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.
Month: April 2015
Je Suis Comme Je Suis
In any language, on any given day, I am what I am.
Flesh, fire, and stardust; be aware or be damned.
Wanderer by nature, a wonderer at heart,
I am restless and reckless,
and that’s just the start.
Absent-minded, intermittently, unafraid to say,
I rely no longer on moments, or days.
I can try, and have, to be the person I’m not,
but I couldn’t, and can’t,
or I maybe forgot.
I have changed, and still I keep striving to grow
but if you asked how, I’d say
I don’t really know.
A messy concoction of bad habits and traits,
don’t ever tell me I’m settled in my ways.
Sensitive, sensible, and sensual; not at once,
I’m a thief, and an asshole, and occasionally
a dunce. Honest to a fault, patient and kind,
a disappointment, like no other,
in some people’s mind.
I’ve a handful of vices, and personal setbacks
I’ve paid for them dearly, even the tax.
More Dr. Suess than Dr. Phil,
my advice you can trust,
still I’ve no cure to offer, my intentions are just.
A contradiction of sorts, with morals to test,
I try to do something, and keep trying my best.
More than seven billion people and not one
like me.I am what I am.
Je suis comme je suis
©2015 j.g. lewis
This month is all about poetry.
Something new every day.
Posted on April 24, 2015 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Each of Them
She was careless with her
memories, frequently misplaced,
later found in a drawer with a
useless key or tangled in the
pocket fluff of her old jeans.
His account was neatly pressed
and hanging.
Heavy starch.
Ready to be worn.
Each of them
had difficulties
sleeping.
Morning coffee
a dreadful reminder.
Only one cup.
©2014 j.g. lewis
This month is all about poetry.
Something new every day.
Posted on April 23, 2015 by j.g.lewis // 1 Commentpuddles
So she said
from the shadows
we are all made of rain
fortified by silence
strengthened
from pain
Without it
we are dust
swiftly erased
by a breeze
With luck
we become puddles
or give rise
to the trees
How can
you know?
I queried
I must
Without rain
we have very little
to trust
I couldn’t quite fathom
her moral or muse
but she
created reality
I would not refute
