The Lives We Lead

I turned a corner the other day, received some applause.

Remember imagining there was not anything in our way

when now we give in to our ideals, this harmonic pause

we could only stand alone remembering, day after day.


There was a dance floor in town where everybody showed

their moves, their needs, their wants, their satisfying eyes

it was there on Saturday nights when everybody glowed

yet there we were dancing, quieting our fear in disguise.


When did we become what our parents all might dream

that someday our hearts would carry a soul in our hands

When did we become what our parents all might dream

For it is always true we live out the memory love demands


It is hard to trace the steps, the Jitterbug we all remember

an onset of adult life motions, we created dance together.

© Thom Amundsen 8/2021

A Week Doesn’t Matter

Tears remain the same,

the task ahead not as daunting as the moment,

yet we haven’t chosen to let go

of the moment.

Perhaps the force of human nature in all of its eventuality

will call our hand

where then we will be asked by being told,

it is time to move on, create another new world,

paint a new landscape, start another chapter.

Seek a new sunrise until our plans

burn to a crisp

and we are suggested to find another path,

step out of this rabbit hole

for today it is worn

and tomorrow there waits another

perhaps it will carry your outlook for years,

maybe weeks,

only hours.

Either way it will be different than today.

Oh, that is always what they say.

This Thing We Call Love

I remember a long time ago, I wrote a little piece about John Lennon, the day he was killed and the newspaper printed it. I was 20 at the time, and it was simple, ‘Guns don’t kill people, people do’ and I couldn’t really take credit for something the world was repeating to itself over and over in the mass confusion of such a loss. I remember his second album was coming out – he was talking about 40 being his next life, just published ‘Double Fantasy’ and it spoke of saving relationships with one common denominator – that was love.

My mother saw my letter to the editor and cut it out and put it on the refrigerator. To me that was an honor and I felt loved by her actions. To me that has always been what love is, not something expected but just what happens in our lives. I think in my family my children and I would say to each other and their mother, ‘I love you’ to finish conversations on the telephone. I remember one time recalling we did it so often it would glaring if one day we did not, and so I maintained the tradition, we all did, until later on in life it became a question in our minds. Suddenly name value didn’t have as much impact.

One day when I was 20 years old, I worked in an intake office and took phone calls and directed them to the psych units I worked with, and the phone rang, I answered and the voice on the other end said ‘I love you’ and hung up. I remember being so touched it gave me a tear. I had really never felt that kind of love before and here was a young woman whom I was falling in love with just chose the moment, hung up and probably smiled as much as I did the rest of that day.

So how do we define love today? I suppose it doesn’t have to be ritual as much as it needs a genuine appeal. I recently came across something about a friend that caused me some judgment, a place I don’t often like to go because it makes me feel shallow. The truth is though, I wanted to know and the only way I could is if I asked her directly, and then my greatest fear would be her rejection. So how do we define love? We don’t.

We simply allow love to happen in our lives, and then smiles and light in our eyes become real.

© Thom Amundsen 12/5/2020

Evil Laughter

“I read the news today oh boy
About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad
Well I just had to …” – A Day in the Life (Beatles)

Finish my lyrics with torment and greed.

Sickened by the lust of power desecrates

humanity as an intelligence run amok.

Who are we anymore, again, please reply.

I just heard a proclamation of horrific

stance, posture, attitude, built upon

resentment, that fashionable disease.


There is a piece of me remains preserved

for a sunny day, a better way to respond

to Evil’s grasp on our world of ignorance.

I wonder if I stepped outside and screamed

if anyone might really hear me beyond a visual

response to a crazy man in a psychotic state.

Would they listen to my words anymore than

they did when the aftermath of torture ended.


I stood in front of time watchful of my attention,

I sold my soul to the world beyond my own control.

I soiled my own physical reality with the fear of me.

I solved no matter of reasoning, no new influence

I stood stunned solemn – while the healing began.


I wonder sometimes who really gets it, or is that a choice,

knowledge mixed with pity and reasoning seems abrupt

when in a loss of life we are suddenly brought to arms,

we are living in a society of pain and agony,

we are testing freedom’s beauty within a state of



Sweet Harmony of Night

When at night, late chill of fear settling upon the horizon

hearts awake may ache with the nature of tomorrow

‘our bodies, our selves’ are worthy of time to pray

that our lives may live a delightful sparkle of grace.

When as we sense a fatigue we begin to struggle

to maintain our alive eyes that search the mist

of twilight skies, descending upon our minds

telling us our time is nearing an end today.

When then we reflect inside a visual dream

that reality that we speak of so fondly when

alone becomes just that, a cold barren field

of searching threads lost in the thorny branch

When while we stroll the maze of our lives

the tug upon our heart-strings ever present

in wonder as our soul becomes a spiritual guide

that seer of Grace looking out for our fears.

When in the night of day, our lives end again,

knowing we may awaken journey ahead.