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.
Category: Uncategorised
Ravaged by rain
tormented and
tortured with nature’s harsh breath
Skin torn away and hanging
a mangled skeleton
left for dead
in the gutter an umbrella
alongside broken bottles
matchsticks and cigarette butts
a spent condom
salt and dreams washed away
with the rain
Items which once served a purpose
now used or used up
no longer of use
Servitude
sins and secrets
susceptible to societal ways
Disposable
Obsolescence
Everything once had a purpose
or a reason
or an excuse
Now
all but forgotten
until it rains
© 2015 j.g. lewis
Posted on April 20, 2022 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Bus shelter park bench
city streets
Clothing strewn across pavement
like a secret
or sins
in this weather
March not yet forgotten
the lion does not rest
neither do society’s sacrificial lambs
the unhoused or the addicted
An existence
harder than concrete
we walk on We walk by
seeing only what is left behind
more comments than questions
Blood on the sidewalk
like the clothing we do not know
whom it belongs to
Another secret
another question
No comments
Some sinners don’t get saved
Some sins are unaccounted for
04/19/2022 j.g.l.
April is Poetry Month
find it where you can
Posted on April 16, 2022 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Why don’t you meet me in Paris? Half a globe away,
another lifetime. They write songs about the city,
in April. I have never been. In any season.
Spring has yet to find its way here,
so Paris awaits.
Rendezvous. City of lights, city for lovers.
Should we not taste all Paris could be? Could we
not see nights from a tiny apartment,
streets below filled with people like us.
Experience I do not yet know, but I desire
to feel the city against your skin.
I have been told one night in Paris
is like a year in any other place. Language
I do not understand, but the art speaks to me.
Culture not found anywhere but Paris.
History unto itself.
Art knows no boundaries, no geographic space,
yet Paris, as I have been led to believe, is
the capital city.
Hemingway wrote of Paris, Fitzgerald as well.
Picasso found poetry in Paris, the painter found himself,
adopted the city, or it him.
Artists, from anywhere, are meant
to spend time in Paris, to discover, to recover
from wherever they have lived. You don’t
get that feeling anywhere else.
Or so I am told. I need Paris.
I would write in Paris, I would paint,
perhaps on the street, because I can only imagine
what others have lived.
I can only imagine. In Paris. In poetry.
In April. We would meet in Paris.
We may never leave.
© 2018 j.g. lewis
