Begin the day believing
something wonderful will
happen. Not just any day,
but today. It could.
Think of not what could
go wrong, but what will
go remarkably right.
You’ve got all day, what
will happen? What do
you want to happen?
Make it happen.
10/02/2023 j.g.l.
Do you do what gets done
out of obligation or
out of joy?
Do you care?
Where do
I start?
So much to do
every day. So little
gets done.
I know.
Do you judge a day
based on how much
was accomplished?
Do you?
Do you
end your day regretting
what was not completed,
or
do you end the day
looking forward to
tomorrow?
Where do
I begin?
© 2020 j.g. lewis
There are days where your vision is not clear, when you find it difficult to look past what is before you to see your true intentions.
You know what you need to do but lately, day after day, you don’t get it done.
You can’t see where you are headed, but know you will get there. That’s how strong your true vision is, or how strong it needs to be.
Look past the barriers.
Nothing can stop you once you stop stopping yourself.
09/29/2023 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.
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
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.