Time-treasured romanticism
of a soft summer rain;
stories told
again and again.
Gentle pitter-patter
against window glass
like a teenaged lover. An invitation
to step outside
when no one knows
where will we go.
Through the city, we walk on water
across the cement. Mind the puddles.
Soaked to the skin,
our spirits not dampened.
Rain breaks the heat and
maybe even the humidity.
Whether it has,
weather it is,
for a time we forget where we are.
We remember
decades later.
On a night like this
with a rain like that.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

I write much like I talk.
   I use many words, but only enough to convey my thoughts on whatever subject intrigues me, amuses me, or angers me.
   Sometimes the topic is complex and requires a lot of words to explain a multiplicity of angles or reject widely accepted opposing viewpoints. It is not easy, but it is necessary.
   I write every day, some days more than others.
   Some days the words seem to write themselves and my perspective (or poem) is clear whether I’ve used many words, or just enough.
   It may take paragraphs or pages, or something can be said as explicitly or concisely as haiku.

It is what you write
that allows you to explain
what you have to say

   Maybe it is the mood of the moment, or perhaps the phase of the moon that allows me to be clearer some days than others in one way or another. Maybe my thought process has been unnecessarily interrupted, or what seemed important yesterday (or three hours ago) is not as immediate when the pencil hits the page.
   You know what I mean?
   Say what you mean, and mean what you say.
   Write it, then, so it is easily explained.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

Midnight arrives. No moon, new moon, clouds buffer the sky,
shifting moods, stars align. Where did the day go? Time stands still
without the presence of people, and a sense of substance.

Questions now. We carry into consciousness a dog-eared confusion
never hoped for. The longer it goes, the less you know. You want
little more to ignore the impendent humidity of a Van Gogh night.

Young hearts will find a way
old souls still remain,
but where would you go
if you knew the difference?

Deep breath. Full stop, amidst the barren dreams, night tremors, and
flashbacks casting dispersions on emotions and moments of repose.
Unsteadied in the innocence, unmoved by a prophecy unknown.

Reach out. All, which you see, cannot always be felt. Confronted by
constraints of an ever-changing sky, a complete spectrum of wonder.
All told, there are less reasons to know than less reasons to be.

Young heart will find its way
old soul knows the pain,
now would you go there
if you knew the difference?

© 2016 j.g. lewis

We are Canadian.
We live on stolen land.
How should we celebrate that?
We have lived lies, unknowingly or otherwise, following blindly
in the firm footsteps of our forefathers. By default, we absorbed
their secrets and sins.
We have uprooted families, taken their young, and forced them
onto bleak lands without resources as essential as safe drinking water.
Still, to this day, in this country.
Canada.
We made gallant attempts to convert our ways into theirs by force
or by fraud, overlooking injustice, upholding our selfish direction.
Human rights denied: no; ignored.
We took what was not ours, without shame, without dignity.
Are we not savages?
Politicizing promises, ignoring treaty rights, we have elected
governments that allowed our First Nations peoples to be treated
merely as inconveniences.
Long shadows of colonialism cast further darkness onto lives
that will never know the daily freedoms only some of us enjoy.
Certainly not hundreds of souls secretly buried without account,
without honour, without names.
Once a rumour; do we now know the truth?
What else can we honestly learn about ourselves?
Who poses the questions? Who will answer?
If religion is this country’s strongest available excuse, will we now
question whether our moral compass has ever known a true North?
How do you celebrate that?

© 2021 j.g. lewis

Again, today, I fell into my morning routine. We all do.
   Routines: we have them, no matter how strict or subliminal they end up.
   Mornings we bathe, dress, eat breakfast (alone or before anyone else is awake), check the news feed or your bank account on your ever-present mobile device, and then set off to work (the same route, the same streets or street car number); perhaps a stop at the coffee shop, banal chatter with the barista-of-the-day, obligatory greetings to office mates or tales of last night’s game; you get the picture. It’s an everyday day. Most days.
   If you substitute one item for another, an instance here or there, and we all do the same things, mostly every day, whether we pay attention or not.
   For me, during these pandemic days, it begins with a morning walk before the streets get crowded or well before much of Toronto’s humanity is even awake. I like the silence. I’m not ready to talk to anybody, except for the afore-mentioned banter with the barista, and rarely get more than 1,300 steps into the day without my morning cup of personality. Then I wander.
   Following my morning constitutional (maybe an hour and a bit later) and prior to preparation for whatever I am about to do, I will take a moment for only my self.
   I sit at my desk every morning, before tearing into whatever needs to be done, and reach over to the bookcase on my left and, without looking, grab a book of poetry. With the same attention to detail, I flip open a page and I read aloud the poem in front of me.
   It has become my daily ritual.
   Now, I will often read a poem or selection of poems at different points of the day, but the first poem of the day, selected randomly, is the most important to me. I know it is the most purposeful reading I will do today. I know, often depending on the day, that I will eventually (and undoubtedly) come across some disturbing news, critical information, or must-read utterly repugnant corporate missive that will surely set the remainder of my day off kilter.
   For this reason (and many ancillary excuses) this ritual is important to me, especially after a protracted period where many of our rituals — personal or public — have been stripped away by this pandemic.
   We are only now able, after some 15 months, to gather for small ceremonies like weddings, funerals, or birthday celebrations. We are now into the second year where graduation from any form of education has been limited or prohibited. These are all time-honoured public rituals that signify dramatic changes in our lives. Weddings, birthdays, even graduations can somehow be worked around, but grief is a ritual that must be acknowledged.
   Rituals. We have them, or are meant to have them. COVID-19 and its variants have taken many away.
   The Oxford dictionary defines a ritual as “a prescribed order of performing rites” or “a procedure regularly followed”. A routine, in the same dictionary, is described as “a regular course or procedure, an unvarying performance of certain acts.”
   There is a difference, however slight, between routine and ritual.
   A ritual might not be the early-morning jog, or yoga practice. It might however be that moment where you roll out your mat, kneel into your space and whisper a slight prayer or mantra that will pull you through the class.
   Your ritual might be sharpening three or four pencils to their finest point, so you can begin your morning pages; that 11 or 17 minutes of a timed state-of-conscious writing that brings your thoughts into focus and helps define your purpose.
   Perhaps you light a candle, or incense, each night as settle in with a novel or some self-help book or another. Maybe the candle is better spent next to a hot bubble bath where you cleanse both body and mind of the residue of the day.
   Your own ritual may, in fact, be a daily meditation. This may take place while you sit cross-legged (or not), eyes closed or wide-open, and ponder where you are or what you have experienced. It may also take place while you walk around the block after sunset, each step expanding your thoughts or intentions.
   Purposeful time to yourself is a ritual you shouldn’t ignore. You are the only one that can do that for you.
   It is your choice.
   For me it is a random poem, faithfully read each day.
   Choose what best serves you. Realize; no recognize, what breaks up your routine. Feel the difference. Know the difference. Know it is your ritual, and not so much routine, that gets you through the days.
   Not only is it a rite; it is your right.

© 2021 j.g. lewis