There was this book-bag
seemed to hold a truth
some passionate memory
like a one
I could be there I
felt you near me
wanting only your love
and your shared eyes
ours together
we could cry and still
know the truth
~
My path is my own
I am happy to share as long
as you wish to know me
© Thom Amundsen 7/2021
Many times in my life,
have I stepped away,
taken a breather,
had my hand forced …
yet, when does the time come when we can
honestly say,
the choice is my own
for me to decide
in some sort of even way,
not a hostile arrangement,
by any means,
so out of character,
would be defiance and doom and gloom.
Stepping away
would ask for only a settlement
in love, in passion, in pursuance
of those pieces of our lives,
our own peace,
our desire to understand
a world beyond
selfish need.
Reality is a dream,
we can see deep along a river path,
the blossoming of spring,
the lush imagination
allows us to draw
our own own
sweet circumstance
the beauty of a fantasy,
the magic of our mind.
So we do step away,
on occasion within ourselves,
in other situations,
we ask for a pardon,
and yet,
the road away does seem to
carry the weight
of our own self-proclaimed tragedy,
with far less burdensome angst,
than
if we stay within the course
of simple travesty.
Outside, the sun had begun to shine,
an overbearing competition inside.
© Thom Amundsen 3/2020
I am a working man,
with a verve, passion, a concept
of what I feel is right
in the vocation that I am.
I need to see the might
of quickly drawn out ideals
that give me inspiration,
capture a full moon at night.
I watched her drive away
her smile was something to hold
wondering then what happened
to the silence of today.
This isn’t who we imagine,
the working man in his day,
has thoughts of some reaction
speak to personal, my chagrin
I am a steadfast human being,
drawn by a mechanical means
I cannot step away from love,
a sordid state of wooing.
She walked away from a life we knew,
and then ironic, so did she.
© Thom Amundsen 3/2020
We do measure
our lives
our accomplishments
a steadfast ability to compete with
ourselves.
If might our lives not be
so easily swept by the tides of societal
expectation
what then might be our
end game.
Would we survive if we came
to realize
nothing else really mattered
beyond the satisfaction of, inevitably,
ourselves?
Oh so we are told,
or perhaps
in the manner of a scold,
to look to ourselves,
yes, us,
not beyond the measure of our soul,
only to recognize
the deeper commitment of our own
personal salvation,
must always be in the realm
of some
internalized realization.
Our lives,
who we are,
the world in which we have lived,
is based upon action,
only,
not philosophy,
more aptly
in the end,
it is truly the strides
we have taken in our own
efforts to not compromise what we believe,
instead we do try
to emulate
the beauty around us,
the simple freedom of appreciation,
rather than that criticism
of who we are,
what we might have been,
where we shall travel in our
long extended remaining
steps along some
theoretical
path in our lives.
We live to see tomorrow,
therefore is it presumptuous to believe
a next day matters less
than what has promised itself to be
the beauty of our past.
Forge ahead with a passion
this is the matter of such is wise.
© Thom Amundsen 1/2020
Windswept sky designs landmark,
the world is being blanketed by that force
greater than our own,
a magical parade of Nature’s wrath,
in the simplest manner of beauty.
Oh her strength apparent
inside the wonder of it all,
the winter storm,
a blizzard upon our discontent,
perhaps we might fly away.
Lost inside this forever cycle
our lives are equally drawn
by a static probability
of scant survival in the throes
of a woeful condition.
Step inside the winds,
that bury this frozen memory,
covering up our sorrows
so there might be a new desire,
a passion to understand.
A realization,
recognizing there is an after-life
to the sparkle – once
no longer remains
inside a youthful dream.
There inside the wealth of our
humanity
exists a welcome change,
that ever resilient testimony,
suggests we are all ready,
already walking again,
this might provocative winds allow.
© Thom Amundsen 1/2020
I remember the dreams, the constant reminders
a continual tease, a surreal world of sidewinders
Each one with a story, a parallel universe
would try to shake me, send me in reverse.
I could never tell if a person real or imagined,
it was a nightmare the bottom was assigned.
Otherwise the lofty airs of fascination
always relied waking realization
Just a dream, perhaps a reminder
only the illusion of the constant sidewinder
drawing imagined color scheme on the surface,
so the internal player would always save face.
Walking slow inside a familiar nearby memory,
I might choose to leap, try to escape this quandary.
© Thom Amundsen 2019
Try to imagine
where it was,
the moment
inside a memory,
what did the breeze feel like,
certainly there was one,
the glen inside a cove
surrounded in maples and pine,
and short shrifts of sumac
pine needles all across the forest wood
where we as children climbed
only the same tree,
familiar branches,
I sat there last year
he said to her,
as she wondered if or when he might
try to
kiss her
under the oak,
the childhood symbol of growing up,
at least,
understanding that
decades later,
the memory of which
might be less profound
than the immediacy of a heart racing
illusion
of
love,
in the eyes of two thirteen year old children,
holding hands on a public street,
smiles and backpacks and
acne and eyes that searched only for
each other
because
that is what we had been told
that is what we had been told,
is the meaning of love,
in a quiet midwestern town,
where concrete
could easily confuse
the very natural ground
we laid upon years later
with a lover
and smitten eyes.
© Thom Amundsen 2019
All my life,
a struggle has ensued,
when papering my walls with legal pad writings,
one after another after hours, after years,
until years later,
the wallpaper came down,
storage boxes collecting dust and shadows.
Someone said once,
who do you see,
what might you feel,
in a glance in the mirror
when the moment before,
you felt a single tear.
I wonder if we ever realize
when that day is near.
I glanced at the moon tonight,
it was profound in its full bounty,
the Hunter’s moon it is known,
to light our forests,
cause our hearts to gasp.
I wonder about this august,
seems to follow me,
on nights when
minds might
rather,
than
bay at the night sky,
feel a gasp in the wonder of
Nature.
I wonder about the moon and a clear night sky.
There was this young man,
he didn’t understand,
lived his life
by some societal demand.
Each day,
from morning he began
to try to find answers
inside his own head.
The throbbing
always until night’s end,
wanting resolve,
wishing solution,
medicating blues
begging forgiveness
for strange ideals
he would never
readily realize.
Watching people
walk the same streets
always vigilant,
a constant
recognition,
perhaps a look in our eyes
that would tell
anyone nearby
we all feel
the same
anxiety
who, wanting
to know.
We live life
always
wishing redemption
once.
I can feel you,
crossing a path,
planting my feet in
the morning mud,
last night’s rainfall,
making apparent
the day ahead would
not carry the same weight
in a sunny afternoon.
I think about aging sometimes,
more than some would like,
I imagine those days,
suggesting,
if I could …
all over again.
I wonder what might happen,
would there be other
faults
to replace the ones
having beckoned
my mind for
a half century.
Would awareness allow me
to feel right in my dreams,
or how long might it be
that I come to terms,
with this new life,
no longer carrying
the reminder of the old.
I read a book today
about ‘letting go’
a scary reality
when there are those matters
we wish to hang onto
all of our lonely lives.
Yet, the takeaway
today,
was not that we could never
look back,
instead we might
find a way,
always
love the reality
of our time.
© Thom Amundsen 2019
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