Pieces of Me

Wish I could find

smallish memory

wrap them in twine

drop them in the sea

Then might my eyes

witness some effort

now questioning why

an absorbent support

Will their history

rather sink than float

farewell this century

shadowed life he wrote

Above water may I not abhor

Pain left living on the ocean floor

Foliage Hidden

For they do sing in suggestive breeze,

still discreet in foliage

their lives depend on a travel,

readying swift reply to the wind.

 

Watch out your windows such

is preparation of a Creator,

grace upon our planted wilderness.

An imagined love in autumn

 

Sweater in hand time for a walk

In the quiet air of an arid migration.



© Thom Amundsen 2019

Autumn Sunrise

Picture silent beauty of the fallen

cascades over night in morning’s fresh dew

Would we lives would suspend among such few

swept in a seasonal breeze unspoken

 

While lives do merit certain ambience

having understood time in element

sweet farewell of arid temperament

with knowledge shelter a vortex of chance

 

In morning humanity know each day

means a spiritual guide wills a solace

swift is the timing of fortunate Grace

will soon a blossoming might lead our way

 

Demands seek urgency’s mortality

Cycle of life bestow such is beauty

Inner Peace

When stars align

a meditation

spiritual sojourn

When means love

is universal

beyond you and me.

The tempest of our lives

a barometer

choice and circumstance.

Inside our heart

know love,

a soul might reappear.

Sunsets are conveyers of whom

A pale, autumn moon, our tomb.


Thom Amundsen 2019

Sunday Night Moon

IMG_1270

If I could, how my body winds

down

inside a cavernous

dream

I might truly admit to feeling

down,

rather wish to imagine my life a

dream.

 

A Sunday night and here I go,

winding down

like the moisture in a culvert

draining toward

a bitter end,

and yet in a moment,

I glanced outside.

 

A moon, in its spectacular

Autumn rise,

A Hunter’s Moon,

to light the forest

so precious

is the moment

when the human condition,

might find life beyond

our own.

 

I watch the moon,

imagine

the world around us

we are all glancing in the same

direction,

hoping to find our eyes

have similar ideals,

sweet remains

our favorite

sky.

A Question of Authenticity

All my life,

a struggle has ensued,

when papering my walls with legal pad writings,

one after another after hours, after years,

until years later,

the wallpaper came down,

storage boxes collecting dust and shadows.

 

Someone said once,

who do you see,

what might you feel,

in a glance in the mirror

when the moment before,

you felt a single tear.

I wonder if we ever realize

when that day is near.

 

I glanced at the moon tonight,

it was profound in its full bounty,

the Hunter’s moon it is known,

to light our forests,

cause our hearts to gasp.

I wonder about this august,

seems to follow me,

on nights when

minds might

rather,

than

bay at the night sky,

feel a gasp in the wonder of

Nature.

 

I wonder about the moon and a clear night sky.

Ground Breaking Rules

When in childhood,

I once stood in the forest,

friends having descended the trail,

a night of surreal

exploration of the wood,

a morning fire,

a quiet reckoning.

 

Having forgotten a knife,

knowing it to be on a rock,

the rings of stone,

suddenly erupted

while coming upon,

the late night stories.

 

There is a blessing,

in the revisit,

perhaps a spiritual

guide,

a sense of

realizing Nature

needs such attention,

as my barely covered

feet stamped out

a reality of tragedy.

 

The reception of my friends,

a fatigue of waiting,

I recalled the story,

their laughter infectious,

imagining

if we had all been part of

an innocent scheme

to wipe out wood,

kept the lives of

eyes that met our silence

in the quiet of night.

 

We all do face our demons

in vivid flames of abandon.


© Thom Amundsen 2019