Poetry by A J Lewis

Poetry by A J LewisYes I am a poet, as if the world needed another, right? Well, as you will discover (if you haven’t already), I am good at this craft. I like to type on the computer or typewriter when I write (whatever meets my mood at the time). I am honest and to the point, meaning I am not afraid to say what I think. I like walks in the park and late night phone conversations. I like to read Bukowski when I take a shit on the toilet and Rilke when it rains. I think that Snyder is brilliant. I know that there is a God, but I have serious doubts about organized Christian religion. I am a Pisces, which means I am moody, emotional and sensitive. I like to drink vodka in the afternoon, but don’t call me a drunk, because I can out drink any of you little shits. I am not athletic, but I exercise occasionally. I am a vegetarian. I write to get this loud voice of poetry out of me and into words. Please… only the serious should read on. I am not interested in the boring, mundane, average or the needy. I am not attempting to be a hero, nor am I a role model. I am just a poet with an honest voice. I am awaiting your reaction to my poetry.

Clouds At Twilight

Clouds At Twilight

the sounds of cars are distant
as the echoes of the night are taken by the wind;
puddles of rain water rest after the midnight storm.

above me
the clouds stir like shadows
against the moon
and the stars.

I stare at those swirls of gray
as they are formed
and re-formed.

I feel my breath exhale from my body
and I breathe in more cold air.
I close my eyes and I listen to every detail –
to every sound that my ears can pick-up:
a horse moving around in a barn stall
and then the traffic
which is fading into the crickets and the wind

right now there is a peace about the world,
and with the clouds
there is a gentle movement.

at twilight
a moment passes like a lifetime,
and every moment,
for me,
becomes just as important
as the last

Clouds At Twilight

Horses In May

Horses In May

there is something about
the smell of horses in the air in may.
it isn’t a bad smell
or a good smell,

it is a memory of me as a child,
playing outside at sunset,
taking in that smell
for the first time.

purity is in what we can’t capture or describe with words,
because the minute we do that
we destroy the innocence
and the purity of it all.

December Raindrops

December Raindrops

if you ask me about the world
I will say that
it is plain and never exciting;
it is bitter
it is sad
it is miserable
and sometimes I can’t breathe.

through my bedroom window
I see three children dressed in parkas and playing in the rain.
for the moment
I am held by their simplicity.

lately I have been searching for solace;
I have been at war
with the hatred
in me.

but those children out there:
watching them,
I wish I could go back to my then,
or find the reset button in me,
to forget about
all of my

I know that
I can pretend that none of this has been
and I know that
to my end
I will remain twisted up and never fully unravel.

and I can laugh this off and say
who really wants to work for spiritual balance anyway?

it will come again one day –
the realization
like a fire in my belly –
that I have been too focused on my inner demons
to let myself


wasted again
empty bottles
bad luck
angry wife
I put my child to sleep
lottery numbers fall to the floor
and I went to the store
for more beer

and ran into
who I always seem to run into
and he invited me to speak at an event
that he was planning.
he could of called
he has my number
but he threw this invitation at me
expecting me to say yes.

wasted again
here on the sofa
and I remember Fountain Hills
and wind chimes
and her.
we used to walk under moonlight
and stay out talking.
we wanted it to work
but it never had a chance.
too many obstacles.

wind blows tonight through this open window
the shades are drawn shut
but life moves still
dogs bark
cars pass through this apartment complex
girls laugh, drive home
the morning is sure

wasted again
a friend asleep in the other room
my wife wondering when I will come to bed.
wasted again, she knows
the vodka keeping me on the sofa
through television
and the night
3am I might stumble to bed
and I half asleep

hoping for a fresher dream
like my dreams that
were once so pure and

New Orleans

I watched the television today waiting
for some sort of
New Orleans is destroyed,
the big easy is

a natural disaster
took the city…

it has brought out the best
and the worst in people…

volunteers are risking
their lives…

the governor is begging
for us to

from my comfortable seat here
I have seen pictures.
I have watched the looting.
I have heard about the raping
and the killing
and the desperation.

some have said that God has been vengeful
to a city that is decadent and poverty stricken.
yet I wonder
how such a thing could be measured.

what I see on the television is
people searching
for hope –
people who have had it rough.
and right now they are killing for food
or shelter
or whatever.

I have a wife, a child and 2 other children on the way.
in my mind I have wondered what I would do in such a situation as this.
would I be a murderer?
would I be a hero?

yet it always comes back to the cold dealings
of fate.
some of us will suffer
and burn and face the darkness in unequal amounts.

and tonight, in this Arizona sky,
it has been raining quietly,
while hundreds of miles away
God has been pissing and pissing and pissing
on a city called
New Orleans.