I want to cry sometimes
when I can’t find my rhythm
a towering inferno
either this or that.
Which one really holds a pulse
versus I will choose
some easier road, or gravel or yes.
I watched the weather
one childhood afternoon
in disbelief
it cannot possibly be that strong
with it purples and reds and fiery mass forming a bow.
If life were meant to be easy
so many strings wouldn’t sway.
© Thom Amundsen 10/2021
Suddenly taken
by the normalcy of error,
would wonder speculation
that part of fear.
An indecision of the mind
We are tortured
within a wonder
when the brain
might matter
negotiating my state of mind.
Found in the moment
am I this facade
this fraud
this foul
this ill-wrought creature
of habit
some disregard
There is an apple of truth
waits the real me
basking
adoring how the meaning ‘be’
is
© Thom Amundsen 10/2021
One of my favorite words might be overused,
less important to you
even if spoken in the nature of
you.
Could we ever really give final definition
to the thoughts we realize
are sometimes a notion
in our mind.
I would sit here all day long only to offer
her a moment of quiet peace
in her silence
her own space.
If every time I would suggest I want only
to offer you a moment of silence,
that feeling of abandon
without loss.
I once sat by a lake and as waters rippled,
my tears did flow, a sort of God moment
actually it was that moment,
and my tears did fall.
Wonder with me what is the simple act
of sight, of knowing, of feeling
where our bodies become
an artistry of love.
© Thom Amundsen 7/2021
There becomes a slight pang,
grows with each sense of desire
perhaps some might call it pain,
yet this speaker would suggest a small fire.
There becomes that need to understand,
yet the clock ticks its metered reality,
and the notion, the ideal, some aspect
of hope,
is filtered down again,
to a one-time solution that never satisfies.
We can sit here all day long and spout off about
success, recovery, decent appraisal of our lives today,
though the path seems clear, still we wander,
when turbulent seas settle in to the mind,
there must be some reaction, an outlet, a place
to land the angst we have so often gained control of
in the past.
Yet, I want to be here,
this present of serenity,
this presence is all I ask.
How might we figure out some way
to address the constancy of
of
of
inherent failure modeled around
a sometime human compassion.
Other time a stigma whose most powerful advocate
must be the man, the woman, child,
the benefactor of resource gone awry.
There it is then, that transference is well on its way.
Get thee to a session old man,
Get thee to a human factory of love.
if when
while we shop our ploys
need as we
want
suggest we have
find a further definition
if you ask me
I will suggest
glance across a simple blanket
a nature
a product of our
lacking involvement.
~
we might include
a moment,
some call it
a needed epiphany
long after we could
want to find some sacrifice
we call our own,
our discovery
when all along we were
already there –
bask in a superficial
atmosphere real-time
~
in case we forget
please ask again,
we might always find
a new opportunity
to sacrifice ego,
to understand we are
pervasive to a fault,
yet everywhere we
look there lies another
a sort of hidden gem,
a quiet memory,
a soft, sweet, celebration
~
waves. streams with piqued
sky and all around
our eyes will speak
to similar horizons.
we do want,
we always will
when even at our simplest
recollection, the world
continues to need,
we wish for those,
hope, salvation,
prayer.
Much like my own twelve string, I play the words
in such a manner makes me believe I might
need a keyboard to tell my story,
give me the rhythm to generate a mood,
the rhyme to suggest a setting sublime,
we all have our own worlds we like to dream,
looked outside tonight into a moonlit sky,
as ordinary as that, nothing peculiar,
deep, distanced, decimated disorder.
I like to laugh out loud without formulating
words, like my ancestors would have
not knowing how to speak their way
out of conflict, instead ale and fists,
and broken teeth with puffy eyes,
and smiles all around afterward.
At least that’s the way Id like to believe,
the story goes while I play my keys.
© Dani Stites
When while a day goes quietly the nigh
soft hearts may ponder a delicate noon-
time pleasure. That is the moment inside
a dream slow to respond, yet urgency
calls upon a name to satisfy sweet
melody, a caress, play, we digress.
For when might anyone ask forgiveness
upon simple words, golden, a sparkle
of intent defines passing encounters.
Each streaming ray of hope dances our brows
well toward jest’s enigmatic interlude.
-patience beckons a rare emotion served-
When then we bask in the moonlight of love
we know surely, our lives are drawn above.
