Its Quiet Routine

Its

deafening balance is one to be reckoned,

the quiet inside a sallowed severance,

the act of dismissal,

the purity within timely terror

on life

on reason

on separation

on courage on and on and on and on

we go the circus of our lives.

 

Its

measure of circumstance

erupts in a vision,

perhaps it is a dream

the waking sun explodes upon

a memory,

washing away the moments

the solitude

the granted harmony

the swift

welcome left now to fester

a lost melody.

 

Its

cruel hysteric necessitates

a reminder why,

this slow eventuality,

years upon years,

giving days their own causal

sacrifice inside the solemn

nature of

a discord

a grief

a denial

a disbelief

a convincing declarative

demise.

 

When routine begins its own culture,

the words in mind could discern as tears.


© Thom Amundsen 3/2020

 

So Long Ago

I can still stand there,

feel the pain,

realize just how close I can become

again.

Take a drink, the slow heat flow,

there’s a certain sense of clarity

that first drink blossoms a facade,

dropping money on a strangers table,

a release of tension,

letting go,

taking one day at a time.

There’s such a reversal in the hypocrisy

of denial.

I remember hope,

imagine having piece of mind,

in a couple of ounces of smooth.

All this euphoria,

the notion of escape,

a reality I chose to put away,

all of the fantasy with departure,

is standing right here,

ready to open the door to hell.

My Addictive Personality

No matter the level of scrutiny,

I will lower the boom on my security

until I can no longer touch the bottom

floating endlessly in the sea of

dysfunction.

When out in the current,

I cannot see land,

it doesn’t exist except for the occasional

tease of sand between my toes,

not enough to keep my head above water,

or perhaps just then,

a wave slaps me backward into a flurry

of indecision, of prayer, of redemption, of

endless derision.

Of course when I do have an opportunity to breathe,

I am grateful,

I recall the heavy seas, pulling me away,

when grounded,

I begin to question,

how foolish it was to imagine,

I could live that long in suspended disbelief.

Inside the bubble of denial

my addictive personality

could survive forever,

long after my last gasp.

Raising My Adrenaline

addiction

(addiction)

***

When I see it happening around me, and I have to stop

take a breath, make a choice

do I respond, because when I do,

you know, they will retaliate, speak out loud

make a point that is that universal language

that shouts with vengeance, screams a throttling,

angst.

When I feel,

it all unravels so quickly I can only sit back

and resign, let the wind hit me with stride

hope my balance, hope my center,

can withstand the scrutiny, piece of myself

that always believes there is something wrong

because the world around me constantly,

reminds me.

If when I respond to the circus that plays me,

I might not always feel a shelf below

the polished instruments that eyes take notice,

letting those in the dust become a secondary after-thought.

Yet when sunlight strikes the silver lining,

that is the peace that drives me forward,

knows I can love with compassion,

knows there is truth and discovery,

allows change to become a practice,

a remarkable challenge toward realizing

strength.

So when I cry,

please don’t ask me why,

just let me be there,

in the moment underneath all of my fear,

lies a vision, an honest reckoning,

perhaps a quiet travel through life’s intrigue,

while searching the endless avenues,

those difficult stumbling blocks

that when surpassed may speak …

Elegance.