You wander.
We all do.
Uncertainty can often
blur your surroundings.
Unclear.
The map is always there,
the lines signify the path
you need to follow.
You simply have to find
the direction.
It is all in your hands.
© 2017 j.g. lewis
unclear
gr@ffiti
Anguish or confusion,
sometimes it is the way.
Anxiety takes over.
What else can you say
as you try to put aside all
the feelings that dog you
anyway. No pain today.
Try as you might to
see your way through.
No pain. Not today.
09/14/2023 j.g.l.
Mondays are just young Fridays
There is very little that can be said about Eric Clapton that hasn’t already been said; except I saw him last night.
I’ve been listening to the musician, in all stages of his career, over the past five decades and he has been around even longer than that.
Through the years I’ve grown to appreciate Clapton more as a performer, recording artist, and as one of the greatest guitarists of all time, but I’ve never seen him live; until last night.
He was everything (and more) that I expected, playing selections from his lengthy career, and paying homage not only the blues artists who have influenced him but also to friends no longer with us.
Clapton and his band kicked of the Toronto concert with a cover of The Band’s The Shape I’m in, a fitting tribute to his longtime Canadian friend Robbie Robertson. Then, later, a tune he once recorded with Tina Turner: Tearing Us Apart.
The show was filled with both popular hits and selections you could tell he felt like playing. With a catalogue like Clapton’s there could have been even more hits, but he did what he had to do.
At age 79, Clapton’s seemingly effortless prowess on electric and acoustic guitar was both mature and effective. There were a lot of “wow” moments.
It was quite an evening.
What else can I say?
09/11/2023 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.
Commitment
Posted on May 9, 2018 by j.g.lewis
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11 p.m. almost. Subway to streetcar. Transfer.
Arms full of everything. Another stop. Waiting.
Small cup of coffee, downtown McDonald’s.
Her son now asleep across her lap, in a parka
for comfort more than warmth.
Gently her fingers trace the soft brow.
Her smile is faint.
Still in her teens; too young for motherhood.
She called it an accident, and not a mistake.
Mistakes are missing the bus, leaving a sock
at the laundromat, or forgetting her lunch
in the rush to make it to her dead-end job,
or daycare. Accidents happen.
Left home at sixteen, who would know
if her own mother even cared. Or noticed.
Her son is everything.
Only a partner, not much older than her,
but still here. His family is far away,
and still not there. He has a purpose.
Commitment is a word they both respect.
Love grows when allowed.
He works two jobs.
The streetcar ride is time together.
November is chilly. Lost in a big city.
Together. They often use the word family.
Too much is riding on chance
and the next paycheque. Rent, bills, diapers,
groceries and the unexpected.
She eats less, not always by choice.
He says he wants more; he will work for it.
He does. Soon off work, another streetcar.
Subway transfer, then home
to all they can afford. Together.
You will see, she whispers to the sleeping child,
more often than not money is not as important
as they make it out to be.
© 2018 j.g. lewis
