Tag Archives: dad

He Stood On Memory

Posted by thom amundsen on

Can you sing me a song like they do on the radio?

the kind leaves the kids smiling in their beds.

Can you sing me a song like they do on the radio?

The kind leaves the kids smiling in their beds.

~

I remember when I was only a child in the summertime

listening to the old top 40’s and the detective shows

there still seemed to be some room for the sublime

nature of humanity with compassion for all of those.

~

We listened to the radio, watched mama by our bedside

singing songs, writing love stories, giving kisses

always knowing dad was nearby with cigar as a side

creating novelty in normalcy while society misses.

~

I was asking God one night, late with a full moon outside

could it be real that we have a reason to be in here

this seemingly large crystal ball of wonderment untried

Are we all part of a whole we cannot forever adhere?

~

Can you sing me a song like they do on the radio?

the kind leaves the kids smiling in their beds.

Can you sing me a song like they do on the radio?

The kind leaves the kids smiling in their beds.

~

Well isn’t it memory then screams our name in the twilight

Isn’t a full moon some reminder or a mystique in the night.

© Thom Amundsen 8/2021

Finding a Moment

Posted by thom amundsen on
 Go home and write
      a page tonight.
      And let that page come out of you—
      Then, it will be true.
– Langston Hughes
~
Though when time would suggest
it is an easy ask,
this only task we have in life,
is to speak our truths,
who it is we might be,
what we believe,
how it could possibly be
that all of our time spent
in speculation
just another round of
wanting to know,
to give us reason
to live our lives by,
understand the whole
no matter the loss of insight
brought upon ourselves
with some unraveled deceit.
~
Finding the words
the best way to relate my story,
glancing out windows
where my life once used to be,
sort of meant to be,
the picket fence round gardens,
dog running free,
children in a play set
being watched by
you and me.
~
My view is a spotlight
across a little street,
windows like my own,
yet different lives,
we all seem to share a similar
structure
meant to hold form
rather  beyond an original,
that formula had its way
for decades or more,
and now,
in an aging pattern
of recognizing our mortality,
here to stay,
this will be the remainder
of my game.
~
I would look for my children
for theirs are the memory
I reflect upon,
standing by the river
teaching them both
how to dribble a ball,
skate on ice,
master a bicycle,
show excitement when they search
my own eyes,
rather than letting them see
some pain I must hide
I would wish they feel
laughter and love,
an eternal fantasy in dreams.
~
For now would these words be
the reality I am ask to only seem.

© Thom Amundsen 7/2020

Conversations With My Dad

Posted by thom amundsen on

People suggest

we ought not imagine

conversations with

the dead.

 

The afterlife we’re told

often speculation

a creation of our own need

to reconnect.

 

Yet if it weren’t true

they’re listening,

then these tears that

fall would not be real.

 

I have conversations with my dad,

the difficult questions,

the hard to know answers,

I know he’s thinking for me.

 

I suppose what he might say

standing here in the room,

is the same answer he gives me

from faraway where he remains

 

Waiting, hoping, wishing are all

positive realities toward doing.

When My Father Cried

Posted by thom amundsen on

It was the changing season,

a tragedy,

we were all crying,

dumbfounded and surreal

the moments ahead

forever.

He was heart-broken

no place to stand or sit or feel,

just simple pain,

always and forever,

misty eyed and helpless

to the reality of the human condition.

He’d been tested,

he’d been traumatized,

together

ships passing in the night,

his words to soothe,

his reaction lost in agony.

 

How could the world ever be normal again,

when his son had left to travel,

and nearby,

a consoling brother,

a relative of sorts in marriage,

in a consoling gesture,

suggested a distraction.

 

How might he react any other way,

then lose faith in humankind,

when the soul of his world,

remained lost in the mechanics.

There is heartbreak to be noted,

when one’s dream

suddenly fades

while all of those around

have no idea the strain.

While Sitting Alone

Posted by thom amundsen on

The picture window,

my guide to the world around me,

could be a rainy day,

I watch the slick survival of a city,

might now sunshine cast shadows,

while domesticated bird houses

offer a gallery,

for my child-like eyes,

to always wonder why.

 

Soft fabric of the green sitting chair,

matched the other nearby,

always vacant to my stare,

yet, I could rely upon its permanence,

never to leave me,

always after eyes searching the world,

step back in to my shelter,

and there the matching green …

There’s always something

reassuring

about the static in life.

 

I once was a young,

who only felt tears when

necessary rites of passage,

would slow my way.

Eventually I’d find windows

to imagine, take me away

to different places,

my mind a brilliant coaster,

never letting me stay in one place

forever too long.

 

Sitting differently today,

the furniture rearranged,

wishing all those moments

I wanted to get away,

would somehow return,

I could then seen them both,

sitting with smiles,

the usual way,

because back then,

I never felt that breeze.

