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.
More obvious than DNA, presence
or personality: identity. Individually,
names are given out by someone else,
by family or memory. Titles awarded
before character is developed,
without our knowledge.
A voice we live with. Should you
call out, what will you hear? A name:
in the end, all we are left with. Goodbye.
What you remember and often forget.
Introduction requires random thought
of specific examples.
Fingerprint fact and interpretation, a
name, birth date, statistics, history always
living proof of every step taken, up until
now. Evidence you are all you believe in,
selfish presentation of self-image, under
circumstances that change along with us.
Do you represent what others might think?
How well do they know you? Would you
be any different under any other name?
Will that person remain the same as you
if it were true? Hello. Ask yourself.
It is a hard title to live up to.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
sunlight navigates its way
between
what was and what
is still to come
friday
not just any day
you find the freedom
to notice
transformation happening
as it should
look up
will you see what you should
or observe
all you have neglected
04/26/2024 j.g.l.
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
A poem records the state of being
from one writer to the next. We
visualize, even empathize with the
subject and the stance. We try
to understand the observations.
Poetry transforms us.
Colours change with the days and
attitudes allowed inside the words
under the same sky. We relate
to the surroundings differently
as we comprehend each poem.
Will we see what is there?
08/28/2024 j.g.l.
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.
tonight no dreams
last night the same
then clouds flat
pressed against the
sky allowing nothing
to pass through
except rain
tonight no rain
no dreams no clouds
even stars are silent
there is rain
somewhere surely
perhaps dreams as well
or promises
no light not tonight
the moon in its
darkness only gestures
no promises no dreams
only intentions only
a new moon can offer
new beginnings
@2014 j.g. lewis
Left brain. Right brain. A delicate balance.
A left-handed Gemini; no stranger to controversy, but
I can’t take sides. I dart back and forth regularly between
a practical reality, where I must live,
and the fractured imagination where
I want to be. And I, a dreamer, know this. We all dream,
of course we do; there you find other people, and you.
Déjà vu.
We’ve been here before.
Pyjamas in bed, most of the time. Insomnia.
You question the whys.
Never settling for the answers, there is always another way.
Another sleep (when else would we dream), another day.
Imagination can soothe.
Practicality will confuse.
My imagination is as practical as my every day is creative.
This is my choice, my voice, and where I choose to live.
I’ve been here before.
I will come back often.
“An idea is salvation by imagination.”
-Frank Lloyd Wright
Don’t look for me amidst words I write
between the lines or in the night. My handwriting
always rough at best, the journal is a daily test
not to myself, as much as time.
The pages stained, the thoughts are mine.
Coffee spills or drops of rain, tears
in certain places, among streaks of blood
(paper cuts) are both things I’ve done, and
things I must.
Personal. Private, page after page, book into
book, rarely do I take a second look.
I can, when I choose. I write. Memories now,
or they will be soon, a thought du jour,
there is always room between newspaper clippings
and obituaries, postage stamps and all the necessaries;
the weather, the cities, the price of gas, a few jokes
and then, a certain laugh. I never know what
I will discover, as I fill the space
between the covers.
Inspiration from a tea bag tag, a picture from a
product tag, instructions to a game, a recipe or two,
the phone number of someone I once knew.
Stories of redemption, or reflection, coupons
never redeemed, wishes and promises not once
what they seemed.
Directions to a house I’ll never visit again. Excuses
or reasons I never explain. An expired lottery ticket,
a book mark now, I always wonder the when
and the how.
Concert tickets, and transit passes, accounts of
dreams now only ashes. A label from a bottle
of premium champagne, reminders I’m reminded of,
again and again.
Let’s face it, we don’t always remember, and in years
we never will. You can write them down and still
the history in the making, of interest to myself.
Only once a kiss and tell.
The journal is, essentially, a travelogue: inner thoughts,
outward concerns as I evolve. The pencil continues
to scratch, the words keep running. It’s not
who I have become, but what I am becoming.
©2018 j.g. lewis
Sixteen times per minute,
twenty-two thousand breaths
in a day. No time
like the present.
There are no other excuses, but
there are always other ways.
Breathe. Choose today
to speak up when you can,
push out the latent sorrow,
guilt, and anguish
only you can understand.
Inhale. There is no life, no
oxygen, like this day. Despite
our selected perceptions,
there is not a
single breath to waste.
©2018 j.g. lewis
The seasonal lights dim, holidays soon will draw to a close, and we return to day-to-day living. Still we cannot forget circumstances, and the need for giving.
So many of us are fortunate to have a roof over our head, food in the fridge, and money in the bank. Sadly, others are not.
We all see the need.
We live in uncertain times. In this vast global community, or just down the street, we all know of needs that current resources will not meet. Budgets are stretched, programs require increased funding, and, more than ever, we are being asked to help our fellow beings.
Choose a charity, or two, and provide what you can. Money is good, but so is your time.
Not a hand out, but a hand up; a familiar adage we have all heard before. Regularly, but more so in the festive season, we are asked to help those unable to care for themselves.
This season of sharing is the season of caring, and we cannot simply stop.
Keep giving, continue living , and remember the spirit of the season is more than forgiving.
Do your part, do what you can. Know your heart and lend a hand.
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.
