A Distant Child

In a quiet state I would recognize the distance

Between the now of experience toward childhood

We might wish to have a redo on pain if we could

Seems a simple prospect to imagine all is chance.

 

When returning to some original memory in life

Oh to know the patterns that drove our own fight

Or flight, the summer weather such intrigue in light

Of finding ourselves amongst the massive strife

 

Inside a dream we could walk for miles in the sand

Feeling only the beauty of the sea carrying away our

Imagination, our intrigue with stepping beyond power

That illusion of knowing we could withstand demand

 

Live your life she said, he said the world in silent release

Would rather only our sanity to discover our own peace.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

Wausau 1979

Try to imagine

where it was,

the moment

inside a memory,

what did the breeze feel like,

certainly there was one,

the glen inside a cove

surrounded in maples and pine,

and short shrifts of sumac

pine needles all across the forest wood

where we as children climbed

only the same tree,

familiar branches,

I sat there last year

he said to her,

as she wondered if or when he might

try to

kiss her

under the oak,

the childhood symbol of growing up,

at least,

understanding that

decades later,

the memory of which

might be less profound

than the immediacy of a heart racing

illusion

of

love,

in the eyes of two thirteen year old children,

holding hands on a public street,

smiles and backpacks and

acne and eyes that searched only for

each other

because

that is what we had been told

that is what we had been told,

is the meaning of love,

in a quiet midwestern town,

where concrete

could easily confuse

the very natural ground

we laid upon years later

with a lover

and smitten eyes.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

A Silent Snow

It’s okay, he said.

The snow began to fall,

and he wondered about the natural course of things.

While tucked away in the corner,

reflections of life

carried on,

a conversation between two lovers,

innocent to the eyes around,

simply enthralled

she said with a smile,

and he

sort of moved in.

 

They hadn’t really experienced life yet,

thought the onlooker,

his coffee now calling

a lovely segue into creating a moment

for himself.

 

Little boy walks right up to his knee

stares with doe eyes,

and the writer has to

make a choice,

usher him away or smile,

and a voice beckons and the little boy

retreats to dad,

letting peace again consume

the quiet man behind the eyes,

waiting for the storm,

waiting to watch the snow fall,

like a memory may not remind

the immediacy of Winter

a nearing charm.

 

In the middle of the night

he might wake to find

his heart beating

at a rapid rate,

a telling reminder of another time,

when snow fell from branches

like angelic boughs,

a plop to the sunlit morning,

the cars drifting along the avenue,

in some remarkable ceremony,

his time to say good-by,

his time to wonder why.

 

Sitting now, the snow has begun to fall,

so many moments like tonight … a gentle breeze.

Pieces of Time

I wonder about what might remain,

the pieces of me throughout a memory,

is it my own, someone I knew,

I know,

a circumstance I cannot return.

 

If I were to wander far enough into the forest,

might I be sure to follow

some path

a traveling analogy

holding promise for tomorrow.

 

Forever is the time we remember,

when everything else we know

falls victim to promise,

our lives amidst the mix

of the masses.

 

Who might ever recall a sadness,

when a happy moment awaits,

shoring up the energy

to celebrate

the human condition.

 

Cast away the doubt of recall,

for there might be some journey

ahead

we could never predict,

yet plod on forward with a smile.

 

If asked what it is I might be listening

now in the twilight of winter

beckon the cool winds of a sky

waiting to descend

sweet air of a crystal midnight.

 

Oh if I might seek such is time,

would discovery ease a life strain.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

Ticking Clocks

It’s 2 am

a little Brubeck

echoing in the silence

some distant harmony

making allowance

for a mind

unable to shut down,

just quiet,

listening to various clocks

set their own time,

ticking reminders of the seconds,

tearing about the fabric

of our own sanity.

 

There are pictures on the wall,

each holding court

with years,

reason,

time stamps

our own personal library,

not for public showing,

just, reasonable

reasons to wonder why,

when we do

struggle to answer

a few remaining questions,

we pause,

then realize

then forget again,

these wonders,

the questions in our mind,

stay with us

forever.

 

Simple jazz brought me

here tonight,

letting the hours slip by,

knowing I will have some

absence in my mind

tomorrow when reasoning

how to

catch up with the loss,

where some might argue,

time is not simply defined

by the hours in the day,

or others might suggest

time is really beyond the scope

of what’s inside our mind.

 

Another might just say you are

full of shit,

just go to bed.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

Thinking the Essence of Man

Who are we

he said

over a beer with a friend,

troubled by the circumstance

of a gender bending

authority

in his mind,

yet

in another’s

an opportunity

perhaps to find Grace

between man and woman,

to know some

spiritual guidance

will take our lives much further

then simple rejection.

 

Oh, but simple is not truth,

this analogy

seems a convenient

escape beyond our

self-described realism.

 

Man is not alone,

in a sweet testament

could if found

embark upon a journey

perhaps a sojourn

of forgiveness

to know only that

she

might, may, could, will be

a savior

in the fault

of human pride

the human condition

as it plays out

ego.