Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days

  • misplaced memories

    What becomes of days past, the ones that remind you of people or places; even those you have long forgotten?
        April now a slight shadow, I can look back and wonder what really happened in the external world as I put aside the time to concentrate solely on my own concerns.       Perhaps it was selfish, or self-absorbed, but there had to be something inside the time within the lines that further defines who, or what, I am.
        It must be more than a guessing game.
        Through the years, it has become far too easy to dwell on reflections of days, weeks or months left behind. Or is it avoidance?
        Internal thought often neglects external stimulation. Often it holds me back.
        May now, June definitely on the horizon, and there will be vistas beyond.
        It is the way it happens and has always been.
        Remember?
        Even those places and people you avoided thinking about, or didn’t admit to considering, remain more than misplaced memories. Everything has an impact.
        I can only step ahead mindful that there was something that influenced my behaviour(s) as I endeavored to move forward. My direction dictates next steps, yet I do so knowing I am stronger because of what was experienced.

    © 2024 j.g. lewis

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  • what once was

    How often can you document the sun as it sets
    repeating, many times over, the glorious feeling
    it evokes. Now or when.
    Are you not observant of the decay and dissolution
    of our world, as it is now, or was then?
    Reminders play tricks when you ignore
    unmistakable sight.

    I have read poets whom write of rust and common
    deterioration, oxidation, degradation,
    felt day by day. Poems of love, what once was,
    left now to suffer the elements.
    Can you not feel what they believe?
    Has the façade been contaminated by life itself,
    or is the sun too bright for you to notice.

    © 2024 j.g. lewis

    April is Poetry Month
    feel what is there

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  • Undeniably Present

    From whence we came and where we go, landscapes
    follow, flashbacks flow from childhood homes so far-away,
    to skeletal evidence of sorrows, secrets, and songs of yesterday.
    Weather-beaten dairies or deeply-faded photographs hrdly hold
    mere traces of what was truly there, our minds rush over details
    and dialogue of kindred spirits found,
    then left along the way.
    Do people come and go, or do we?
    Faulty fragments of what we have collected
    travel with us. Destination to designation; another apartment,
    another home, immemorial addresses on report cards, bank
    statements, divorce certificate, a parent’s obituary.
    Disappointments remain undeniably present and unaccounted for.
    Our recollection of fact and fiction, over time, is rarely as accurate
    as what it once was. We remember our first phone number, but
    must think hard to recall the ones that followed. Even now,
    area codes blur from one city to the next.
    Where am I now?
    Impending move to a familiar place, months away but still
    a trace of anxiety. Or is it apprehension?
    What will be there when I return?

    © 2024 j.g. lewis

     

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  • Hunger

    You will find my passage clearly marked 
    with mental breadcrumbs and seeds 
    encountered between ravens and me.
    We are each hungry, seeking attention 
    from both young women and widows who 
    may take us in, nature us, share their compassion,
    desires, and grilled cheese sandwiches.
    Nutrition comes in many forms; 
    only I will ascertain when I am adequately sated.
    Once fulfilled, I shall leave behind my handkerchief 
    under the table or apple tree, not accidentally, so 
    I may have a reason to return.

    © 2024 j.g. lewis

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  • unforeseen origin

    The greater the body of water, 
    the more questionable where a wave comes from.
              Pebble in a puddle, a most obvious start,
    a drip from a drop. Ripple resonates, doubles, then triples. 
                            Evermore a pattern.
       The bigger the lake, the more we can see.
       Surge and swell on a monumental ocean 
           changes with the sunset, seaside tide, or a notion.
                      It ends on the shoreline, 
                      from where does it come?
                Unforeseen origin, man-made or natural?
        On the stillest of days, wind hardly a whisper,
        you will notice a rhythm but rarely the source.
                 Undertow and currents may alter your course.
    True flow you may never know, shining surf leaving you 
    in its wake. What will it leave behind for another day?

    © 2024 j.g. lewis

    April is Poetry Month
    you will notice a rhythm

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