Ever the darkness, every night or
early morn, a moment for chance,
the time to begin.
Still, we wait.
Incessantly.
We do it again and again, enough
or a lot or as much as we can
if we care to admit it.
Why?
Can’t a shade of mystery simply
take hold, whether we like it
or not?
Must we always seek familiarity?
10/21/2024 j.g.l.
The Moon hangs low,
yet the Sun still rises.
Each day
we have another chance
to shine a little brighter.
Rise up.
Be radiant.
© 2019 j.g. lewis
Today might not be what it is
without yesterday being all
that it was.
In a succession of events,
unplanned or programmed,
rarely do we consider
what has happened,
as it happens.
Sometimes we speak less
about things that matter
as we think we have
more time, as such.
Oftentimes
we do not speak of
things we should
as they are happening,
in the time that remains.
In the time we are given,
the present persists.
10/15/2024 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.
We listen.
We speak.
We talk.
We exchange knowledge
and information.
We wait for a response.
We listen closely (most of the time)
to what others say, often
we feel the words.
We don’t, as often as we should,
say what we should.
We wait to hear recognition or acknowledgement
about who we are or what we have done, but
have we done all that we need to do, or all that
we could, to find the understanding
required of us?
We wait for answers to questions that come
without notice, without reason, without thought,
and still we want a thoughtful response.
We continue waiting.
What do we require?
We know not all questions have answers;
we have heard the silence. We know it well.
What do we need to hear, and know,
to feel whole, or present, or loved?
What do we do when the words don’t come?
What can we say to show we are there to talk, and
to listen. How should we respond when
we know we don’t always say what we mean?
We don’t say it like we mean it.
We speak.
We talk.
We listen.
© 2020 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.