What shows
how little
we know?
What can be is
oft far less than
what we expect.
What is now
has never been
what it was.
07/25/2024 j.g.l.
value beyond
Simplicity.
Is there emotion in austerity?
Humanity?
What do you see when attempting
to define your limited visibility?
Minimalism, abstract impressionism
or incorporeal thought.
Less is more, but is it enough?
Texture, tone, and value beyond
your current scene. If you take it to an
extreme, you will question
what it means.
What is really there?
What line do you cross?
Can simplicity be complicated, or
should it even be attempted?
07/23/2024 j.g.l.
Mondays are just young Fridays
Things will not go as planned. Intentions will be disrupted, even overlooked, in the aftermath of an unexpected reality.
Where you are headed will not be the place you end up, undoubtedly or undeniably. No matter how hard you attempt to make each gesture, brushstroke, promise, prayer, or pastime as perfect as you believe it can be, many times you will not arrive at a perceived destination. All too often your endeavors never hit the mark; at times your work may be better than expected (celebrate those moments), but everything (even your judgement) is subjective.
You are not limited to, or by, the colours in your paintbox or progression of your process.
Imagination is as limited or expansive as you want it to be. Give it time to blossom; in certain instances, you may even have to reel it in. This is all about possibilities, no matter which media, method, or style you are beholden to.
You owe your art (or life) nothing but your presence; the value comes from the practice, as rudimentary or spontaneous as it is or will become.
07/22/2024 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.
Seasons Change
Posted on April 19, 2016 by j.g.lewis
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Summer Scents
.
The cork released, the bottle waved,
just below her nose. 2:10.
Breathe.
Bubbles tickle, a scent of pears
and citrus, the taste of summer.
Damn you, for making me wait, she
whispers. She smiles.
2:15, he said. He was never late.
The bottle set on ice, denying herself
the indulgence, preferring the sensation of want. Intoxicating.
Prosecco.
Crisp and clear
an afternoon by the pool
Just a few minutes. Soon.
Breathless, with anticipation.
She said she would never wait,
but this
is different.
Autumn Sense
The bottle shouts
into a space tainted by the dread
of autumn.
Colourless the air,
deep burgundy takes over. Malbec,
Clouding reality.
Clearing the mind.
She disappears into the evening
thoughtlessly ignoring
all she should not.
Night after night the bottle calls out
Damn you, she whispers to the stillness.
She accepts the reality, but not
the pain.
As dawn approaches, time remains
shrouded in thoughts once ignored.
I can’t do this any more, she screams.
Nobody can hear, not even
her self.
© 2015 j.g. lewis
.
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April is Poetry Month
something new every day
spread the words
