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 2020
How long is forever?
How can we trust the
will, or the way, of
those willing to exhibit
a delusional sense of
power at any time, on
any day?
How have we come to
allow ego and this sense
of self-importance to
override common logic
and concern for the
fragility of human life?
How did this happen,
and how much longer
must we fear for our
lives and for those of
our children?
How deep is our faith?
How long is forever?
j.g.l.
08/10/2017
Posted on April 26, 2020 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Poetry is not meant to be anything
other than what you read. Mood
or mantra, independent conscious
behavior, a distraction, unexpected
reality and unknown salvation.
What do you expect in this world
of heartbreak and happenstance?
How will you see beyond current
tragedy or circumstance? Always
there are questions. Inquisitions.
Interrogations. Stale blood on the
sidewalk, fresh tears on the cheek
of a passerby; our response is not
immediate. Our actions muted by
culpable noise and utter silence.
Poetry is as passive as it is reactive.
You may know where you are going,
yet a poem will tell you where you
have been. What do you hear?
j.g.l.
04/29/2018
Posted on April 25, 2020 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Take these humble hearts,
those who trust, perchance, too much,
the ones who now shelter themselves
from the agony which lingers
from trying; from hoping; from
believing there could be more.
Heathens, yes, for lack of a more apt word
but neither an infidel, nor a fool.
Where trust is too much, there is faith
without discretion. There remains a
longing few can see, or realize,
for they need to believe.
See these unwilling victims
not for what they have not been, but for
each tiny gesture, shameless notion, and
act of empathy, however inferred.
Allow them to create, leave them
to their ways. Let them be.
Teach them, these broken souls,
not to look for the lesson, but to accept
the graceless guidance oft shone into
clotted shadows. Knowingly they will
expand and contract in self-preservation,
self-examination, and sorrow.
It is there, in seclusion, where errors in
understanding take on perspective. There,
those humble hearts, may come back
to being. Each carries a pulse. They bleed
silently and remorsefully. They have loved
you before, and may again.
©2017 j.g. lewis
