This Letter

I would compose a letter that might or could

ought to contain everything,

yet there is that piece of the human condition

prevents everyone from being perhaps

Stephen King, or Charles Bukowski, even Sylvia Plath.

 

Emily Dickinson is said to have lived a reclusive life

in her bedroom overlooking a lawn where children played,

and yet, she only wondered, imagined,

wrote about all of the confusion she felt

while remaining locked inside her own mania.

 

And in a rather beautiful sense of nature,

living a life in New England where poets just seem

a natural part of the soil, was Robert Frost

penning his own recollections of a speaker

living lives with miles to go …

 

Then along came Langston Hughes,

he wrote about the Black experience,

but without hostility,

at least I didn’t feel it,

when his words did bleed compassion.

 

I think about writers and the lives they led,

what did finally inspire them to discover

the avenue of their words,

the memory in their lives,

created this need to express some pain.

 

Yet beauty too would be Maya Angelou in her Grace

with every ballad focused upon loving

one another, each other, the human race,

the pure humanity

exists in love.

 

So while I try to write a letter

wrap my head around my state of mind,

I weep a humility toward those that come before

the courage to speak their ‘wisdom’

rather than suppress the raw nature of identity.

 

We all have letters we would like to write one day,

heal the soul, allow eyes to open, hearts explode with love.


© Thom Amundsen 5/2020

The Gallery

Such is a shadow,

a lonely walk

the energy of a soul

finding their way

his way

her adventure

perhaps his imagination

a painting to lose his mind while trying

desperate measures

the sort of bind that seems attractive

rather than one of ridicule

when the reality of the game

is revealed

in gallery seven,

perhaps it was four

or somewhere in the early afternoon,

she in cloak and dagger

watched him switch postures

giving him some indication

that his trophy

might be her own

quiet diadem

to steal the words of

Emily … (Dickinson) …

he was in his aching manner

subject to

fantasy.