? I may have even been totally out of line, in the past, when I proclaimed them to be nothing more than a load of hokum.

It surprised me a bit, a little more than a week ago, that I hadn’t embraced the cards at some point in my life. I mean, I acknowledge my horoscope daily (and the always-enlightening week ahead summaries in my inbox every Sunday), I’m continually looking for signs, am a firm believer in Kismet, and can often find inspiration in the most unusual places.

But Tarot cards never captured my imagination.

I’ve done tealeaves, sat down with a real Gypsy and had a wonderful palm reading session where she predicted a new love in my life. She then accepted my dinner and movie invitation, and put up with me for 4 ½ weeks (she didn’t predict it would end so suddenly). I even had a yoga teacher who would often pull a Tarot card before class and talk about it as she took us out of savasana (she even, once, gave me the card because she was sure it spoke to me). The card, and her message, was always inspiring, but I was sure she didn’t do it every day because she may have pulled a card that set the wrong mood.

I say this because I really knew nothing about Tarot cards, freely admit my ignorance, but over the past week have had the occasion to study, and learn, more about them.

I’ve had the opportunity to take part in a guided self-discovery program. At the outset of the session, participants pulled cards from their deck and offered thoughts on images they drew for both themselves, and the group. It wasn’t a “reading” but more of an icebreaker that brought people together.

I was fascinated not only the practice, but by the depth of the interpretations offered. It was enough to inspire me to go out that very night and pick up my own deck.

Now, I’ll admit spontaneous fascination is nothing new to me. I proudly admit I am a Gemini, and will confess to a lifetime of flitting back and forth between new concepts and hobbies. Like a crow, shiny objects often catch my eye.

So far, a week into it, the cards have been more than a temporary distraction. Maybe it’s the time of my life, or time of the day, but this simply intense activity drew me in. It might not be magic in the cards, but I am spellbound by the cosmic, religious and cultural imagery. Given the history behind the cards, the beautiful artwork, and the layers of meaning behind the images, there is plenty to keep my mind occupied for a while.

As I read I discover the significance of the direction in which the trump cards face, the symbolism of colour and setting, along with the wide-ranging theories behind the suits in the deck. I’m intrigued at the subtleties of things like an upturned brim, body language, or an object.

Now, I’m still working with three-card spread, am only using the upright cards, and will not concern myself yet (as the guidebook suggests) with reversed meanings. I’m still trying to familiarize myself with the cards, and the messages. I am pleased I’ve pulled the King of Cups a couple of times (yes, I have shuffled), have been blessed with The Sun once, and I have yet to find The Fool in my now-daily ritual.

And, right now, I’m not asking the big questions, or questioning my true essence or aura. I will wait until I’m a little more prepared, or knowledgeable. The ultimate goal of Tarot reading is to gain a deeper understanding of ourselves, and I think I might be a complicated read.

Of course it’s a game; it was designed to be a game back in the early fourteenth century, and, as it evolved, remained a game. It took hundreds of years before occultists found hidden meanings in the art, or so I’ve read. I suppose I grew up thinking, or linking, Tarot with the occult and the Ouija board. I never gave the cards much thought after that (until recently).

It is still a game. It is a pastime.

But it is a pastime that involves memory, history, communication, self and critical thinking. Anything that might cause you to be mindful of where you are, or what you can accomplish, can’t be all be that bad.

In fact it’s good. It is inspiring. Tarot cards acknowledge questions bouncing about the brain, provoke thoughts of family, relationships, and life in general. Above all, they provide a little hope.

Couldn’t we all use a little more hope? Couldn’t we all believe in ourselves a little more?

© 2016 j.g. lewis

Image: Cards by Tarot de Marseille.

Dear Mr. Somebody,

We cross paths regularly in the halls or elevator at our workplace. You are usually, like the thousands of people working in our magnificent glass and steel office tower, dressed to impress or for success.

You are noticed. I see you engaged in discussion at weekly meetings, or laughing in the coffee line with your department cohorts. I watch as you rise up nonchalantly from the cafeteria table and leave your refuse and tray for someone else to pick up and dispose of.

Often I see you in the men’s room, during lunch hour or at a coffee break, adjusting your tie or collar, or fussing with your hair and taking up a little too much mirror. You don’t seem to mind making others wait for sink space, and you always look good. Damn it, you know it; you smell nice and make every possible presentable pretension.

You like to be noticed; except when you don’t. You are the one who scampers out of the washroom, especially when it’s crowded, after stepping out of the cubicle with that fake, false, and phoney it wasn’t me expression pasted on your face.

But when I take my turn in the stall, I know it’s you, or someone like you, that leaves the seat dripping, piss puddles on the floor, or the un-flushed bowlful of foul-smelling you know what.

Of course it’s you.

You might even be the one who leaves paper towels floating in the urinal. The waste bin is fastened to the wall only steps away, but it’s more convenient for you to drop them in a fixture that will not flush away waste it is not designed to handle. You know that.

