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: April 2018
Questioning honesty,
authenticity, how do
we cautiously step
through this
caliginous silence? An
uncertain science of
relationships, we hover
in lucid ambiguity.
We navigate thickets of
discomfort, streams of
plans not realized, in
romantic hopefulness
once subscribed to.
Desire returned
to sender.
Envelope unopened.
No comprehension
of apprehension. Our
reticence is overbearing,
our souls are dented.
Historic winds
of discontent reawaken
sentiment. Dare we
wade in murky waters?
© 2018 j.g. lewis
Poem Kubili
An International Poetry Collective
visit us at
poemkubili.com
My moon last night
shone
its own way.
Confident,
a purposeful gaze.
Inspiration
for those
who choose.
I tucked it in my pocket
to share it
with you.
04/05/2018 j.g.l.
Posted on April 4, 2018 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Is it forgotten, or has age
dulled our senses
or sense of oneself? We can only look back
trying to recall what it may have been like
to witness our days through the eyes of a child.
A distant period
when growth was unchallenged, and
nothing we saw could be influenced, or obstructed by
what we now see. Or what we know. Or why.
Now we know better, or
would like to believe.
Today, we have views, and opinions, which differ
from what we watch, or see. Our past was never
filtered by experience, or context, or undue influence.
Distanced by age, mainly,
or precious time,
a bias-free reality no longer
comes upon us naturally.
That which we hoped,
always contained wonder.
When did it stop? Why did we cease acknowledging
magic, surprise, or uncompromised enchantment?
A child sees a puddle, but does not consider the source.
Adults overlook simplicity.
Rain, once a reason for
glistening rubber boots, now an obstruction
precipitating delay, cancellation, or a leaky basement.
Nothing can be simple,
now, after confusion and
complications follow utter discontent for our surroundings.
Each day the same, too much to explain, disdain for the
information and images forced upon us.
A myopic vision dampens
the view of what could be, or why.
No longer do our childish ways outnumber
our days. No longer do we see curiosity.
©2018 j.g. lewis
“Poets are people who can still see the world through the eyes of children.”
– Alphonse Daudet
