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 2016
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
Servitude
sins and secrets
susceptible to societal ways
Disposable
Obsolescence
Everything once had a purpose
or a reason
or an excuse
Now
all but forgotten
until it rains
© 2015 j.g. lewis
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.
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April is Poetry Month
something new every day
spread the words
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.
Humans
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
individual
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
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
