Mythos & Marginalia

life notes between the lines and along the edges

  • Review or Reminder?

    I wrote myself a letter yesterday, as I do each year. Like all letters, to anyone, it is a way of keeping in touch. We don’t write enough letters, often enough; especially to ourselves.
       This year I wrote a simple letter, a basic list. Two lists actually.
       Beginning with a sheet of paper, I drew a thick line right down the middle of the page. On one side I scribbled down the things I felt I had accomplished over the past year.
       On the other side of the paper I listed things I needed to complete, projects or concepts I had begun or given thought to, and reminders of what I still needed to do.
       I’m not sure if it was disappointing, or surprising, that I have more things left undone than what I have done. It did open my eyes. I wasn’t sure, when I looked at the page, whether it was a review or a reminder. As obvious as it was that I had accomplished a few things (some kind of major, others very minor), I realized that many of the items have been hovering around for years.
       I have several manuscripts in various states of undress, and poems (or skeletons thereof) that don’t quite say what I want them to say and the ambiguity itself is uncertain.
       I have worthy projects to which I have only given considerable thought and some of the ideas are only, at this point, honest intentions. The list(s) themselves are, perhaps, nowhere near complete. It is what it is and I chose to make it inspirational. I thought mainly of the things I think I can do.
       When the lists were as complete as my attention allowed, I took the paper and tore it down the middle.
       The one side of the page, the items I listed as accomplishments, will sit on the stack of papers that seems to grow upon my desk. The other side of the letter was tucked into an envelope, sealed, stamped and addressed, and will make its way to the post office today (or tomorrow) to be mailed to myself.
       When it arrives, presumably next year or next week (which, in reality, is the same thing) it will be tucked into my journal unopened.
       Some day (or some year) when I am uninspired or feel I have nothing to do, I will open the letter and again review my actions (or inaction). At that time I may cross off some of the things I have done, or be reminded of what I still have to do
       Don’t we all need reminders of where we are?
       Shouldn’t we all acknowledge our intentions and get to work on taking an idea from concept to completion?

    © 2022 j.g. lewis

     

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  • Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful

    I am going to church tonight. It’s not something I often do.
    I haven’t been in a while; I’m not what you would call one of the faithful.
    I am not even what you would call religious… but I am spiritual.
    I believe in humanity, and tonight I want to hear voices.
    I want to listen to the choir.
    I want to listen to the congregation.
    I want to listen to the memories that come with the music, on this night of all nights.
    I want to feel at peace.
    I want to feel the peace.
    I want to believe that peace is possible.
    I want to wish you peace on earth, in your world and mine.

    © 2017 j.g. lewis

     

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  • cloud songs

               We only know what we know,
                      but know there is change.
              Indeed we know the darkness,
                 and will wait here
                                 for the light;
                   a little more each day.
                       We do not always know
                        what will come or when
                              it will arrive and
    distinguish between light and heat.
         It will only become colder
         before we reach the brightness
         and warmth of spring.
         Day by day, a little more.
                             We settle in for winter,
                                       so much remains.
                      We must remain content
                       knowing what will come.

    © 2022 j.g. lewis

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  • Is It Ever As It Seems

     

    December rain sneaks into a sleep that may

    or might not have been. Gentle, with enough of a breath

    to be noticed, yet crafty enough to remain unknown.

    Window open slightly, the world from

    the other side of the curtains

    seeps into your space. If sleep is sleep, or has it been?

    Wide-eyed now, hands reaching upwards, grasping at clouds

    and the residue that comes with the season. Emotions,

    struggling with premonitions of silence, you attempt

    to fashion thoughts into dreams

    of what you want or where you’ve seen

    or what you wish, or what might have been.

    It’s not bright, not this time of day. There can’t be a moon,

    not one you can see anyway.

    Clouds and thoughts, and your restless ways

    fighting the fever for hours and for days.

    You might seem so strong and still, right now, who can say.

    Lucent thought, lenient waves, comfort you enough to stay

    tangled in the life you knew

    in this sleep, just not all the way through.

    Who you are, or what you want

    the raindrops fall, the memories taunt.

     

    Night is only a time for precious remembrances. No one can hear

    what you think, perhaps no one can know. Not even you.

    A life imagined. You can’t turn it off, or

    turn it down, or see your way to shut out the view.

    The only one is you. Trying to speak the words

    you need to feel, you come up silent against

    the rain’s steady peel. It’s takes over, it always does.

    December rain. It’s not the same. The chill

    cannot be the temperature, you are wrapped in the blankets,

    pillows pushed aside in a heap, as they are when you sleep.

    A rest that is not now, for if it were 

    would you hear your heartbeat, or remember

    all that you dream? Or is it ever as it seems.

    The steady rhythm never forgets, patterns of the past

    come back slowly. It’s wet, its cold, the memory is old

    but it is right there. Remember.

    Of course you do, of course you have,

    you cannot spend all those waking hours in

    wonder, and not have it come rushing back.

    When you’re ready for mercy,

    December rain seems to know.

    It crashes against the silence and the mystery it holds.

    © 2015 j.g. lewis

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  • unrealized intentions

    Imprints we leave on this planet, not always obvious, at times
    apparent to so few. Each impression, even those certain to wash
    away or be trampled upon by others, remains long past a fickle
    expiry date. We call into question our rites and responsibilities,
    some of which, or will be, the reason for continued depletion of
    a world greedily inherited. Borrowed time. We need have less
    of ourselves in the physical realm we leave behind. Walk softly.
    Speak loudly. To acknowledge our failings, try as we might to
    discourage unhealthy practices and advise those who we can and
    those who will follow: humanity depends on far more than words.
    Take action. Rage on; you may curse and wake the neighbours, or
    scream until you are hoarse. Scornful lamentation expected now,
    of course, considering we have clogged all our rivers with shit and
    oil, and acid rain. Our skies flush with tactile toxins, ozone long
    forgotten, we do it again and again. How have we not listened or
    learned? Again, walk softly but speak loudly. Let someone else
    know someone cares. Hypocrisy is not based in obvious honesty.
    Beyond reckless integrity there lies responsibility. Grief. Guilt,
    we are all to blame; again, part of this life’s shame. Politics deny
    and deceive, as much as the many men speaking lies; any wonder
    we are in this mess made up of unrealized intentions? To change,
    as the climate has, we can ill-afford a cautious stance. There shall
    not be a second chance, not again. We’ve wasted time, our breath,
    a planet now inching close to death. Cocksure conspiracy theories
    be damned, so little time to spare if we don’t react now. Speak up.

    © 2022 j.g. lewis

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