Summer doesn’t speak;
it whispers a conscious melody
to high-heeled fashionistas with open toes,
sunburnt brats with runny noses, and
old men who know
evening air is sweeter
when dusk has had its way.     Humidity.
Sweat of the glass,
                                 Tangueray and tonic
will take away the pain,
Mosquito bites, lonely nights
sitting on an ever- creaky veranda,
Dinah Washington crackles from the speaker.

Suddenly you appear. . .

   Any other day
flowers stand taller, like
the younger women strolling by,
getting younger by the day.
Watch them
                      and wipe
the perspiration from your brow;
the once-crisp handkerchief has
soaked up many nights of lustful thoughts.
Old men just grow older,
the meaning comes with age.     Humility.
Summer lasts as long
as a savings account wastefully spent.

Then you are gone. . .

   Over time
most of the flowers will perish
well before first frost,
mostly from neglect.     Naturally.
We will all grow tired
of looking at them,
                                 or forget the beauty.
Our minds go to other places.
Yet summer, in its capricious wisdom,
will breathe again
to those of us who will listen.
To young women
and older men.

© 2018 j.g. lewis

Watercolour painting by Kevi Remple

* selected lyrics from Invitation.
Written by Bronislaw Kaper/Paul Francis Webster,
the jazz standard was memorably recorded
by Dinah Washington in 1962. Has desire ever
been captured more sensually in a musical state?

You begin to understand, at a certain age,
it is not about understanding everything.
It doesn’t make sense, any more, any less,
but becomes easier to understand
or accept. Nevertheless,
in this realm of limited-time offers and
best-before dates, coming of age seems right.
Come what may, give or take,
to trial and error, it no longer matters, now,
who wasn’t there. Destination straight ahead,
on a certain date, in a certain way,
you carry any range of emotions
more purposefully, on any given day.
Often you have more to say, yet wisely choose
whom you repeat it to.
Every day is not the same.
Glimpses of yesterday rarely appear. Anyway.
This was the tomorrow we looked forward to.

©2018 j.g. lewis

Wednesday sits naked
         and ordinary
           waiting

between the bookends of a social Saturday
and restive Sunday. The day is
        little more

than a cluster of hours or a step on the
 treadmill. Indecisive and
      lonely

nobody chooses a Wednesday. Nothing
happens
           on a Wednesday

and it’s the same each week.

© 2014 j.g. lewis

 

My life is marked by Wednesdays.

Come hell or high water, each week I post something on this website on a Wednesday. Actually, I post something every day, but Wednesday is the day I originally chose to let out whatever is on my mind. I have, every Wednesday, every week, for the past three-and-a-half years.

My thoughts.

I didn’t know exactly what I would be writing, or posting, when I originally started mythosandmarginalia.com. I knew I’d be slapping something up every day, as my daily breath, but these were intended to be short statements of why, or how, I was doing what I was doing, or what I was wondering.

I write.

I #writeeverydamnday.

Then Mondays started to become young Fridays, and Sundays were a day for a quotes that moved me, and every other day, including Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, and Tuesday too, began to take shape.

Once in a while, usually in March (but this year, also in May) I’ve been inviting other writers to share this space with me. It’s never been because I couldn’t fill the space, but more because I believed these others writers and friends, could also offer another opinion, or a fresh thought on whatever topic was on my mind.

There will be changes, certainly in the coming months, as I intend to expand the way subject matter is handled. Of course I have plans, but nothing fixed, per se. There has never been deliberate thought on what appears here, only the intention that something must.

And it does.

Lately I’ve been thinking more on what I write, or what I am doing as a writer, a poet, and a human being. I think it comes with the territory; how can you write what you are thinking, if you don’t acknowledge your thoughts?

I’ve always hoped this is more than navel gazing. I truly and totally appreciate the comments readers provide, how they might resonate with you; or how your thoughts or feelings are contrary to mine. Diversity in any form, but especially in opinion, is important.

I have reposted this poem today to remind myself, more than anything, that Wednesday is just another day. I do so knowing I will put up something else tomorrow, and Friday, and every other day.

I stake claim to Wednesdays. I rely on Wednesday, but I must remember each day is important for one reason or another.

