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: April 2023
What we narrate, curate
or choreograph
maintains its presence in
the greater expanse of
a life lived. Might we forget
the details amidst the corruption
and careless contamination
of years passed by,
or people passed over,
the quintessence of the event
still rings rather true.
We may wish to
languish over one memory
or another faithfully captured in
our psyche; much to remember,
forever is an awful long time.
We still live with
the consequences, occasionally
reminded of desperate attempts
to alter our way, tact
or approach, but little
can be changed of what
has been ingrained.
We live with it,
our restless reality lasting
much longer than we give
ourselves credit for.
04/24/2023 j.g.l.
Posted on April 23, 2023 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Minor circumstance to major accomplishment; a flower’s life so short in comparison to the joy it brings.
“To be a Flower”, as Dickinson writes, is a “profound responsibility.”
Oh, the burden on those first blooms of spring – the Daffodils and the Tulips – striving to remind us there is hope after a long, harsh winter.
Unselfishly attention seeking, April’s flowers remind us there is colour worth waiting for. And more soon.
04/23/2023 j.g.l.
Posted on April 22, 2023 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Bruised. Beat up.
Each day we hurt; each day we heal some way:
physically, spiritually, superficially
in most cases.
We exist with pain
we cannot forget, nor will we get past.
It moves with us
through phantom limbs. What is, what it was,
or what will never be. No matter how
we squirm, meditate, medicate
or mask our wounds
we bleed.
You cannot wipe
the taste of an old lover from your lips,
a parent’s words echo, mistakes sustained.
Thoughts better left for dead,
and very much alive.
Terminal disappointment.
Remove the dressing,
scars remain: reminders; where we have been,
what we have done or
what has been done
to us. Excuses solemnly validate
our existence.
This art of living
involves exquisite deception. Calloused knees bent,
we pick at scabs from prayer
or surrender. Impressions remain
pressed into the skin.
Of course we hurt.
Who better would know
the fundamental truth of the human experience?
Tear off the bandage,
the wounds will breathe. Proof
we have done something that can and will
make us stronger.
© 2019 j.g. lewis
April is Poetry Month
it moves with us
