Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days

  • gratitude’s profound connection

    Gratitude flows two ways. It must.

    For gratitude to be gratitude, it has to be given, as it is accepted; free of conditions; without demand; without expectations.

    As an exchange, there needs be, at its most crucial point, equality. Both the giver and the receiver should, even if only for a moment, bask in the state of grace allowed, and furthered by, the humane act of giving.

    Gratitude is ‘you are welcome’ as much as it is ‘thank you’.

    Sadly, and often, in this give-and-take society, there is an imbalance of power. The provision of aid or assistance is viewed as strength, with the acceptance, or receiver, as weak. Charity — a worthy and necessary act  — is boastfully promoted and endorsed. The ‘look at me’ or ‘look at us’ attitude removes the true shine from an otherwise generous act as it makes the giver more important than the need.

    It’s pretty ugly out there. We, as humans, have continued to allow this to happen. Captains of industry, politicians, plumbers, and the powers that preach have continually deceived us. We have almost become pre-conditioned to accepting this conditioned eye-for-an-eye type of attitude of gratitude.

    It should not be more difficult to understand, as it is to accept, gratitude.

    We need to help each other, more. The spirit of giving should be fostered among us, but we end up asking too many questions. Even if just by questioning where any form of gratitude flows, we are suspicious. We look for ulterior motives and hidden reasons.

    How do we get past the doubt, or the disingenuous, to not only show our thankfulness, but share the act and purpose bestowed upon us?

    We, perhaps, need to be more thankful of what we’ve got and more gratified in how we share our place and purpose.

    Indeed, as with the adage ‘the hand that gives is the hand that gathers meaning’, it must be more than exhibiting kindness towards others as a means of benefiting the self. We need to recognize the profound connection of the hand that gives and the hand that receives.

    The benefits are shared, are equal, and are needed. There is a deeper meaning in not only accepting selflessly, but in giving graciously.

    © 2019 j.g. lewis

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  • words for a father

    Always words I wanted to say.
    Even now, they can’t stain the page.
    Whys and whens, I might never know
    if I don’t say,
    if I couldn’t find the words, or some time,
    to ask my father.

    Forever a distance I could never cross.
    More than a few steps, questions lost,
    ifs, ands, or buts, I dared not to mention.
    How could I, then?
    Or now? If I didn’t find the time, or the words
    for my father.

    There have always been years, months and days
    I never found the time, or the way.
    The fault is mine, tongue-tied.
    Can I speak, now?
    Or ever? Time is a barrier to words
    with my father.

    A love held back, not purposely so.
    It’s my fault, I know it’s there, I’ve felt it grow,
    still I can’t, so it seems, make myself known.
    How can I, now?
    How would he know? Does he? Do I
    know my father?

    There is a will to utter sentences in my head,
    to say what needs to be told, has to said.
    I’d like to think he realizes what holds me back.
    I understand him less,
    than he knows me. How can he?
    He is my father.

    I was supposed to ask, supposed to say,
    but never did. Was it meant to stay that way?
    The clock has expired, true nature of time.
    Words unspoken.
    Unrealized. Thoughts remain mine.
    Not my father’s.

    Did he know why I needed my time?
    Questions then would always remind.
    Maybe he thought it best I find the answers
    on my own.
    It’s probably right, words meant to remain
    with my father.

    © 2015 j.g. lewis

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  • any given day

    You begin to understand, at a certain age, 
    it is not about understanding everything.
    It doesn’t make sense, any more, any less, 
    but becomes easier to understand 
    or accept. Nevertheless, 
    in this realm of limited-time offers and
    best-before dates, coming of age seems right. 
    Come what may, give or take, 
    to trial and error, it no longer matters, now, 
    who wasn’t there. Destination straight ahead, 
    on a certain date, in a certain way, 
    you carry any range of emotions 
    more purposefully, on any given day. 
    Often you have more to say, yet wisely choose 
    whom you repeat it to. 
    Every day is not the same. 
    Glimpses of yesterday rarely appear. Anyway. 
    This was the tomorrow we looked forward to.

