How do you know when it’s time to let go? When do you know an item’s life cycle is through, and it is time for something new?

It’s too easy to give up. Inhabitants of a disposable society, we all too often go out and buy something new when we tire of it, or when it falls out of fashion.

It’s wasteful.

I’ve got a denim jacket that has served me well. I can’t even remember when I bought it, but it has faded properly in all the right places. This jacket is beyond comfortable; perfect on cool summer nights, and with a collar you can pull up to shield yourself from the miserable winds in April or October.

The jacket is worn in a few spots, and a tear from a scuffle a few years back has grown from being fashionably frayed to functionally inconvenient. Except for the holes, and a few borderline threadbare spots on the seams, it’s perfect. Really.

It has seen better days.

I thought about replacing the jacket, but it represents comfort to me. It seems to get better with age; each wash fades the indigo blue a little more. Like a pair of jeans, it takes a while until they feel broken in.

It would be easy to replace, but don’t we do that enough with most everything else? You run a car for a few years, then swap it out for a newer model. It is more convenient to buy a new pair of boots than to find a cobbler and have the heels, or the sole, repaired.

We love the new and let go of the old all-too-easy.

I seriously considered another garment, but decided a new jean jacket isn’t really going to be any different than the old one. Let’s face it, the style hasn’t changed much in decades. I began wearing the wardrobe staple (then a hand-me-down from my brother) in Grade 4. In photographs, it looks much the same as the one I wore in Grade 8; or Grade 12; or later.

I’ve had more than few jean jackets in my lifetime, and this one has stuck with me for a while. I haven’t left it anywhere along my travels (so far). And did I mention it really does keep on getting more comfortable with age?

So rather than tossing it away, I decided to repair it. This has kind of been a theme of mine over the past couple of years: repair rather than replace. I’ve done it with a few long-time items. I guess I’m proving to myself that repairing, or repurposing, an everyday piece of clothing is going to add value instead of costing me.

I took the jacket, along with an pair of jeans of similar vintage, to a tailor and had a patch sewn onto the left elbow. It looks great: you can hardly tell it has been repaired. It works.

I can’t say it saved me much money (though it was worth every dollar), but it saved yet another piece of clothing from the landfill. It’s not that I‘m environmentally conscious (though I believe I am) or consciously thrifty, I’m just being practical.

Bruised. Beat up.
Each day we hurt; each day we heal some way:
physically, spiritually, superficially
in most cases.
We exist with pain
we cannot forget, nor will we get past.

It moves with us
through phantom limbs. What is, what it was,
or what will never be. No matter how
we squirm, meditate, medicate
or mask our wounds
we bleed.

You cannot wipe
the taste of an old lover from your lips,
a parent’s words echo, mistakes sustained.
Thoughts better left for dead,
and very much alive.
Terminal disappointment.

Remove the dressing,
scars remain: reminders; where we have been,
what we have done or
what has been done
to us. Excuses solemnly validate
our existence.

This art of living
involves exquisite deception. Calloused knees bent,
we pick at scabs from prayer
or surrender. Impressions remain
pressed into the skin.
Of course we hurt.

Who better would know
the fundamental truth of the human experience?
Tear off the bandage,
the wounds will breathe. Proof
we have done something that can and will
make us stronger.

© 2019 j.g. lewis

 

APRIL IS POETRY MONTH
a fundamental truth

Enchanting distractions
conjured up in adolescent fantasy
or tremendously tedious math classes,
albeit fascination.
Initial attraction. Opposite sex.
      You begin to notice.
      Long ago.       Remember?
We run through images at night,
even a month ago. recalling wet dreams,
Ninth Grade goddess, slight overbite,
and a couch in the basement, after
a junior-high school dance.
Waltzing then,
      holding another body
      as close as you could.
Nights In White Satin
Stairway To Heaven
The longer the better. Fumbling
with opportunity, taking liberties
as much as chances.
After the dance. Each of us.
      Feeling. Like it mattered.
Permission denied, then granted.
Breath of consent with closed eyes,
nervous smile.
      Teenagers. Enthusiasm greater
than experience.
We didn’t know what romance was, or
the meaning of sensuality, or ecstasy.
Or lust.
      But we knew how it felt.
As we grew older, did we forgot?
      Except in our dreams.

© 2019 j.g. lewis

 

APRIL IS POETRY MONTH
let the soul wander

Eye-catching immediacy,
pamphlet affixed to a bus shelter wall;
below twilight drunks piss on the sidewalk
with all the other animals in the cold dust
and recycled sentiment of this city.
     Where Are You
     Going To Spend
     Eternity?
Weekly sermon tacked up
by an anonymous preacher. Or disciple.
Reality, rhetoric, cut-and-paste spirituality
sprinkled amongst Biblical evidence.
      ‘As it is written.’
Cowardice under nightfall. Honesty by dawn.
A believer more than I.
      ‘For by grace are ye saved through faith;
      and that not of yourselves.’
How long have I been sleeping,
dreaming I could
make it on my own?
      ‘It’s only by faith in the only savior.’
Have I have lost my place?
God: a reason or an excuse. I have fallen short
of his glory. We all have, apparently; morally,
truthfully, decently, cruelly.
      ‘Look at the world today! Crumbling!’
Headlines scream even louder each day.
I know. I know
I do not meet God’s requirements; owning
my sins as much as I care to.
      ‘To be saved, you must admit
      that you are a sinner.’
My pride prevents me from opening up,
from believing in eternity, my trajectory,
or most efficient route there.
      ‘Dear Soul, if you were to die right now,
      do you know whether you would go
      to heaven or to hell.’

© 2019 j.g. lewis

APRIL IS POETRY MONTH
fresh poetry served every day

Coffee, fresh shirt, plans and rationalizations
see us through another day. So it goes,
each day commences with hope.
It has to. Something has to.
Deadly sins we keep within; bigotry, dishonesty,
infidelity. Silently, we weather a toxic environment.
We live. We learn. How long
until the coffee becomes bitter,
or cold? When will a shirt
become creased, or stained? Which knowledge is lost
and what remains? When do old habits return
as mistakes? Again.
Have we become complacent to lies we are sold,
or those we spit out? And we do.
Rarely do we say what we mean. Each sentence
a vapour trail. The previous, the past,
or the pathetic catches up by three, or by five.
This is how we live, or how we will die.
No aspirations. No sorrow.
Dawn to dusk, twilight then starlight. weary
or resentful, we will rest and repeat tomorrow.
Again. Hope returns. It has to. Faith.

© 2019 j.g. lewis

APRIL IS POETRY MONTH
check back daily for fresh poetry