original content and images ©j.g. lewis
a daily breath...
A thought du jour, my daily breath includes collected and conceived observations, questions of life, fortune cookie philosophies, reminders, messages of peace and simplicity, unsolicited advice, inspirations, quotes and words that got me thinking. They may get you thinking too . . .
I'm like a pencil;
Still I write.
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
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logical and chronological
A precious, mouldering pleasure ’tis
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,
His venerable hand to take,
And warming in our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.
His quaint opinions to inspect,
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind,
The literature of old;
What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty.
And Sophocles a man;
When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,
He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true;
He lived where dreams were sown.
His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so.
I close Poetry Month with the words of Emily Dickinson, on a topic near and dear.
In these days where literature, and poetry, is readily available online – free, or cheap – we tend to overlook the places where many of us discovered the magic of the written word; places where words in all the forms are also readily available, free and easy.
A library makes poetry, and literature, available and they have been available there for us for decades, and generations. Libraries make reading possible, regardless of income or status, age, or ethnicity.
Emily Dickinson found solace in a library, and so have I. I’m pretty sure you have as well.
It’s pretty amazing, don’t you think? There are rows and stacks of books waiting to be read.
Libraries are there to be enjoyed, and to be used.
Support your local library.
04/30/17 j.g. lewis
as we are, each of us
separate or separated.
what we carry and
and what we know,
where we live and how
we show respect
for the past, and to those
How are we sure
feelings are spared?
As we face decisions
or twist the mind,
anxiety threatens our ways.
with each breath,
we pause and reflect,
emotions and thoughts
We dream, we dare
to taste the night.
on the edge of a knife.
© 2017 j.g. lewis
Fading. A matter of time.
Deep consideration for those
left behind. The choice, quiet and clean.
Always leave a lasting impression.
Hidden exhaustion; tired of trying, of
wanting, of waiting for a question
that would never arrive. Now questions
unanswered; final thoughts never
to be known. Expectations claw
dangerously at the soul until
little remains. One-sided memories
redolent in cologne-scented images:
his smile, his habits, his voice, his lips
and the deceit that spewed from them.
Lips that had, once, served her well.
She could still feel tingles by herself,
gasping at the thought of a touch.
An indulgent afternoon. Shopping,
hair and manicure. Elegance. New shoes,
matching clutch. A pretty dress. Dinner
at La Maquette, two bottles of Chablis,
then Tiramisu, a final treat. Credit card.
Big tip for a waiter who fawned over her,
as always. Acknowledged. Appreciated.
Dining alone tonight?
Now home. Solitude, not tranquility.
A sumptuous life, mostly, as she chose
to remember. Gently slipping into
somnolence. Her own comfort, finally.
Fresh bed linens, fragrance, fine lingerie,
a favourite lipstick unmistakably marking
the edge of another glass of wine.
Glamourous, yes, she would
leave behind a beautiful corpse.
©2017 j.g. lewis
Poem Kubili is an international
companionship of poets with
a common love of writing and
reading poetry. To read more of
of the group’s collected works