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: December 2016
You never know when the spirit of
the season will arrive.
It could be while strolling through
the mall as you participate in the
commercialized craze Christmas has
become, or it may turn up in a card
from a long-time friend you’ve lost
track of over the years. You may hear
a song that triggers memory.
It’s highly personal, and varies with
the way each of us celebrate.
The spirit rushed through me Saturday
night, in a church, during a wonderful
choral performance. Now, barring the
occasional funeral, I haven’t been to
church much lately. There has not been
the calling, and I may well have lost my
religion, but certainly not my faith.
I hadn’t intended on going to the
performance, but a ticket was available,
and somehow it seemed like the right
thing to do. I love music (pretty much
any type) and the reputation of this
choir was sound.
We were welcomed into the church
with a glorious prelude by Bach, the
pipes of a beautiful organ resonating
throughout the environment. The
church was full, all ages, and we were
fortunate to find a good seat on the
cushioned pews. Immediately it brought
back childhood memories.
I used to enjoy Sunday morning services.
I always enjoyed listening to my Mom
sing; she wasn’t in the choir, but would
have been if three active children hadn’t
taken up all her spare time.
The evening was full of memories, of
my mother, of my former minister (and
later school guidance counsellor) who
always had the right words for a teenaged
boy who could occasionally find a little
too much trouble.
I also thought deeply of a young man,
my friend, who passed away under
horrible circumstances. Isn’t any
circumstance horrible when an
18-year-old is involved?
Feelings, many hidden for the longest
time, began pouring out of me. My eyes
and my head filled with a complete range
of emotions. I was both joyful and
saddened. I’m not sure if the music was
doing it for me, or the setting, but I was
overwhelmed with the spirit.
I even stood up and sang with everybody
else when the time was right, my seldom
used, but once-trained, voice was strong,
powerful and on-key. I was caught up in
the moment.
There is something about organ music
and a wonderful community of voices
that can stir up some amazing memories,
and the spirit of the season.
I found my spirit Saturday night. I hope
you find yours among the music and memories in
the days to come.
j.g.l.
Posted on December 17, 2016 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Beyond all else,
it is the people in our lives
that give this life
the sparkle and substance
we all deserve.
I am a father, only once,
but that is all it has taken
to provide me with
a reason to rise
each day.
Every day provides a
further reason for joy.
Today I celebrate
more, because today
it all began.
j.g.l.
My daughter’s birthday; every year
it is a reminder that I have done
something right in this life.
As the decades pass, we both grow
older, each year becoming more
significant in one way or another.
Our relationship changes, our roles
are altered over time, the love grows
stronger, and I continue to become
fortified by the spirit that has allowed
me to see what I have become, and
who I truly am. I am a father. I am
both proud and humbled. I’ve only
done this once, and I had no idea
what to expect when it all began. I
never knew how rewarding it would
be and every day I am reminded
of this blessing.
cloud songs
A season of heightened
emotions, and reminders of such,
look past inconvenience
and disputes
with family or friends. It is
a time to swallow truths and make
amends with those who cared, or
those who dare to look back
on what mattered.
Forgiveness
is always easier
than
isolation.
j.g.l.
Handel’s Messiah crackles from a plastic radio, enough
to mask the comings and goings of anonymous neighbours
or drugged-out strangers across the hall. Time doesn’t matter
after midnight or later. Single mattress, scratchy blanket
stained with sweat and sorrow. Always alone. Humble room
in a derelict Eastside hotel; a symbol of how
something once full of purpose can go so desperately
wrong. It is not home, but it will have to do.
Sleeping as often as he wakes, to sirens, gunshots
and screams, a drunk or delusional singing White Christmas
to everyone awake or anyone who cares.
Mental illness wanders the Eastside; feeble minds and hard lives
part of the landscape. It is never white around here, always
grey and ugly. Rarely does he see the mountains. Day
by day. Meetings most mornings, if only for the free coffee.
Hot meals at the mission fill his stomach and his time.
Not much else to do but wait for welfare, another Wednesday,
or a day without rain. When the waiting is done, he will wait
again, watching what’s left of this society walk on by. He
no longer feels a part of it, and is not sure if
he ever did. Always on the outside. Passed by. Beneath
the streaky window, alley littered with bottles sniffed
dry, orphaned needles, spent condoms,
crack whores and men like him, or worse.
He no longer plays guitar like he did, or at all. Gnarled knuckles,
arthritis deep within his fingers, and knees. And conscience.
The instrument collects dust in the corner, a depiction of both
something he once could do and something of value. He owns
so little and has even less. Three years sober and friends are
no longer convenient. What else to do when
you no longer drink, and who else wants to do nothing
with somebody else. One day at a time.
Waiting. He can’t call it healthy. He can’t even call it
living, but existing will do. For now. Nights are a constant
battle. It is always dark, and wet. Rain into sleet. Winter months
are difficult for those on the street. He is more fortunate,
having found some sort of salvation. He does have something
to be thankful for. It is safer in this room, sheltered from the
violence, reading yesterday’s news and the only book he owns,
listening to talk radio and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.
Ashtray overflowing, Bible opened on the table, blurry snapshot
taped to the wall. A boy on Santa’s knee, smile reflecting the
spirit of the season. Decades ago. He was hardly a father. It is
hard to regret what you can’t remember. It’s harder not to know
what it would feel like. Family. Who knows where anybody lives
now. Who would know he is here. Time doesn’t matter.
Christmas is only a word on the Eastside.
There aren’t enough hallelujahs to go around.
©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.
http://poemkubili.com
