J.G. Lewis is a writer and photographer, a dreamer and wanderer, father and brother (an orphan of sorts), living in Toronto, Canada. Formerly an award-winning journalist, he now writes mainly fiction and poetry. A member of Poem Kubili, his recent work has appeared in Rebelle Society and The Tattooed Budha. You can read more of J.G. on his website, http://www.mythosandmarginalia.com
I wake often at 3:37. Desires inspired
in illuminated darkness
I want ice cream
wholly consumed, vacant dreams,
your voice shows through.
Front stoop shadow at 3:56. I show up
with ice cream and excuses.
You with questions, and
sleep in your eyes.
Silently nothing happens.
Lawns hiss, lamppost shines on
streets bereft of motion.
Dreadfully dead humidity
and well-weathered wicker
You stultify my banter, caution me not
to laugh so loud or I’ll wake up
I tell you I don’t care
who hears us or
who sees us
through this heat.
The ice cream
is melting. 4:24,
the spoon and the last mouthful
Not caring, or even daring, that neighbours
might find you on top of a shadow
on the front lawn at 4:37.
Ice cream tub
discarded on the grass.
mouth, you are
Change of Reason
Feed your heart in summer
keep it growing strong.
Feed your mind in autumn,
as knowledge comes along.
Feed your soul in winter
when loneliness comes, and goes.
Feed yourself in springtime.
It’s you, and you alone.
Equal part dawn and dusk, a dash of
diesel and tractor rust. A root of youth
which once was mine, fleeting glimpse
of that city’s skyline. One mouthful
of rain, a belly full of fire, a hint of
the envy I confused with desire.
An ounce of misfortune to keep you
on your toes, a whisper of the truth
that few people know. Swift whiff of
autumn and its soothing earthy scent,
seven crackling leaves heaven-sent.
Two hearty dollops of acute curiosity,
diluted by a cup of casual simplicity.
The naïve blush of an unsure teenager
standing only in her panties. A smile,
hallelujah on bated breath and bended
knees. A spade full of soil stolen from
Indian land, with six blades of tall
prairie grass from where Wal-Mart
now stands. A layer of dust off the
library stacks, nourishment from the
lunches my mother packed. Clavicle of
the lover who should’ve known better,
who gave only because she took, and
only because I let her. Six droplets of
her blood add opportunity to the mix,
ground into tongue of a lawyer, or liar,
and his big bag of tricks. A shot of
Southern Comfort to combat any fear,
and the shock of this Northern wind
and my reality here. Off the lakeshore
where I first learned to swim, a few
grains of sand and a dead fish’s fin.
Several of my obvious flaws tossed in
for good measure, with the shadow of
the full Moon I’ve come to cherish
and treasure. Three white tears to
consecrate my intention, and a fourth
for the secrets I neglected to mention.
Wax of a turquoise-colored crayon to
bind it together, cured with the wave
of an ancient Eagle feather. Not elixir,
but a potion for dreams so she’ll know
where I come from, and feel all I mean.