 

The picture window,

still remains,

a different set of eyes,

glancing through their destiny,

wondering about the other side,

where the glass is pummeled

by the occasional stray bird

trying to find their way,

child reaches,

and wings drift away.

 

I remember one afternoon,

listening to the rain,

wanting everything

to always stay the same.

The Sitting Hours

Posted by thom amundsen on

I always looked forward to the late hours,

the night flying by with dialogue and absurdities,

everything we could say we believed, and more importantly,

we loved,

We did delight in knowing we could look in each other’s eyes,

well into the twilight,

all of us, whoever might have chosen the time,

or simply allowed ourselves to be drawn in,

that was the key,

we knew always we wanted to be there.

 

These are the holidays we would request

each other’s company,

my sister, brothers, and mom,

our sister’s, children and the occasion of relatives …

so current on everything we knew.

to be important in everyone’s lives.

With dad in the background, an occasional chuckle,

he’d pass out the a beverage with endearing blue eyes,

we all heard his screams inside,

the delight of our lives, he is a beautiful man.

 

We were, are, can be the beautiful people,

the family that smiles, tells jokes, lives lives with uncanny candor.

These are the nights when time would value,

only the shared nostalgia of wanting the laughs

in the history of our lives.

These are the holidays when love does always,

compete well with the nature of our own,

sweet recall, when the essence of everything we believed,

in the realm of the human condition,

could suddenly find the energy

to contribute the next line,

so the stories never found a way to end …

Dad

Posted by thom amundsen on

How close do we come

to understanding

where it is that we belong,

when

alone

we sudden realize

we remember a song, a laugh,

a sort of posture always held true.

If I could see you in the manner I feel you,

would that be all I need.

There’s so much more

beyond the memory of your kindly heart.

So often can I recall your beauty,

when

just in the Grace of your being,

I see so many faces

they exist around me,

I always have you nearby.

If I ask, you’ll go away,

so I find myself

using peripheral vision,

my ideal is to not frighten you away,

with some mortal insecurity.

Did you know I am working on bringing you back,

well it’s a facade,

a sort of well put together imagination,

brings you to mind,

every time I hear the word

Dad.

Outside, the Rains

Posted by thom amundsen on

rain

With only a few drops to touch the patio blocks

i can return home again,

to picture window mornings watching the birds

sift through the rain in natural habitat,

I do recall the street became gradually river like,

creating the later streams in culverts

home-made sailboats would venture throughout

the city neighborhoods entertaining

all the children that right now were waiting

patiently, for that sun burst that shouted mom’s

‘Yes, go outside and play now.’

~

While rains soaked our bodies to such a degree,

we might eventually accept nature’s wrath

sweet and warm like in summer’s romantic fire

while together we strolled watching smiles

knowing we are drenched to the bone alive

anticipating that lentil soup in the afternoon,

the wet paths that squished with each step

would cause an occasional stomp

a fit of laughter and the chase while finding

a new pool to match previous success.

~

When sitting by the river with my line in water,

as the light mist begins to show

its true mystery along the riverbank’s shadows

I will remember you so precisely,

fishing pole in hand and teaching me your patience

I could stand for a minute while you

always managed to pull a beautiful brown

from a back yard creek small enough

to only imagine a child’s homemade sailboat.

~

Outside, the rains will cleanse our natural world with steady

rhythms in sound and purpose, while I (we) imagine fond.

~

* photo found on scienceabc

Dad?

Posted by thom amundsen on

Can I talk to you,

can you remind me about

how simple life can be,

I want to see you standing there,

looking serene with your smile,

just knowing it will be alright.

that might help me you know,

to accept that I can be okay.

Right now Dad,

I can barely see, but you taught me

the keyboard, and I learned how to play,

watching you Dad.

Dad?

I miss you

I miss you so much,

I could cry,

and I probably will,

because really Dad,

you are beautiful,

I wish I could tell you that tonight,

I’m hoping I just did …

Dad?

While Away

Posted by thom amundsen on

What I knew, at least what you told me

while glancing your eyes across the horizon,

a small plane ascending over the hill,

and you’d duck your head

while driving the mail to the post office.

We had our ritual Sunday nights,

nothing unusual, just a drive to drop off your

bookwork.

The part that I loved though was when you would

countless times,

tell me about Saipan … that peaceful story.

I was only a kid then, so I didn’t know about war.

I hadn’t understood the many nights your cold body

withstood the temperatures

while you and your buddies protected our soil.

I hadn’t known anything about war

because you shared stories of peace,

and laughter,

and camaraderie in a deep forest,

never knowing when you might face

a world no one understood, not even your own.

But now today as we traveled down a country road,

and a small twin engine slid across the sky,

I watched your head duck with eyes looking askance,

I knew then what I’ve only begun to know now.