Mythos & Marginalia

life notes between the lines and along the edges

  • Where Is Here

    In any language, a scream is a scream,

    a cry is a cry, and a tear

    a tear.

    At a sidewalk café or concert hall,

    laughter should be laughter, and music

    should be heard. In a civilized nation,

    life should be lived without fear,

    and with the freedom

    to enjoy simple pleasures,

    to give, and to love, as we do.

     

    Think not of them, idealistically, but

    of you and of me. Life, and our

    civil lives,

    now compressed to fight or flight.

    In any language, on any night,

    thoughts remain

    bursting with pain, the

    shadow of terrorism rising

    again. In every country, our hearts

    have been crushed.

     

    Restless night, clouded by sorrow and

    the news. The images, and views,

    the questions,

    the why, and why there. Again,

    why? Knowing, without question,

    it could be anywhere. The streets are

    not safe, not tonight, in any country.

    Where is here. You cannot see, or

    comprehend inhumanity. Not on

    that scale, or of that type.

     

    In every language, evil lurks, unexpectedly

    displaying its brutal cowardice. We cannot

    be shocked,

    for it happens, on so many levels,

    in so many countries, to many people

    on too many streets. Blood is blood.

    Knives at home, elsewhere guns

    or worse. We see it. We know it.

    Yet, on a global scale, our minds

    are numb.

     

    Hatred begets violence, justice benign

    against those who chose to

    use themselves

    as weapons of destruction. We

    are not safe, not there, not here.

    These damaged souls believe

    in what they believe; wholly

    and without question.

    If there is no understanding,

    there is only resistance.

     

    Prayers, or a hymn, cannot be offered to

    unbelievers, for they will not, or chose not,

    to listen.

    Guided by spirits, their Gods, and dictators

    who know nothing but this atrocious devotion

    to another type of mankind. Historically

    and now, they cannot know love

    or recognize the value of

    a human life. For they

    cannot be human.

     

    Grieving, raging, and still, beneath our

    confusion, above our cries for revenge

    or retribution,

    lies a love, unpronounced but unfolding.

    A heartbeat, sympathies and empathy

    to the powerless struggles,

    in every language. We, as a civilization,

    in any nation, must stand

    united in our sense of humanity,

    and do so with a fortified will.

     

    We must continue believing in love,

    and hope, charity, and trust,

    and peace.

    Right now, however, there is so little

    to those words. We must have faith,

    in what we believe, in every heart,

    in every body. Difficult to imagine,

    but we must. To deny

    this resurgence of compassion

    is to give in to all this terror stands for.

     © 2015 j.g. lewis

     

     

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  • Trail of Thought

    Even in this new day, as we only try to wake from the darkness that enveloped us, comforted or confused us, through the night; even as we give pause to immediate thoughts in the disquiet of the world, this city, this coffee shop (or wherever you find yourself). Even then (or now) as we struggle less and less with the inspiration and more and more with our intentions, we are never quite sure if we will find or have found the clarity we seek. It is naturally, even organically, a process we value, a practice we attempt, that is far less than pedantic and far more than studied. It occurs on its own, full of questions and comments, each random line on the page is purposeful if only because the pencil leaves a trail of thought and indications you are alive and wondering, at all times, as we should be… shouldn’t we? Let not the questions cast doubt on what you know, but instead observe where the answers take you. Surely you are alive enough to count yourself in? This is the pattern of life: to question, to observe, to make use of your time — in whatever manner — to express yourself beyond the boundaries of what you have been told. Is there a better reason to write every damn day?

    © 2022 j.g. lewis

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  • A Shadow Only Follows

    I wish to leave
    my shadow behind,
    no longer
    do I require a reminder
    of where I am.
    Translucent darkness
    with rough edges, its ability
    to stretch the truth
    serves no purpose.
    I am tired of its lazy ways,
    the constant need
    for attachment
    and a deviant reflection
    of where I stand.
    Never knowing
    its own direction, this shadow
    has seen too much of me,
    hiding when I could
    use support,
    believing it knows me
    all too well, and carrying
    the scent
    of my scattered past.
    A shadow only follows,
    more suitable for
    someone else to hide away.
    Darkness,
    I’m not going there.
    I see the light.

    © 2017 j.g. lewis

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  • Live With It

    Winter arrives unexpectedly, as it always seems to do.
       We shouldn’t be surprised, but we are.
       It is, after all, mid-November. This is Canada, and morning’s early chill should have been reminder enough to pull gloves, scarves and hats out of storage.
       But winter is not a feeling; even less it is a date.
       Winter truly begins with the first snowfall.
       Yesterday morning it was only a few flakes.
       Then it was flurries, and soon the rooftops below were covered in white. You could hear the slushy sounds of cars eleven stories down as the wet snow continued to accumulate.
       Of course, soon, you were caught up in the cross-town traffic. Driving is not easy in the first snowfall; it never is, as restless cab drivers recklessly swerve in an out of the steady traffic with unsteady drivers getting the feel of the slick roads. Slow and steady are the rules of the road; drive with the conditions if not the confidence.
       Freezing and melting, the unpredictable temperatures will be here for a while and all we can do is live with it for however long it takes.
       Winter arrives, almost unexpectedly, and takes over our lives for months at a time. The first snowfall has a way of reminding us of a new reality.
       Winter has this way of slowing us down.

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  • Adding Insult To Illusion

    Turn it off. Weary the mind. You’ve had your say

    now allow time for those working, or trying, and

    believing there may still be opportunity, perhaps

    prosperity. If allowed. Can the dream still exist?

    More and more it becomes less and less important.

    I will not listen; or cannot, a more apt description,

    to the incessant ignorance spilling from your lips.

    My ears bleed, my heart aches, among this crush

    of bigotry, inequality and blind trust misplaced.

    I put on my headphones commanding ear-splitting

    silence to shut out the numbing narcissistic diatribe

    with its women-hating violence. You’ve said all that

    you needed to get what you wanted, you bullied,

    and prophesied, and threatened and taunted. Now

    perpetuating insult with that firm hypocritical

    stance, adding insult to illusion, capitalizing on

    chance. It’s less about being chosen, and now

    what you choose, because my motherhood issues

    are a far cry from your motherfucking truths.

      

                                                                                    © 2022 j.g. lewis

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