You also know there is a legion of staff in this particular office tower who regularly ensure paper towels are available, hand soap dispensers are always full, and they clean and mop and gather up the stray pieces of bathroom tissue you leave behind, or pluck soggy paper towels from the watered-down urine.

Of course you know this, how else would the washrooms in this facility remain, mostly, as clean and hygienic as they are? Except when you, or someone like you, comes along.

Yes, I know you are in a hurry; we all are. We work in the world of commerce where time is money and we’ve got a job to do. We need to be at our desks. So I’m sure it is more advantageous for you to cut a few seconds off your time by not bothering to lift the toilet seat. It might even be quicker for you not to wash your hands (but I’m not going there today).

But. Really?

You know it’s not right, and you know your mother told you countless times through your youth that you needed to lift the seat. Did your father not teach you how to aim? Can you not now figure it out for yourself?

I know there are some public places with situations like this commonly occurring. I know there are places where children, supervised or not, need to use the facilities, and I know a young boy is not as practiced at hitting the bowl with the same accuracy as a grown man. I know this because my Dad, when I was very young, had me write out I will lift the toilet seat when I pee 100 times. It was a tough love lesson, but one I learned well.

Did your dad not teach you? I mean it’s probably the first, and perhaps only, lesson a father will pass on to his son about using that particular part of the anatomy.

Did your mother not ask you to stop all this nonsense? When your mother said she was tired of cleaning up after you, she wasn’t referring to gathering up stray socks or putting your cereal bowl in the dishwasher. Your mom was sick and tired of getting down on her knees and scrubbing the area around the toilet bowl because you assumed you could piss wherever you wanted.

What does your wife or girlfriend think as you spray the area like a male cat marking its territory? Is she at all pleased when she sleepily makes her way to the loo in middle-of-the night darkness and finds herself sitting on a sopping or sticky throne?

What does the newest girlfriend think? You know, the potential Ms. Right you’ve made it through three or four dates with, and she accepts the invitation back to your pad. Then, as you are pouring the wine, she asks to use the washroom. Do you rush to the space to ensure that it’s sparkling clean, or do you even notice the mess you leave in your wake?

Do you care?

Or do you do you even do this at home?

I suspect you don’t. I mean, as humans, we do have to empty our bladder with some regularity, and I’m pretty sure you exercise a little more caution while at home and knowing you will have to use the toilet later.

So why don’t you use the same caution in the workplace?

A therapist might say you either have a very high opinion of yourself, or very low self- esteem. Or you have some other phobia or issue that somehow justifies the watermarks on your highly polished shoes. I’m sure they may say there is some clinical name for what you are going through.

But I say you are an ignorant prick, with a mama’s boy complex, who has no manners or morals, the consistency of an Irish Setter puppy, little respect for others, and maybe not enough for yourself. Or you have obvious illusions of grandeur, thinking that someone will magically clean up after you.

You are the reason public washrooms have a bad name.

Now I know we are of the gender that needs to be reminded to put the seat down when we are done our business (yes, I’ve been scolded), but I’m here to tell you the seat swings both ways fella.

It’s time to grow up and show a little concern for your fellow man (this is the men’s room). Lift the seat. Be more careful, and be more considerate. We all share the same piece of the planet, and work in the same shiny office building. We drink from the same coffee pot, eat at in a common cafeteria, and we all shit sit in the same place. Life is already messy enough.

And remember, there will be a time when you just have to go. You’ll be the one in a rush to unzip before your bowels explode and, while sitting on a slippery seat, it will be your belt buckle or the seat of those freshly pressed trousers that dips into the pool of somebody as careless and uncaring as you.

I don’t wish that on you, or anybody for that matter, but karma does flow both ways brother.

Your truly

Jus’ Sayin’

© 2015 j.g. lewis

 

 Today’s rain washed away most
       of the evidence of winter.
The water has spilled over the river’s banks
       but is receding.
                                    The air is fragrant
       with the change of season.
       Maybe it is because the dust has settled for a bit
       but I could smell spring as I walked the streets.
At one point, this afternoon, it was like nighttime
       in the middle of the day,
                                     the windshield wipers kept time
       to the rhythm of life.
This evening, however, just after the sun had
       disappeared altogether, low-lying clouds
       hovered just above
       and in patches.
Stars shone through the clouds
       like freckles on a lover’s skin, peeking out of the
       crisp sheets.
                              Spring brings optimism
       and hope.
You hear people on the streets again,
       they too are pleased.
       Just wait for summer.
                             I can feel peace,
                                                            can you?
        © 2006 j.g. lewis

Image: Wet Prairies
Artist: Steve Repa – 1977

Ten years ago, in a journal, I wrote this for my daughter. An early spring then,
as it is now. Seasons may change, but poetry remains, as does optimism and hope.