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 determined will to communicate or
gather thoughts of which to be reminded,
a pencil knows the way (or what to do)
with incessant demands made of you:
– appointments to be scheduled in
– excuses justified, however thin
– grocery lists (don’t forget the milk)
– rough sketch of the shed to be rebuilt
– Scrabble, golf (or musical) scores
– an admission to one you once adored
– notice of resignation to that nasty boss
– a note of condolence for a heartfelt loss
– overdue letter to a faraway friend
– this list itself will never end
Should you lack purpose, a humble pencil
provides gentle wisdom, abstract or direct
knowledge in all matters such.
Careful printing of complex instructions
or dashing off jumbled plans, a pencil
knows which direction to flow. Trust
in your hand; allow innermost thoughts
to follow its shady path.
Handwritten words forsaking time;
if ever you cannot find your pencil
I’ll gladly share one of mine.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
I’m like a pencil;
Still, I write.
April 29th is Poem in Your Pocket Day, a day
to celebrate poetry by selecting a poem, carrying
it in your pocket, and sharing it with friends and
Share a poem wherever the day takes you.
Even in these continued days of physical distance,
loss of connection and self-isolation, you can still
share poetry and a smile.
Sharing is caring.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
Don’t talk to me at dawn. Caught up in whispers
of residual dreams beyond my control,
I’m not always ready for a new day, and
frequently have difficulty comprehending
where the night falls.
Morning is not the time for words
if the night has come before. Every breath
a struggle. I wake. No heartbeat. No. No talk.
Blinded by sight and sound I won’t hear
the meaning, or the message.
Give voice to my days instead, where I won’t
see your reflection, but will feel the wonder above
the cacophony and confusion
that terrorizes an otherwise
Evening’s long shadow laps up scraps
of humanity. I pay less and less attention as
the planets close in. Considering your many renditions,
I await your arrival. Any night. What shade
will you be this night?
Then is the time, when distance fades, where we tell
each other stories. Little else matters, and we ask
the impossible. Inevitably darkness
consumes me, until you become
Through nights, when I’m restless, when dawn
is simply a concept, don’t waste your words on me.
I will not hear them, promises or otherwise,
or find the light, or time, to
see your lips move.
Dawn reveals serious wounds, time misspent
and misplaced words. Where morning hints
of the night before and I may not hear your call,
don’t talk to me at dawn,
or talk to me at all.
© 2015 j.g. lewis