This morning is
just this morning.
Last night
was only a night.
Where we end up is
as much a choice as chance.
A destination will look different
at the end of the day.
05/14/2024 j.g.l.
destination
Mondays are just young Fridays
This period of organic transformation, as seasons do what seasons have done before, is full of possibilities.
It is only natural to wonder what happens next as temperatures climb and the sun promotes growth, gratitude, and further change.
This is evolution in its most natural elemental. A beauty to behold, daily, hourly, seasonally.
Take the time to notice.
Enjoy it all.
05/13/2025 j.g.l.
human to the core
I have a good memory, one that allows me to disregard occasional unfortunate events and dismal challenges I have faced through the years and — when I need it most –— return to the bountiful periods of youthful happiness.
There I find my mother.
Positively selfless, human to the core, Mom had a practical wisdom that still shines through on occasions when I need good counsel, or if my spirits need a good polishing.
A gentle hand with forgiving resolve, and the most loving heart, my mother was my truest friend. She always seemed to find time for me, and knew when I needed it. My first teacher, the lessons I learned from her allow me to be the person I now am; flaws and all.
I lost my mother too early, and too long ago.
Technically, my mother was with me for less time than she wasn’t.
A mother’s love extends well beyond whom, or where, she is.
Her love is always with me.
I still feel her heartwarming presence, especially on days like today. I miss my mother, more than I admit, and cherish her memory often.
Today, again, I honour her magnificent soul.
Happy Mother’s Day
05/12/2024 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.
this eighth month
Posted on August 26, 2023 by j.g.lewis
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It stops.
Dreams, planted and paid for, dissipate with the season.
The eighth month,
forever a period of turmoil.
Imbalance.
Injustice.
Always.
The heartbreak of August.
Always endings, always there.
Goodbyes believable, stories told from sixteen onward,
a laundry list of sorrows, added items along the way
from a boy to a man, to whomever I struggle with now
and again.
I don’t know.
I live with it. This eighth month. August. I have naturally learned
to accept. My prescient nature, not always accurate, but available,
should I choose to pay attention to the whispers or my conscience.
Often choices are made for me, although
I continue believing you are where you are
because you ended up here.
Can you know?
This is not the season to hide, this eight month forebodes.
Always.
August.
As quickly as it comes.
As quickly as it goes.
Unhappiness fades away, with flowers, with memories,
with that freedom that comes from shorter midnights.
Soon to change.
September soon.
Calendars need not remind of weeks, or
years gone by. Each month has a purpose.
The sky sits lower.
It waits.
It knows.
@ 2018 j.g. lewis
