Storyteller of the Week

 j.lewis aka Jim Lewis 

 

 

 

Lewis family in 1989. Front row from left, Mika, Karlyn, Jim, Kendy. Back row from left,: Geoffrey, Brian, Phia.


j.lewis is the author of four full length collections of poetry: “a clear day in october”, “do you hear it”, “leave a light on”, and “as if a caress”, plus 7 chapbooks. He has been published in various print and online journals including “One Sentence Poems”, “Lothlorien Poetry Journal”, “Suisun Valley Review”, and “Via Negativa”. As the Editor of Verse-Virtual, an online monthly poetry journal, he stays actively involved with the poetry community. By profession, he is a Psych Nurse Practitioner, working in a county jail. Hobbies that keep him sane are hiking, kayaking, music, and photography.  He and his wife, Karlyn celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary quietly in April. They have 5 children and 17 grandchildren, scattered from California to Washington to Maryland   Learn more on: https://jlewisweb.com.

Comments by Sharon Waller Knutson

I met Jim Lewis in August 2020 when I submitted my first of 48 poems he has published as editor of Verse-Virtual. I am impressed with how he juggles a family, full time job, writing, publishing, photography, artwork, singing, song writing and still has time to nurture a community of hundreds of poets. He is a true renaissance man.

I chose him to kick off my month-long celebration of Father’s Day with his poignant powerful poems about fatherhood.

footsteps

did you do this thing
that boys all seem to do
walking behind a father
whose stride is longer
than his son is tall

tiny footprints waver
wander and stumble
then find the next depression
where father's weight
has pressed the soft ground
into his measured identity

did you laugh like i did
the day i realized that
as small as i still was
i could step from one print
to the next, no detours
no extra marks to mock me
for being insufficient

will you someday go
searching for your future
in the tracks of the past

will you wear boots
or will you put on sandals
when that day of decision comes
that day when you set out
to walk in kisra's footsteps

rambler

my father was a rambler man
not rambling, as some fathers were
but in his choice of cars

rambler had the reputation
for the qualities he admired
careful consideration of economy
and durability. it had to carry
a growing family safely, frequently,
over the long road from trading post to town
an hour any way you calculate it

the drive was long, just as his days
were long and hard, full of work
little time for recreation
but he was our rambler
our solid, dependable ride
from childhood's ignorant bliss
through the potholes of adolescence
into the confident cruise of adulthood

he believed in economy of words
so praise was scarce, but precious
a simple "good job" would carry me
through days and weeks of quiet

durability was in his genes
the engine and wheels that never
seemed to tire, never failed
if the rambler could run on fumes
so could he, and often did
lunch was a luxury when a job
had to be done before nightfall

somewhere in my young years
the rambler became smaller
had to be replaced to accommodate
more children, with all that implies
the rambler was traded in
on something newer, bigger
but not necessarily better

thank goodness, father grew
to fit us all. no trade in
no replacement

prodigal

father and son argument
over my place and his power
pushed me out of home
full of arrogance and hate
greyhound was close
and i was gone

california called me
friends with open arms and attitudes
would replace the family from hell
who no longer needed
this conformist turned pacifist
hippie in my father's eyes

the anger that fueled my flight
carried me to flagstaff
and beyond
to southern california
where i knew it never rains

in the uneasy stillness of late night
butt on the floor
chin on my knees
collins in my ears
the last of the fury faded
leaving me alone and lonely
for all i had so eagerly left
the realization punctuated
by salty drips that found my cheeks
but could not hold and fell
like my pride
down and away

the phone call was simple
returning was not
no fatted calf
just resignation
father and son hoping
neither quite believing
that things were somehow different

sons

there was no magic day
when back to back against my father
measurements were made
and i was proclaimed winner...
he still stands a little taller
though less intimidating

but my own sons
have each, as rite of passage
rejoiced in the day
when they surpassed my little stature
i guess it is the nature
of those who serve beneath
to want to lord it over master
beat their chests
and test the old bull of the herd

i have watched with joy and sadness
their painful growth to manhood
anguished at their sometimes
brutally stupid choices
shouted with the stars
when they chose right
waited late into the darkness
to welcome one or the other home

there's no denying
time was when i would not permit
that they should outpace me
but age and more age
has wrapped some understanding
around my heart
letting me applaud
with the roaring crowd
my young achievers

my head rocks with a knowing nod—
they will not comprehend
until some future father's day
catches them unaware and they stare
realizing at last
how much of me they are
how much of them i am

elijah

before the chariot of fire
before jordan parted
before the whirlwind
came the heavenly power
to seal on earth
to seal in heaven

generations to come
would know this promise
he would return
before the final burning
his a mission of remembrance
turning children
to fathers
binding hearts
on earth
in heaven

one night
i cradled in my arms
the smallest newborn
son of my second son
untimely come
but whole
and with a faint glow
of trailing glory

elijah's hand
brushed across my mind
pulled aside the veil
that keeps me from heaven
showed me the infinite
my ancestry
my posterity
my own essential place
in a family
unending

the moment passed
as good things do
too quickly
but the peace remains
a sense of belonging
to something great
precious
and possible

supper table
(for arthur henry king)

arthur was my father
though not first
nor even yet the second
those honored places given
first to God
then earthly sire
i loved him not less

arthur was my hero
holding easily at hand
a knowledge of language
places, and people
so broad i could not ford
so deep i found no footing
so humble, i believed
i could be like him

arthur sat at table
where we had come together
after years apart
and though i knew his ailment
i knew nothing
until i saw the tremors
and the clouded glance
where steadiness and a keen eye
had kept court
in kinder years-
his mortality
his frailty
a harsh confrontation
i was ill-prepared to face-
a haunting picture
that troubles me
when i try not to remember

arthur will inevitably pass
some morning, noon or night
while i am off pursuing
the excellence he taught me
could be mine -
and i will wait for someday
when arthur sits at table
wrapped not in failing flesh
but clothed in glory

Poet’s note on “supper table:” Arthur H. King was a college professor who had a profound influence on me. He was a recognized authority on Shakespeare, but his knowledge went far beyond that. By birth, he was British, and in his various professional duties, was well acquainted with royalty and people of “great importance.” Yet so humble that he and his lovely wife accepted an invitation to come to supper with two poor college students. As my wife and I were busy setting the table and getting everything ready, we turned to see him down on the carpet, playing with our infant son. After twenty or more years, when we got a chance to visit him again, he was suffering from advanced Parkinson’s Disease – and that visit prompted the poem.

Publishing credits for the poems:

rambler – Verse-Virtual (online)
footsteps – “as if a caress” – Cyberwit Press
prodigal – “do you hear it?” – Kelsay Books
supper table – “a clear day in october” – E&GJ Little Press