Days, weeks, then months
and years drift by.
Not always noticeable, or even
memorable, the time behind us
simply accumulates. All in all,
the sum of its parts leads to
a life well-lived, if you take
a moment to notice.
09/10/2024 j.g.l.
Mondays are just young Fridays
It’s not about height
or breadth, or depth.
It is all about perspective.
What limits you?
How far can you see?
To what end do you
appreciate what is in front of you?
Looking back is hindsight
and you have already been there.
Change your point of view.
Look up.
Don’t overlook opportunities.
What are your limits?
09/09/2024 j.g.l.
within
Secrets are rarely as heavy as
the weight we assign to them.
The gravity of circumspect
plays out, time and again. It is
what we carry as we decide
what crosses, or is held within,
our moral divide.
Sit with it for a while, moved
only when memory comes into
play; last night, or the other, or
any other day.
09/05/2024 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.
Between Here And This
Posted on October 9, 2021 by j.g.lewis
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Walls surround me; people tell me, even ask me
where I’ve been. I can’t find the answers, or
the reason from within. If home is the place
where you lay your head, I’ve got no room left
for what goes on when the walls are closing in.
No longer seeking safety or salvation, but simply
common ground. There were never second chances the
first time around. It’s been years since I have come home,
though I’m not without my blame, I’m not without
my judgment and not without my shame.
No reminders. No residue.
No solutions, nor the pain.
More a feeling than a destination, home is not
about geography. Even less the physical location.
The whisper of home gets hard to understand,
even mundane decisions become more difficult
when you take life in your own hands.
Driving forward, moving slowly, the place between
here and this. Listen to music you chose, the next
track on the disc. Melancholy melody, even lyrically
it stokes a chord. We all remember taking chances,
but too often forget about the risk.
Nothing there, nothing lost.
Nothing left. Nothing gained
Of course I’m still dreaming of home, it helps me
pass the time. Past mistakes and memories,
I own them; they are all mine. My mind often loaded
with gentle thoughts of you, yet it still provides
no direction of where I’m going to.
©2017 j.g. lewis
