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.
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.
Again
Eyes rubicund and bleary, ears
resonating with a day’s worth
of corporate clamour and
the bullshit involved; feet tired
from standing up to it all,
I arrive home. Bed unmade,
purposely so, in hopes the comfort
last found in this sanctuary
remains with dreams contained
within the linen’s creases. Quilt
sewn with patches of humanity,
my true psyche lays latent in a
downy pillow’s indent, coming alive
only when I am prepared
to give up on anything hindering
peaceful presence. Frustrations
stripped off with my clothing, I
attempt to tuck in my sorted genius
long enough to allow
anything that matters
matter. Horizontally, blood
no longer rushing frantically,
languid breath, eyelids shut
preventing stray light
from staining my darkness, I
return to familiar, yet unknown,
treasures of a dormant state.
Until I wake, only to have to go
through this life, again.
© 2016 j.g. lewis
I was recently invited to join POEM KUBILI,
a companionship of poets with a common love
of writing, reading, and commenting on poetry.
Each week this international collective produces
a new series of poems. Come and see what we
are all about, and check back often.
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.