Daily we make up our lies with
pieces of the truth, indemnifying
ourselves from the current reality.
Hesitancy takes time, various stages
of indecision come back to hinder.
Arbitrary illusions provide a depth
only the imagination will grant.
Seize the moment, the inspiration,
in the obvious unaccounted for.
Can you face up to the falsities?
Time heals all wounds, but only if
you loosen the bandages, only if
you believe you have been hurt.

© 2022 j.g. lewis

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

 

 

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

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

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.