  Frequently designated a dreamer, in perpetuum,
among many other things, he does, he admits,
allow little space to plan.
                                          Rightly or wrongly,
        this is the path
             he has ended up on. Difficult, perhaps,
               at times when cracks in the concrete led him astray.
  Only recently discovered, by accident more than fault, is balance
maintained in a world cluttered with discrepancies and dogma
forced upon him by conspiracy theorists, self-serving henchmen,
    Jesus freaks and hangers on, black hole believers
        and Masters of the Universe
          who continue, ad nauseam, to propagate fear.

  Erstwhile encounters not forgotten, not
soon enough, minutes bypass memory, he has clung to details
      accounted for nostalgically and passionately,
          each plank of a moral platform galvanized and scandalized.
He continues, white-knuckle grip, adhering
to a belief system founded over time; tested, altered,
as deemed fit or favourable.
Fully aware and seemingly appreciative, he has crossed the line
   from seeing himself merely as a character in this long drawn-out drama
        to bearing witness
                         to what happens, as it happens.
He, alone, will not wait to understand, but,
    carpe diem, record the state of a disingenuous planet.

  Each event, as it unfolds, to be accepted as what will.
No longer a second-hand story in third-person narrative,
                     this first-person view could offer confusion at worst,
discomfort at least, though instant, authentic, and liberating in ways
only he will determine. Tenet nosce.
 Each element of freedom comes at a cost.
         He will taste the summer ahead, open mouthed, open-minded,
               without concern of those in the past, but
                   with a belief not to get too far ahead of himself
in the dreams he conjures.
Self and the spirit pacified today with the joy offered,
      instead of looking for what
               is no longer there. It is easier that way.

© 2018 j.g. lewis

Poem Kubili
International Poetry Collective
poemkubili.com

“I say get off your ass and get working while you can…
we’re still in our element and will go on for as long as
possible. We enjoy what we do and so do our fans.”
-Ronnie Wood firing back at internet trolls who say
The Rolling Stones are too old to rock and roll.

Age means longevity.

Ry Cooder just released a new album, his first in seven years. John Prine also has a new offering, after 13 years. Like The Rolling Stones, both of the American musicians are still in their element and, obviously, enjoy what they do.

I know I’m going to buy Cooder’s release this weekend, maybe Prine’s as well. I’ve got this thing for artists who continue making valid, substantial music. Both of these musicians have been around for a while; Cooder even played with The Rolling Stones before Ronnie Wood even joined the band.

Far from resting on their laurels, these musicians get off their ass and did what they love to do. They are working while they can. The Stones are touring the UK this year, Cooder is also back on the road (he’s even playing Toronto next month).

All of these musicians are all in their seventies. Who, really, is going to say that’s too old?

I haven’t bought the last couple of Stone’s releases. I don’t own all of Cooder’s albums either, but I’ve got many of the 17 studio albums the guitarist’s catalogue (1979’s Bop Till You Drop remains my favorite).

We’ve all got our favourite bands and artists. At some point in our lives a song, or an album, found its way into our heart, and we continued listening. As they aged, so did we. Some of those musicians have since left this planet, but their music lives on.

Isn’t it wonderful that some of those players who managed to capture our imagination still do? The same spirit that keeps the players playing, keeps us listening to the music.

Talent, creativity, or musicianship, has nothing to do with age. In fact, in so many cases, it improves with age and experience. Five years ago I watched Paul McCartney live, at age 70, and without even using the phrase ‘for his age’, he was amazing.

McCartney is a senior citizen, and surely lives through many of the ailments that come with age, but it doesn’t stop him. He still has a rock and roll attitude, like The Stones and many of his contemporaries.

Pete Townsend has not let his hearing problems stop him. Bob Dylan has all but stopped playing guitar because of arthritis, and Eric Clapton, who suffers from nerve damage, admits he has slowed down and has had to adjust his style. But he hasn’t stopped playing. His most recent take on the blues (2016’s I Still Do), sounds dirty and gritty, and oh-so-sweet. No, it is not the playing as it was decades earlier, but it is strong and identifiable as pure Clapton.

What it comes down to is, the musicians we admire, or worship, are just regular human beings, like the rest of us. They too get old.

Yes, there are scads of younger musicians who continue to introduce new styles and sounds, but rock and roll is no longer about youth, but about proof. Talent always wins out, and over time that talent needs to be appreciated.

Ageism has no place in music, or art, or theatre. . . or society for that matter.