I took time yesterday, during my morning walk, to stop in the park and sketch the tulips.
With this latent spring, I’ve been waiting for weeks — perhaps all winter — for some colour after these devastatingly long months.

One of my lifetime joys (and we should all keep a list) is seeing tulips in the spring.
It’s not simply a sign that I have survived anther winter; tulips are my favorite flower.
Tulips remind me of my Mom. She loved springtime.

With the cooler temperatures of late, despite a decent offering of rain, the tulips have not been abundant in the park this year. Yes, there have been a few brave souls who have managed to push through the dirt, but it’s not the same as it has been in this particular park. I’ve been checking daily, on my walks, waiting for a chance to spend some time with my camera.

The longer I waited, the more disappointed I became. While even the leaves are greening on the magnificent trees, that thick crowd of tulips has yet to appear.

Yesterday, I decided I had waited long enough. I questioned myself. Why was I waiting for something specific to appear (perhaps to match an image in my mind) when I could simply capture what was there?

I was letting expectation get in the way of my intentions.

Walking through the park, I settled on a bench with my morning coffee (easily the best kind of coffee) and found a couple of red tulips emerging from the greenery; too few to call them a cluster, but just enough to inspire some creativity.

My camera wasn’t with me, so I chose instead to make use of the small sketchbook in my packsack, and I’m never without a pencil. I sat and sketched.

I overlooked the boastful daffodils — which have managed for a while to show off their brilliant yellow (though less than usual) — but I did not ignore their persistence, punctuality and commitment to schedule. Daffodils, in a few shades, appear with consistency, as they always have, and then give way to stronger, hardier flowers. Quietly, they go about their work.

Not like tulips.

Tulips put on a dramatic show, in any stage, as they evolve from straight stems with tight bulbs of slight colour. They offer style and texture as they begin to blossom, elegantly twisting and turning in their own characteristic ways, first reaching up, then stretching out with wild abandon, following the sunlight or lack thereof.

As tulips open up, they share the colour of their inner secrets, offer a smile over a period of about a week before bowing and slowly shedding their petals.

Tulips, through their entire life-cycle, put forth uncommon beauty and dignity. They give their lives to offer us brightness, a sense of hope and possibility. They perish, leaving us waiting for the next year. Next spring.

Tulips leave us something to remember.

I took 10 or 20 minutes yesterday (I actually lost track of time) following the muse of the moment. Without my camera I could not record the perfection of the flowers, but instead captured the essence of what they reveal (to me anyway).

I produced a series of small sketches, a continuation of a practice I adopted last August that I call ‘mindful, non-judgmental art’. Usually I set myself up with some watercolour paints and create a series of small masterpieces of one subject or another. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Yesterday I had no paints and brushes, as I had no camera, but I still managed to create. You do what you do with what you have. I wasn’t worried about the results, or the process, but simply the feeling of the flow.

Sometimes you have to stop and sketch the flowers. I recommend it to anyone. Take a little time out of your day to capture the life that is there.

Yes, especially these days, it seems more difficult as the workplace and home-life have folded into one. Finding that spare half-hour for a mid-day walk, let alone 10 minutes to randomly sketch, is difficult. You’ve got back-to-back ZOOM meetings through the afternoon, and have been struggling to complete that multi-page terms of reference document for, what, a week? Nine days?

What’s another 20 minutes?

Take that time. For. Your. Self. Grab a notebook and pencil and head to a nearby park. Sit on the steps in your own backyard. Sketch out the flowers that are there, or the trees, or that brick wall you pass by or stare at every day. Sketch. Something.

Take the time to mindfully create.

It will do you good.

It might even help clear your mind enough to complete that ugly terms of reference document. You’ll breathe easier knowing you took a little time to specifically do what you wanted to do. Mindfully.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

A determined will to communicate or
gather thoughts of which to be reminded,
a pencil knows the way (or what to do)
with incessant demands made of you:
– appointments to be scheduled in
– excuses justified, however thin
– grocery lists (don’t forget the milk)
– rough sketch of the shed to be rebuilt
– Scrabble, golf (or musical) scores
– an admission to one you once adored
– notice of resignation to that nasty boss
– a note of condolence for a heartfelt loss
– overdue letter to a faraway friend
– this list itself will never end
Should you lack purpose, a humble pencil
provides gentle wisdom, abstract or direct
knowledge in all matters such.
Careful printing of complex instructions
or dashing off jumbled plans, a pencil
knows which direction to flow. Trust
in your hand; allow innermost thoughts
to follow its shady path.
Handwritten words forsaking time;
if ever you cannot find your pencil
I’ll gladly share one of mine.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

I’m like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally broken,
Still, I write.
                      j.g. lewis

April 29th is Poem in Your Pocket Day, a day
to celebrate poetry by selecting a poem, carrying
it in your pocket, and sharing it with friends and
strangers.
Share a poem wherever the day takes you.
Even in these continued days of physical distance,
loss of connection and self-isolation, you can still
share poetry and a smile.
Sharing is caring.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

Don’t talk to me at dawn. Caught up in whispers
of residual dreams beyond my control,
I’m not always ready for a new day, and
frequently have difficulty comprehending
where the night falls.

Morning is not the time for words
if the night has come before. Every breath
a struggle. I wake. No heartbeat. No. No talk.
Blinded by sight and sound I won’t hear
the meaning, or the message.

Give voice to my days instead, where I won’t
see your reflection, but will feel the wonder above
the cacophony and confusion
that terrorizes an otherwise
monotonous day.

Evening’s long shadow laps up scraps
of humanity. I pay less and less attention as
the planets close in. Considering your many renditions,
I await your arrival. Any night. What shade
will you be this night?

Then is the time, when distance fades, where we tell
each other stories. Little else matters, and we ask
the impossible. Inevitably darkness
consumes me, until you become
less significant.

Through nights, when I’m restless, when dawn
is simply a concept, don’t waste your words on me.
I will not hear them, promises or otherwise,
or find the light, or time, to
see your lips move.

Dawn reveals serious wounds, time misspent
and misplaced words. Where morning hints
of the night before and I may not hear your call,
don’t talk to me at dawn,
or talk to me at all.

© 2015 j.g. lewis

‘If you want to win the teddy bear, you have to break the rules.’

Advice from a panhandler, a regular,
outside one of two coffee shops. People come and go,
tedious ebb and flow of those getting by; life in this city.

Daily she is here or there, barely warm coat,
hands clasped in prayer, paper cup and her frowzy blanket.

Where she sleeps is often a wonder;
women’s shelter a block over, or congregated
rooming house. Downtown. There are many not far away.

‘Any spare change, anything helps.’

Passersby, some smile, others won’t. Many don’t
look down. Not everybody stops, not everybody walks on by.
A quarter or two, a coffee or crumpet. Here and there.

More or less.

‘God bless.’

Sight smile from an everyday face that has braved cold
winter winds, scorn and rejection. Her life harder than
the dirty concrete where she sits. Every day.

Empty stomach. Little promise. Few possibilities.

Some other day.
Some other time, the world was different.

So was I.
So was she.

Society does what it does.

We rarely know 
who breaks the rules and do not question those who make them.

 

© 2021 j.g. lewis

April is Poetry Month
all poetry all the time
right here
poetry every day