Coordinates unclear,
the first wonder of a new day.
Open your eyes,
light diffused, a little confused,
gradually you wake. Go slow.
Morning coffee:
is there a better type
to wash away remnants
of the darkness that exists?
A cloudy day any way,
no need to rush.
You sit and settle
into this reality, every cell
of your being readjusting.
Recalibrate your emotions.
Don’t rush it.
No need today.
Yesterday no longer matters.
©2017 j.g. lewis
Hesitation is seldom efficient.
Moments become a weakness.
Alone. Struggling with the blur
from one day to the rest. You
try to see the hidden meaning.
Will you write the right words?
Finding certain rhythm, sorting
out time. Each step or notion,
guarded breath or concurrent
emotion. Seconds, then minutes,
comprise a day. No silence with
solitude. No path. Today. Clues,
random dogma, unclaimed truth,
passive aggression, as you work
your way through to the answer
in plain view. Mystery in the grid.
Seeking substance in this puzzle.
Will you look again tomorrow?
© 2020 j.g. lewis
When it rains
it pours,
unexpectedly. While
nourishing flowers and
washing away the filth
and debris
of seasons past, a storm
can also offer a new
sense of wonder.
There’s a scent to the air
after the rain,
following
a deluge of personal pain.
You may find rainbows,
and you will certainly
find puddles.
Keep looking up, but
watch where you step.
© 2016 j.g. lewis
© 2016 j.g. lewis
I keep a little notebook tucked in the front pocket of my packsack. Actually, I have a selection of small notebooks in a selection of bags, and a couple of spare pads on my desk.
While I keep a daily journal — and always have a notebook on the go for reminders, poems and observations — the pocket-sized scratch pads are there should I come across a random thought, idea, or phrase that needs to be written down.
Everything needs a place to go.
I write every damn day. Sometimes it involves hours of composing (or editing) at my computer, other times it is playful poetry in a park. Often times it is sitting in a coffee shop; as it is today, where I am lamenting my neglect in packing my pencil case.
Like the small notebook in the front pocket of my packsack, I always keep a spare pencil (or pencil stub) with every bag in my possession; you never want to be without a pencil.
You never know when something needs to be written down.
Part of my process, my practice, or my purpose, is taking notes. Notes become poems, essays, chapters, letters, or simply remain notes on the nonsense we all encounter.
For me, writing provides time to make sense of the madness.
Writing, for me, provides clarity.
Does it become any clearer if you take the time to write it down?
© 2022 j.g. lewis