Hearing Voices

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.

I Cried Tonight

seniors

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

Hang Onto Dreams

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

Truth

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

Predictable Love

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

Listening To The Trains

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

A Week Later

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