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 . . .

I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
other times
dull or
Still I write.

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

follow on social media

keep in touch

Enter your email to receive notification of significant posts. Don't worry, I won't clog up your inbox or sell your data

Posted on April 22, 2016 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment




Ravaged by rain
tormented and
tortured with nature’s harsh breath
              Skin torn away and hanging
                       a mangled skeleton
left for dead
in the gutter                    an umbrella
                    alongside broken bottles
matchsticks and cigarette butts
a spent condom
           salt and dreams washed away
with the rain
Items which once served a purpose
now used or used up
no longer of use
                                   sins and secrets
         susceptible to societal ways
       Everything once had a purpose
or a reason
                     or an excuse
            all but forgotten
                                         until it rains

© 2015 j.g. lewis

April is Poetry Month
something new every day
spread the words

Poem In Your Pocket
Posted on April 21, 2016 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment



Compact, even folded up,
it can say too little, and mean
so much.

An arrangement of words
takes little space, yet sentiment
carries so much weight.

Thoughts often whispered, language
to be shared, poetry reminds us
words show we care.

TODAY, April 21, is POEM IN YOUR POCKET DAY         
Carry with you a favorite poem and share with
family, friends, co-workers, cab drivers, cooks,
a favorite yoga teacher, barista, physician, cobbler,
and panhandler. Strangers will smile, and 
children may well clap, and you may even get
the occasional laugh. Whatever you do, however
you dare, it’s time to show the world poetry cares.                                        


I’m just a person
like you
                  each of us
all of us
    the peace of humility
          A tree
    or leaf
the scent in the breeze
commonly uncommon
as we please         A life
among many
                    we wonder
about our place
we allow
 our minds to question
      our hearts to doubt
Making choices
taking chances
individually we breathe
       Collectively human
    a single you
                           and me
© 2016 j.g. lewis.


April is Poetry Month
something new every day
spread the words

Like Jazz
Posted on April 20, 2016 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment


                                   Rhythm and pattern easily obscured, it’s what you feel,
                                   not what is heard. Polyphonic syncopation,                     bass line
      holds the inspiration                 well before anticipation, a rush of melody pushes
            to the fore                              you hear it again, but never have before.
                        Rim shot crack
            cymbals crash,
                    the beat is burning, and falls
                    like ash.                                      It marches and it swings,
                                                                         like laughter, it is tears.
                          Emotionally charged, by no means irreverent, it suddenly switches gears.
             History more than the future, a time though, never passed.
             As definite as prayer,
             cool as a sweaty glass.                             Full moon rising
                                                                                  heroin highs
                                                                                  the music lives on
                                                                                  the player only dies.
Straight up from the psyche, deep down in the core, no matter the decade,
more than less though less is more.                                Solo piano
                   full of vigor                            the notes interpret all you have known.
                   Time signature changes, on a dime, or rolled up bill, the rhythm method,
                   it comes from the gut
                   no matter how it is played or how it is cut.                        Free form.
It is life, it is living, it is solid, it is forgiving. As simple or as complex as a saxophone riff,
no four-chord progressions.                         Never boring.                                  Never stiff.
Wholly original, as much as it is copied, and studied, sweated over, with notes cast asunder, improvisation,              muddied by emotion
                                        perpetual motion,          realization, over and under.
                  Though practiced                 it is free, it is glossy, and messed up, so dirty it is clean.
Quietly you dream, completely obsessed.                           A blue note cries out
                                                                                                       to lovers
                                                                                                       and all the others,
calmer, smoother sounds, longer linear melodic lines, you don’t listen as much
               as you go for a ride.                           Off the charts,
it’s art and it’s plastered with culture,
a contradiction not comprehensible, it is not responsible
                                              should you dream a life totally possessed.
More about attitude than instrument of choice, the minor keys and major chords create it’s own noise. Structured silence played oh-so-slow in parts of deep reflection, blood rushing through the vein, it steps back then it rises up, triumphantly, again. Again
and again, and again.
                         Only a genre is to say night is just darkness, or a day is but a year,
        it goes down easy with dinner, or a six pack of beer, seedy downtown club
        or a scratchy vinyl disc
it comes with a purpose, arrives full of risk. It nourishes the soul from a rhythm, whatever it has,                  whatever it be
                                                     we should all live like jazz.

© 2016 j.g. lewis