    © 2018 j.g. lewis

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  • 3:37 a.m.

    I wake. 
    I wake often at 3:37. Desires inspired 
    in Illuminated darkness
    and hunger.
    I want ice cream
    with you.
    Half asleep,
    wholly consumed, vacant dreams,
    your voice shows through.
    Unusually delusional.
    Familiar image,
    tussled hair,
    threadbare kimono
    and comfort.

    Quiet.
    Front stoop shadow at 3:56. I show up
    with ice cream and excuses. 
    You with questions, and
    sleep in your eyes.
    Silently nothing happens.
    Lawns hiss, lamppost shines on
    streets bereft of motion.
    Come closer.
    Dreadfully dead humidity 
    and well-weathered wicker
    leaves an 
    impression on
    bare legs.

    Hush.
    You stultify my banter, caution me not 
    to laugh so loud or I’ll wake up 
    the neighbours.
    I tell you I don’t care 
    who hears us or 
    who sees us 
    through this heat.
    The ice cream 
    is melting. 4:24, 
    you take 
    the spoon and the last mouthful
    dribbles down
    your chin.

    Compulsion.
    Not caring, or even daring, that neighbours 
    might find you on top of a shadow 
    naked 
    on the front lawn at 4:37.
    Ice cream tub 
    discarded on the grass.
    Liberated illumination.
    Spoon still 
    in your 
    mouth, you are
    radiant
    and dripping 
    on me.

    © 2017 j.g. lewis

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  • anything and everything

    It is vast, and unblemished, maybe even uninteresting, at first.
    At the beginning of the day, to the naked eye, it is nothing more than a vacant page, or space between the lines. Upon closer inspection, it is anything but.
    A page lies as open as an eye. This is my landscape. You see white space; I see themes and dreams, and possibility. The view changes, as does my mind, by the minute, moment-to-moment, year to fear, as each day becomes each day, and I am still here.
    The landscape changes, oft times like a blur through a car window. It’s like that when you travel forward. Look closely at what you see, take note of the spared indifference to what is, and what could be. This is more than my breath, voice, thoughts, leftovers or left behinds. It is more than indulgence and possessions.
    It is there for a reason.
    This is a world of secrets in a universe of sounds. It contains sins and silence, handily left for obsessive thoughts, and action. I know no discomfort, or a source for objective reasoning, so it should be as it flows, and like any great adventure you are never aware when it stops. There are no endings.
    It is not about anything, or could be about everything. It is my landscape.
    As permanent as chalked messages on a sidewalk, as indelible as DNA, there is something here than need not be understood, but it can be. And should. If you take the time, take what is mine, and read between the lines to see what might matter now to you, or me.
    This is my landscape. It may not all be personal, but it is intimate, and available. It is not a complete picture, but it is honest. It is here to entertain and inform, even advise, but take my words with a grain of fault, for there is nothing more human than a human being struggling to exist. I do both; struggle, and exist.
    This is my landscape, even when it is all mixed up. I might say some things now and then I am now only trying to comprehend, and admittedly there is naivety, as I want to learn, to know, to understand. So it goes from society’s distinct or damaged black and white to every Kodachrome colour that is, sadly, missing in this day and age. I use the past only as a reference, and not a regret; I have none; I can’t, at least not yet.
    Judge me not by my words or what I believe, take nothing for granted, if you know what I mean. Beneath all adventures, or even my stillness, is a strong inner voice. Not by purchase and not by choice. My blood boils with anger, and terror, and compassion. And love. I have a purpose, with promise, thoughts ever full of hope, evermore. Finding momentum to even my most dormant dreams I break it down again, and again.
    Again. These are my eyes.
    There is no revolution, not right now. Perhaps, maybe, there will be, for someone, somewhere else, a person to show something new about you, or your inner being. It may not be me, but keep reading, to see.
    This is my landscape. These are my dreams.

    © 2016 j.g. lewis

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