They are not loud,
in fact,
whispers that catch me,
wondering where.
They are in my head,
reminders
of why it is that way I am
will be my forever.
I sometimes in the silence
can imagine window sills tremble,
the sky is falling
inside my mind.
I wonder if you might know,
this feeling
is more powerful than
anything I will ever know.
Know it is true,
Know it can never go away.
No, no, know.
photo collage – Lezlie Vermillion
While rains fell, I swam in the beauty of a summer shower,
the cloudy afternoon turning toward nature’s setting hour,
I think we all have our own conception of a romanticized storm
with its electrifying resonance, makes us each somehow conform.
This year has been a challenge to breathe, only in quiet we grieve.
Stale of a pandemic – a somber reminder of how isolate we believe
our lives would become in a manner of short-lived sordid silence.
We all stayed home together using a prescribed social distance
meant to keep alive, those whom we loved, could now only imagine.
We missed the dear lives we grew to know and watched a time taken
away in throes of mortality, the fear, the protective nature we live
only to suggest we are experiencing a historic timeline. We give
hope to the many children who walked inside the solace of a stage,
so many years did they play the roles whose time will never age.
I watched upon my seniors today, in pictures, experience in a way,
some tasking for ‘break a legs’ in a world asking survival each day.
Tears in my eyes as I live this constant reminder of a virtual end,
careers, scripted lives, now faithful their realities eventually mend.
© Thom Amundsen 6/2020 – the year of the pandemic
Oh how we do experience fallout
letting our safer dreams fade into blue
the light of day soon cast away from view.
Eyes begin to lose life tossed about
in the mainstream; an acceleration
of a mechanical nature spans time.
(imagine lives driven only by rhyme).
We saviors within our own affliction
must then resort, balance upon virtue.
When in the heat of salvaging mind
would battling truth a constant we find,
recall sweet the elixir – living true.
Don’t ever let we might somehow release
sweet imagination, a twilight peace.
© Thom Amundsen 6/2020
I wonder if it is true
people have epiphany
while sitting by the lake
I wonder if it is true
a life can only become
consumed with happiness.
I wonder if it is true
civil disobedience
may change our lives.
I wonder if it is true
no matter what we do,
there will always be need.
I wonder if its true,
every step we make
will leave an imprint.
I believe it to be true
no matter acerbic nature
we all belong together.
© Thom Amundsen 6/2020
Would he know regret
Despondent though he might let
Love all He beget
Hurting people line the streets tonight,
much like any night across America,
many years,
so many lives lost,
waiting to be heard,
always
a slamming door,
the same is ever preset
yet people tonight are saying
this time is different,
this ‘is the season’ says the reverend,
Al Sharpton stirs the world
acknowledges his verbosity
in getting his point across,
says he doesn’t mind,
(LIFT YOUR KNEE OFF OUR NECK)
has a lot to say,
and tonight we listened,
we all listen
George Floyd
George Floyd
George Floy …
wait a minute we must
say his whole name,
always and forever,
forgotten in the wind,
a night breeze
a full moon
watching over us all
wherever we stand
is the simple truth,
watching over us
George Floyd
Rest In Peace
© Thom Amundsen 6/2020
What is a racist?
Though I do clearly insist
In love we resist.
©️ Thom Amundsen 6/2020
Tear down the city
Tear gas is a ‘solution’
Tears are not enough
© Thom Amundsen 5/2020
I was listening to the rain outside,
a steady rhythm of a soft spring shower
the whistle of a train nearby,
reminded me of a man I love so dear.
I have watched him grow his entire life
a boy to a young man, such happens overnight
I see pictures and memories and I want to cry
for when might I tell him how grateful am I.
I’d like to remind him of all the moments he believed
even when I was a puddle of self agony and grieved.
I want him to know that quite honestly every night
while the whistle of the train plays the rains so light.
I love him, I’m so proud I may call him my son.
© Thom Amundsen 5/2020
for Alex
I wonder about perception,
how well it matches up inside,
the image we carry of ourselves,
the identity screaming always for balance
against the odds,
despite our own misgivings.
Last week I was high,
a natural phenomena
that took me places,
I didn’t have to anticipate,
just lived inside
this possibility.
This morning I stared out the window
barely able to move,
I wanted to question whether I should
with the many voices
clamoring in the back of mind,
yes, well, in any rate, you could.
I did,
here now begins a day,
a bit overcast,
accentuating a sort of morose
atmosphere
to balance the mood.
Sometimes I wonder
to myself
where this all began.
I know I shared it with you
one time,
so many peaks and valleys ago.
© Thom Amundsen 5/2020
