For many of us, Mothers exist
only in memory.
We had our time, but never enough.
Unconditional love, never
realized or respected.
Even then, as we grew older,
even, then, as did they too,
we remained
a child in their eyes,
in their heart,
in their thoughts.
They wanted only the best for us,
and gave all they had.
So much to learn,
patience and understanding
taught by example.
Wisdom in hindsight.
The words, the voice, the comfort
comes in small doses
when you need it most.

Maybe a certain day with flowers
and cards to celebrate
is not enough. How could it be?
Isn’t it every day, not just
the once-in-a-while,
when the love shows through?
Let peace be, ceremoniously.
Cherish the moments,
so much to yearn.
They only wanted the best for us
and would sacrifice
their comfort for ours.
For many of us
only scattered memories,
with moments for some
still to come.
Either way
there is always time
to whisper
I love you Mom.

©2017 j.g. lewis

It has served me well for more than 25 years, having endured winter storms and torrential rainfall, travels to distant sandy beaches, carrying everything from camera equipment, picnic lunches, and library books, to sweaty yoga towels.

My packsack has been with me through a lot. I’ve routinely treated it with mink oil, dubbin, saddle dressing, and a miscellaneous range of lotions and potions through the years, but it has also been mistreated, even abused.

Still it survives. Each day, particularly over the past six or seven years, it is called into action and still looks good. In fact, like many good leather accessories, it may even look better as the years pass and it takes on a heritage look.

The packsack, however, was becoming a little rough around the edges. Threads were slowly unraveling, a few seams were splitting, and one particular spot had actually worn through.

For the past couple of years I’ve been searching for a leather messenger bag, not to replace my packsack, but to augment its use. I had come to the silent realization that despite its well-earned antique appearance, there were occasions when it may not have looked as if it belonged.

I knew I needed a more formal bag, with a little more structure, but I wasn’t going to buy just anything. I wasn’t going to settle, and I had a list of features I required. I wanted one that would last, presumably, as long as my current companion.

I finally found the perfect sidekick about a month back. A handsome bag, it has the right amount of pockets and compartments to haul around what I need (and I’ve been carrying a lot), a thick, firm strap, and luxurious pebbled leather finish. I know it will last, as leather does.

Now, I have no intention of tossing out ‘old reliable’, or hanging it in the back of the closet. I feel there is still a lot of life left in it, so I took it to a proper shoemaker. A family business in downtown Toronto, it was obvious the cobbler had the skills and equipment to restore the bag’s majesty.

Parts of it were patched, seams were sewn up right, and the stitching on the weary straps was re-sewn. It was not a cheap renovation, but will give the bag another couple of decades. I’m sure. It won’t see the daily action it was accustomed to (my new bag is doing what it should), but it is sure to become a weekender, or used for less formal late-night carousing or wandering about the city.

I made a conscious decision to repair the packsack and give it a new life. I suppose I wanted to rebel (who me?) in some way against this disposable society we live in. Everything, nowadays, has obsolescence built into it.

Luggage, furniture, and household goods: they don’t make things like they used to, and this seems to suit today’s popular attitude favoring replacement.

If the car starts having problems, many times people don’t bother fixing, but simply get a new one. Should the heel pad fall off a pair of loafers, they are not repaired, but replaced with new shoes. If a lover, partner, or spouse starts giving you grief, you don’t work on fixing the situation, but go looking for a new one.

Replacing is quicker and easier than caring and repairing, and everyone wants easy.

Lasting quality has become a thing of the past; but quality lasts, and keeps on lasting.

Perspective,
perception, space
between each line.
The subject
bare, a body
in its most poetic form.
Two-minute sketch,
a pose,
little time to see behind
the image.
Like any other person,
a life, nobody truly knows.
Exposed. Angles and
curves, skin, illustration,
details, expression,
impression
of all that is there, and
what is accounted for.
Here. Now.
Depiction of a moment,
reality marked
by seconds.
A figure captured
on paper. Briefly.
Deliberate, though
inconclusive, pencil stroke
softening, straightening,
shading, sorting out
what is on display.
Temporarily.
Art is not
what is there,
rather what you see.
Time defines authenticity.
Another page, a different pose.
Two minutes; all you know.

© 2017 j.g. lewis

If I had known that, I would
also be alone;
alone inside my head, where thoughts
would circulate like the blood
inside my body
between my ribs. Also
between my lips,
where words would no longer flow.

There were now only my eyes
with nowhere
to look, no more beauty to absorb
because inside my head, so many things
crowd the memories
I had attempted to build.
And I think; I think that:
I am still here.

Anger sits, between my ribs.
I am still here
watching my blood switching from
red to blue, as if it is a habit. Automatically
I scream hopelessly from the outside.
Hopeless on the inside. Help me.
I want to get out from here
desperate on the outside.

Those who surround me, strangers,
do not see.
They turn a deaf ear, since it is
but my loneliness following me everywhere.
Maybe a year, maybe even longer,
I am still here. My anger, I keep it,
there is no exit from the outside.
Here is not near.

A smile had, once, looked at me,
believed in me.
Happiness cut through me, finally.
A hand offered support, and this option
I loved, as only I could.
Whoever can say, who was aware,
that so much could be built upon a smile
and so much could be taken away.
© 2013 j.g. lewis

Silence amidst the screams, vacancy, space between darkness and dreams
beyond paisley skies, red velvet mistakes, and muddled remnants of
happenstance and half-lived Tuesdays.

Neverland tenements where landlords fail to repair cracked windows,
broken pipes, and the noxiously rhythmical drip, drip, drip of the sink.
You don’t care anymore.

Deadbolt locks designed to keep your self safe from yourself, or
your type. It gets harder to have faith when held sway by misfortune and
the troubles you create.

Awake, if hardly asleep. Ridiculous notions, infractions on lustful wishes
meant to placate the mind during desperate times or validate your existence
as a lover, has-been; one or the other.

Somewhere in this middle-of-the-night existence, 4:23 slips away, as
only 4:24 can. Time less subjective than one can imagine. Down the hall
the television knows only one volume.

Unfettered anger thrives in this sort of dive, trash bins overflow with
long-forgotten get-rich-quick schemes, recycled promises, and the pursuit
of happiness. Or something like it.

Consumption remains a tireless game, complete with ill-conceived products
and yesterday’s shame. Tomorrow (really today) won’t promise anything anymore.
Less to discover outside any door.

Black noise in a white noise sort of way. Continual reminders of not being alone in
this awkwardness. You hear the echo of booty-call passion in the bedroom above.
It doesn’t mean anything. It never is love.

Sunrise, even sunset, less reason to see. It keeps you awake for another day. Time
even less subjective than it was an hour ago. Close the door on a short night, look
for another reflection in the mirror.

Underneath the pizza crusts and bad fast-food choices, empty calories and
abandoned wine bottles, a Bible sits in a box you never look in. You can’t deal with
the guilt. Or the lies.
©2017 j.g. lewis