Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days


a daily breath

  • offered and accepted

    Gratitude is not always proportionate.
       There are big thanks for little things and smaller,
    more conservative, replies to larger gestures we may not fully comprehend or even totally appreciate, yet.
       Still, an expression of gratitude in any size, shape or form, should be offered and accepted openly.
       That is the longitude and latitude of gratitude.
       We really do have so much to be thankful for.

    © 2017 j.g. lewis

  • Mondays are just young Fridays

    Art is everywhere, if you choose to look.
       Lately, as the weather becomes a slightly more pleasurable each day, I am taking the opportunity to get back out on the streets of Toronto to observe what really happens here.
       Last Thursday, on the way to an appointment, I was fortunate to notice something I had never seen before.
       Just about any day you’ll find Ross Ward hunched over on Yonge Street tending to his art. The ‘Birdman of Toronto’ has been a fixture on these streets in various locations for well over a decade, and during each day he crafts, and sells, palm-sized birds.
       Once only a hobby — this is now more than whittling — Ward carves out shapes of common birds from reclaimed wood. There is always a piece in progress, and always a small flock for sale on his concrete workspace.
       Perhaps in our day-to-day journeys, we don’t look close enough at all the people. We don’t often observe enough to see art just happening here and there on our landscape. I’ve wandered this street how many times and only last week did I notice the man. I saw him again on the weekend.
       Appreciating the beauty of his work, I bought a bird as a gift for someone . . . or maybe a souvenir for myself to one day remember my time in this city.
       Couldn’t we all use more memorable hand-made art?


     05/06/2024                                                                                  j.g.l.

  • this puzzle

    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

  • cloud songs

         Morning observations rarely register
                 as we wake and wander our way 
                 through infant hours. 
    It takes a moment for 
    the mind to come alive while
    the gravity of the day settles in.
                   We fail to notice little things,
       considerably more substantial days ago, 
       perhaps once meaningful or spiritual,
       now displaced as the second hand
       of the wristwatch sweeps onward.
           Afford yourself opportunity 
       to be distracted by butterflies, soon
       a scent of lilacs, freesia, even the taste of
       spring rain or requisite morning coffee.
           In days so rent with common 
           occurrences, look beyond 
           what is there.
     
    05/02/2024                                                                                 j.g.l.

  • Mondays are just young fridays

    This search for wholeness, an
    unforgiving quest to find a
    natural state in a world of
    compromise, deceit, and fate.
    My self, my view, my impulse 
    or intention too far beyond 
    what I am or have now.
    Deep thoughts, a deeper longing 
    for an uncomfortable truth 
    mainly comprised of falsehoods.
    What is behind this fragile shell?
    What has it done to protect me?

    04/29/2024                                                                                   j.g.l.