Our paths shift, circumstance and
attitude shaping our trajectory.
The company we keep alters both
our outlook and destination.
We are where we are
mainly because of who we are
and whom we are with.
04/16/2024 j.g.l.
A wish for words more delicate and
refined will only lead to
an unnecessary edit, constrained curiosity,
and a smudge of indifference.
Emotions scoured from the page,
its patina reflective now of a chaotic mind,
you are no longer (or never have been)
satisfied with what is there.
Speaking freely, nowhere near the truth,
a humane reaction may not be soothed.
Not always. No matter what.
No longer plain and simple. Perhaps
it never was?
You question the questions.
The flaws in your self can only add up
to a greater expression of your being.
04/15/2024 j.g.l.
April is Poetry Month
flaws and all
We do not touch the money, now
only digits on a screen. Ingredients
in our foods unknown, or what
scientists contribute to the scheme.
Price at the pump keeps going up,
still our cars can’t seem
to get enough.
Politicians are not worth knowing, or
deeds in which they partake, sin or
scandal widely-known, we
elect them anyway.
Damn truth be told,
between utter lies; they won’t salute
the dead, so many innocents die.
We won’t wash our hands, but
still waste the water
and share the blame.
We don’t care if we don’t want to,
our days continue just the same.
© 2018 j,g, lewis
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.
Without direction from the
soon-setting Sun, drawn not by the pull
of the Moon, it flows past murky shadows
shifting into place, and passes by the sweep of trees.
The river remains constant.
Showing itself, ripples and bubbles, only
when convenient. Beneath the frozen surface,
a flurry of activity within each body of water
it passes through.
Neither transient or untenable
it knows not whether it will end up in the sea,
or be channelled through tributaries
to a gentle stream, sparkling lake, or
come to rest in a stagnant swamp, eventually
seeping into the aquifer, or evaporating
and ending up as a puddle in a far-away city.
The cycle begins again.
Wanderlust.
The river does not know the power it contains,
yet continues to move.
There is no silence.
The stillness is never complete as we,
minute by day, year over year, seek purpose.
And balance. Under this Solstice,
the Sun shedding it’s grace for such little time,
traversing through to darker hours, as we are.
Or as we can,
in this semi-frozen state, craving comfort
which comes from removing ourselves
from the elements.
Man-made darkness, the shelter
in which we hide, or rest, or plot how
we will better face the day, and the year ahead.
Each of us is searching, or knowing, or
finding our ocean.
Neither temporary
or transient. A natural rhythm, the planets revolving
as they should, each cycle, each pattern,
each evolution.
©2016 j.g. lewis
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.
One reply on “Wanderlust”
This poem brings tears to my eyes and beauty to my soul. thanks for sharing – peace this Solstice.