It was never for the night, but only
for the summer.     My seventeenth
summer. Never would I say it shouldn’t
have happened, because it did.
You with a past
I would certainly become a part of,
and I collecting stories.   An identity.
At seventeen. You took a part of that;
of all, or whatever, went forward.
What I have become.
Bones are formed through experience,
shaping us emotionally, physically, and
psychologically.           Down to the soul.
You were there.    There I was,
not knowing what to expect, and you
expecting nothing but honesty.
I didn’t question your motives, nor did I
question mine. Age was not important,
you said, nor was intent.
                           There was a difference.
Seventeen years. but only one summer.
July heat, the scent of patchouli,
sandalwood and #5. Intoxicating.
I tasted the moon on your breath,
and witnessed the clouds in your eyes.
A sullen anger, a hurt from before, and
your impatient need to get over
the emotions.       You talked about it.
I could only listen, or try, to understand.
At seventeen I could not know.
Yet.   I would learn.   Eventually.
In times of give and of take, we took
consciously. Each of us. Never a moment
of mixing the beginning up with the end.
We knew.      I wouldn’t ask;
at seventeen you don’t.    Of course,
I remember fireflies, the music, touch,
and the sense and secrets we rarely
acknowledged.   Not enough time.   Only
one summer.      It was close, something
I had never had before, but it was not
friendship. A friend you would see again. 
Not only for a summer.

©2018 j.g. lewis

“It isn’t all it seems at seventeen”
                                       -Janis Ian

 

After rain, or tears, have extinguished
flames of many candles, diminished now
to stiff wax puddles from last night or
the one before that.

Flowers wilted on the street, solemn vigil
is over, but anger remains. Community grief
is necessary. People hurt together, even
heal together. When allowed.

Until next night, or the one after that. Another
mass shooting, traffic stop or another situation
where race meets hate. Another protest over
another death. Never changes.

Again and again, lives once lived, stories told,
never-ending headlines. Grief forever knows
no boundaries. Another night, another life
gone. Hate makes waste.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

 

Gather, you beggars. Assemble 
like pigeons, seeking morsels of kindness 
on these filthy city streets. We notice but do not acknowledge.  
Or apologize. 
 
I cannot deal with all I see. 
 
Any spare change? No answer. No chance.  
I saunter by in my warm parka, well-rested, belly full 
of breakfast. I know no hunger, though not immune  
to the pang. Sunglasses shield my eyes.  
I have witnessed too much. 
 
There, but by the grace of God, go I. 
 
They remain. Unrecognizable 
even to those who have loved them. A person’s sister, somebody’s  
brother, somebody’s child. A somebody; 
another vacant bed or private hell 
another excuse or story to tell. 
 
We do not want to hear. 
  
Nor dare to breathe. Ask no questions. 
I am only what I ask myself to be. If 
charity begins at home, what then of the homeless? Nothing. 
I know where I will sleep tonight. 
 
Ashamed. I do little but look away. 
 
Filthy pigeons stare back.  
Then scatter. 
2021 j.g. lewis

Enraged.
Voices raised in anger, solidarity,
and in protest of that no person should have to face:

misogyny; violence; anti-Asian hate.

Vital lives, already shaped by stereotype and stigma,
everyday sins of a multidimensional world
in a country formed by immigration

and promise.

Ethnicity. Here, in a multi-cultural city.

Diversity and inclusion once a dream,
now a tagline or social media hashtag
nobody seems to pays attention to;

except the haters.

Now speaking out, speaking up over damage
already done; the words and the guns.

‘Fuck your bad day’

Time after time, crime after crime, hate
is a virus we are unable to isolate ourselves from.
Information and understanding is not enough
to inoculate fellow human beings.

They protest. More should.

We are not in this together; some have to stand apart.

We all have our reasons.

What’s your excuse?
What is your explanation?

© 2021 j.g. lewis

Poets say
               April showers bring May flowers
So too say the liars, the preachers and prostitutes
who come to express what they’ve heard, but not
what they know.
    Unlike poets,
the doubtful and the disenchanted
often cry foul as we together mourn the loss of
common sense and decency.
A tarnished soul with a litany of pleas, a poet learns
words are worth little more than sand if not spoken
with wisdom derived from a broken heart, physical
traits of emotional details, and second-hand lessons
from third-rate teachers.
        It hurts to bleed.
        It hurts to need validation.
Honesty is not worth what it once was, but comes
at a significant cost.
        April soon, May will surely follow,
and politicians will say only what they want to hear
(like the prostitutes and preachers). Fraudsters all.
Only the poet sees the crime, unless
you know wherein the message lies.
        Society becomes as calm as it is
corrupt, when we take the words of a televangelist or
talk-show host as truth. Moving swiftly through topic
of the day – fentanyl crisis or racial pain – they don’t
know any better when speaking of so much worse.
Nor can they tell the difference between
propaganda and verse.
        The poet writes not of spring flowers,
        but of the dread instead.
Whom else but a poet (or discarded lover)
would sit in the rain and wait for tulips to bloom?
Other souls think it too impractical, too illogical, or
simply too wet to care.
           Them who cannot taste the difference
           between raindrops and a salty tear
           may never know bona fide honesty
                                       until they read about it.

© 2021 j.g.lewis

April is Poetry Month
all poetry all the time
right here

poetry every day