Walls surround me; people tell me, even ask me
where I’ve been. I can’t find the answers, or
the reason from within. If home is the place
where you lay your head, I’ve got no room left
for what goes on when the walls are closing in.

No longer seeking safety or salvation, but simply
common ground. There were never second chances the
first time around. It’s been years since I have come home,
though I’m not without my blame, I’m not without
my judgment and not without my shame.

No reminders. No residue.
No solutions, nor the pain.

More a feeling than a destination, home is not
about geography. Even less the physical location.
The whisper of home gets hard to understand,
even mundane decisions become more difficult
when you take life in your own hands.

Driving forward, moving slowly, the place between
here and this. Listen to music you chose, the next
track on the disc. Melancholy melody, even lyrically
it stokes a chord. We all remember taking chances,
but too often forget about the risk.

Nothing there, nothing lost.
Nothing left. Nothing gained

Of course I’m still dreaming of home, it helps me
pass the time. Past mistakes and memories,
I own them; they are all mine. My mind often loaded
with gentle thoughts of you, yet it still provides
no direction of where I’m going to.

©2017 j.g. lewis

 

by Denise McQuiston

In my town the hillside
is graced with a Gothic Church designed in stone.
I walk the winding streets into the hills
and see the panorama of my town below.
This town was my destination and discovery
from 3000 miles West.
The 4 seasons pass here
in colors and seasons of their own time.
The days begin in rain, fog and forested mountain mists
just before traffic hits and coffee is poured to the masses
while trains rumble through.
This town is my element.
An old house, apartment or New England Victorian might sustain me
it’s the elements that call out to me and touch my heart
that are the comforts of what I call home.

by Carrie Hura

 

It’s the warm light pouring onto the lawn from a lightly curtained window

The sky just turning azure
Crescent moon hanging low but rising
A few bright stars sparkling even higher
As crickets chirp their last autumn sounds

The people inside are comfortable
moving about
Their evening routine
Thinking of nothing outside that window

The neighbors all doing the same
Down that block of Ford built bungalows
Some darkened windows
Not even home
Some out back, smoking in the open garage…a moment’s silent peace
Even the teenager in his first car coming home
music rocking
All in their safe space

 

Carrie Hura lives in the metro Detroit area.

We take this life not for granted, but one hour,
one day, moment by moment, not knowing when we
will no longer count. Displaced, you in your wisdom
continue the route among daily delusions and
deep-seated anonymity. Colours change,
green to amber, we rush ahead, instead of slowing
or stopping for the red and allowing traffic
to move along its hurried way.
Seldom still, we balance our lives on myth,
emotion and complications. The things we carry
become a burden.
Not often enough do we remove ourselves from the
concrete and corruption of a common urban existence
to seek comfort elsewhere; away
from city sounds we have become accustomed to.
Far away, there, where noise is noticed for
what it is, and mostly silence. Natural.
Birds, however small and hardly noticed, cry out
with intention and command our attention.
As autumn passes swiftly.
We take this time not for granted, but one hour,
one whisper, moment to moment, not knowing when
we began counting. At any point the weather will
take away the splendor we barely find space to absorb,
though we know we must.
Cold winds have been hesitant of late.
Call us fortunate, for now, yet not entirely.
We watch the sky, waiting for a sign, or a message;
one we may have been too stifled to observe.
Maybe the moon, as it shifts, with you beneath it, has
captured your fancy. You notice it more
in a nocturnal setting away from the day in
day out clamor of life, as you know it.
Each day given, each day taken,
should be an opportunity or reminder
there are lessons beyond this meaningful sky.
You pay less attention to the intangibles
and shadows of former thoughts.
We take this life not for granted, but one breath,
one season, moment upon moment, not realizing
how much it counts. We drift, not alone,
but separate among others.

© 2016 j.g. lewis

Tomorrow is the first National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, a day to recognize the painful past of the relationship between Canada and its first nations people.

A federal statutory holiday created in June under an act of parliament, it is a day to honour the lost children and survivors of residential schools and the unfair treatment experienced by indigenous people.

It is a day for those of us non-native Canadians to acknowledge our part, and that of the generations that preceded us. It will be a day of reflection on the lives we have been living and the systemic racism we have lived with.

It hurts to think about it.

How can we deal with the guilt of decisions made before our time?

How can we deal with the outright imbalance of issues that continue to strain this country?

We need only think of the murdered and missing women across this country.

We think of the large number of indigenous communities in this country without safe drinking water.

This is Canada.

We live on stolen land.

And we continue to learn more, and learn of more and more bodies being discovered on the grounds of former government and church-run residential schools. For years the ghosts of these rumours haunted us.

Now we know of the corpses.

These are the lost generations we will think of tomorrow.

How can we speak for those who are unable to speak for themselves?

We need to seriously ask ourselves how we can become a part of the healing process, and how we can leave a better world for those to come.

This is especially difficult since we have already imparted our biases and beliefs onto our own children — either directly or by implication — and society, historically, has enforced our sad shortcomings.

We have not always been the best neighbours. More so, we have sinned or committed sins against those we have not known.

Many of us have not taken the time to know the truths, or their stories.

Some of us have listened to, or studied, the wrongful ways of the past.

For too long, too many of us have viewed our nation’s first people as our country’s first problems, and successive governments have perpetuated this pattern.

How can we become better ancestors?

We can begin today. Tomorrow will not come soon enough.

© 2021 j.g. lewis