Mythos & Marginalia

life notes; flaws and all

j.g. lewis

original content and images ©j.g. lewis

a daily breath...

A thought du jour, my daily breath includes collected and conceived observations, questions of life, fortune cookie philosophies, reminders, messages of peace and simplicity, unsolicited advice, inspirations, quotes and words that got me thinking. They may get you thinking too . . .

this puzzle

Hesitation is seldom efficient.
Moments become a weakness.
Alone. Struggling with the blur
from one day to the rest. You
try to see the hidden meaning.
Will you write the right words?
Finding certain rhythm, sorting
out time. Each step or notion,
guarded breath or concurrent
emotion. Seconds, then minutes,
comprise a day. No silence with
solitude. No path. Today. Clues,
random dogma, unclaimed truth,
passive aggression, as you work
your way through to the answer
in plain view. Mystery in the grid.
Seeking substance in this puzzle.
Will you look again tomorrow?

© 2020 j.g.lewis

cloud songs

     Morning observations rarely register
             as we wake and wander our way 
             through infant hours. 
It takes a moment for 
the mind to come alive while
the gravity of the day settles in.
               We fail to notice little things,
   considerably more substantial days ago, 
   perhaps once meaningful or spiritual,
   now displaced as the second hand
   of the wristwatch sweeps onward.
       Afford yourself opportunity 
   to be distracted by butterflies, soon
   a scent of lilacs, freesia, even the taste of
   spring rain or requisite morning coffee.
       In days so rent with common 
       occurrences, look beyond 
       what is there.
 
05/02/2024                                                                                 j.g.l.

Mondays are just young fridays

This search for wholeness, an
unforgiving quest to find a
natural state in a world of
compromise, deceit, and fate.
My self, my view, my impulse 
or intention too far beyond 
what I am or have now.
Deep thoughts, a deeper longing 
for an uncomfortable truth 
mainly comprised of falsehoods.
What is behind this fragile shell?
What has it done to protect me?

04/29/2024                                                                                   j.g.l.

hopefulness

These days are too brief, life is too short, not to allow yourself the pleasure of entertaining favorable notions, cheerful enthusiasm, and hopefulness.
Think good thoughts. Share them when you can.
 

05/05/2024                                                                                        j.g.l.

05/03/2024

disarming actualities

As if this prose would disappear
like acid rain, last week’s paycheque,
or the Ford Pinto.
   I will undoubtedly forget or move on 
to a new concern, overlooking recurring 
supermarket mass shootings, a fentanyl 
crisis, or cautionary tales as society 
remains as calm as it is corrupt.
   We seem to reliably take advice from
televangelists with Brylcreem-slick
schemes or deleterious demagogues, 
   while ignoring the poet 
         who speaks ostensibly 
        not of spring,
               but of the dread instead.
   The patina of the words dull in
perpetuity and still they attempt to 
sum up happenstance emotions 
caught within disarming actualities.
   They, poets or society itself, cannot 
      know any better when speaking
         of so much worse.

04/30/2024                                                                                       j.g.l.

April is Poetry Month
it happens every year

I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.

j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.

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logical and chronological

archives

My January Breath

Posted on January 7, 2015 Leave a comment

 

January Breath

My January Breath

Snowflakes. Only movement.                                                                                                                           Twilight comes until twilight goes.                                                                                                              Daylight leaves too early. Swiftly.                                                                                                                 The deeper the night, the colder                                                                                                            the darkness.

My January breath suspended,                                                                                                                 my thoughts wishing to go                                                                                                        somewhere. Anywhere, other                                                                                                                than here. A deafening                                                                                                                         winter silence.

The air is slow.Still. Almost.                                                                                                                   Alone, even in the shadow                                                                                                                            of the streetlamps. Nobody to                                                                                                              shield your ears from the cold,                                                                                                                   or dampen the inevitable.

Pointless the task, reviewing patterns                                                                                                   and paths carved into the cartography of                                                                                              the ego. Realization. What once was,                                                                                                     may never be. This season                                                                                                                       stays the longest.

Even with full sunlight. The wind,                                                                                                     should it decide, rips through me.                                                                                                      Harsh. I am not here, not really.                                                                                                 Permanent as my                                                                                                                                 January breath.

Flurries obscure constellations and                                                                                                         the moon. Isolation. The circumference                                                                                                   of my being is reduced. Limited.                                                                                                      Blinded by temporal                                                                                                                             beauty, or tears.

Nothing has happened, or is                                                                                                        happening. The brazen wind chill                                                                                                    clashes with body heat, the atmosphere                                                                                                the victor. Obvious. The world                                                                                                                 still gets in your eyes.

Time agape with a grey known only                                                                                                           to the night. A solitary trek through the                                                                                      ordinary. Undisturbed. Each step resonates                                                                                         the soul-crunching scream of                                                                                                                      a thousand snowflakes.

Beneath winter’s fickle facade, the ice                                                                                             cracks. The fragility of the planet apparent.                                                                            Vulnerable. Each season has precious moments.                                                                             Gone. Time stands still. This is                                                                                                                   my January breath.

Only Wednesday

Posted on December 31, 2014 // 1 Comment

IMG_5467

 

Only Wednesday

Wednesday sits naked                                                                                                                               and ordinary                                                                                                                                          waiting

between the bookends of social Saturday
and restive Sunday. The day is                                                                                                                little more

than a cluster of hours or a stop on the                                                                                        treadmill. Indecisive and                                                                                                                       lonely

nobody chooses a Wednesday. Nothing                                                                                       happens                                                                                                                                                           on a Wednesday

and it’s the same each week.

 

Sept 11/01, a Tuesday. London Subway bombings: July 7/05, a Tuesday, also July 21/05, and also a Tuesday. Assassinations: John Lennon on a Monday, Martin Luther King Jr. a Thursday, and John F. Kennedy a Friday. Kurt Cobain’s body was discovered on a Wednesday, but he chose his way out three days earlier. Nothing happens on a Wednesday.

There are fewer concerts mid-week, and opening night is never a Wednesday. They never open the Olympics on a Wednesday. Nobody gets married on a Wednesday.

Yet I will choose Wednesday, or I will start with a Wednesday. I’ll begin with a page, a place where I can plant my thoughts. I have many thoughts, each week, every day (even on Wednesday), but I will commit to posting something once a week. There are seven days to choose from, and I chose Wednesday.

Now I may post something else on some other day, I’m like that (a true Gemini). If I am moved or if I have time, if the stars align or the moon gives me a nudge, or if something is really bothering me, I won’t wait for Wednesday. But I will post something each Wednesday.

Something will happen each Wednesday, every week. Right here. If you want to see, or wish to be reminded, sign up. There will also be a daily breath (usually 140 characters or less) and it will not be limited to Wednesday, but will, or should, arrive every day.

Until Wednesday . . .

-j-

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