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: October 2021
It’s not just the rain, but also the cold that begins to define our days.
Temperatures have been dropping, single digits overnight, a little lower each night.
It gets to the point where an extra blanket on the bed will not provide the warmth required, or a sweater will not take away that chill building up inside these four walls.
It’s time to turn on the furnace.
This is the time of the year when the lyrics of “No Time”, a song by The Guess Who, begin to stream in my head:
“Seasons change and so do I.”
The changing colours of my landscape are part of it, but the rain drives the point home.
It’s not just wet; it’s cold and damp.
And it will only get colder, and wetter, then worse.
10/25/2021 j.g.l.
Posted on October 24, 2021 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Suburbia
or the city.
We live where
we live.
The country
is large,
populated by
a nation of consumers.
Divided
by misfits
and dreamers and
some of us
who care.
Didn’t we all
at one time?
Questions,
we learn as we grow,
we forget where we go.
10/24/2021 j.g.l.
Posted on October 23, 2021 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Gather, you beggars. Assemble
like pigeons, seeking morsels of kindness
on these filthy city streets. We notice but do not acknowledge.
Or apologize.
I cannot deal with all I see.
Any spare change? No answer. No chance.
I saunter by in my warm parka, well-rested, belly full
of breakfast. I know no hunger, though not immune
to the pang. Sunglasses shield my eyes.
I have witnessed too much.
There, but by the grace of God, go I.
They remain. Unrecognizable
even to those who have loved them. A person’s sister, somebody’s
brother, somebody’s child. A somebody;
another vacant bed or private hell
another excuse or story to tell.
We do not want to hear.
Nor dare to breathe. Ask no questions.
I am only what I ask myself to be. If
charity begins at home, what then of the homeless? Nothing.
I know where I will sleep tonight.
Ashamed. I do little but look away.
Filthy pigeons stare back.
Then scatter.
©2021 j.g. lewis
