Letting Words Become Our Own

Have lost the day of the week,

my pen is dry of ink,

for the pattern of time did

dissipate and all mention

of passion did deteriorate.

 

In a wild search, looking

everywhere around us,

in our dreams,

daily routines,

a hot summer day,

a cold bitter frost,

every occasion

that man somehow

seems to need

to feel alive,

all containing words

just out of reach.

 

So instead there is a solemn

reaction to a lacking inspiration,

we seem compelled

to ask for attention,

rather than forgiveness.

 

Our own contemplation

of who we are,

where we have been,

how come we, this,

when did that last horizon

leave our own ambience

upon what once

is a consideration

of a stand alone

personal reckoning.

 

Where did they fall out of reach,

how will these ever match up.


© Thom Amundsen  7/2020

Purpose With Addiction

Oh there are these walls,

you can’t see them.

frankly I can’t either,

we can always feel them,

walking through a crowded market,

and the eyes,

the many faces that seem to know you are there,

and we wonder,

are we as obviously noticing them as they are,

realizing our world isn’t alone,

but rather,

we are all together,

fighting this machine,

goes far beyond who we are in the moment,

that’s when it all began.

 

The moment,

that clarifying incident,

the time our hearts hurt,

and yet,

we hadn’t realized the pain was not ours alone,

the world,

that local planet shit,

that place where we suddenly come to know,

the love and reason for living is suddenly,

questioning,

why,

we don’t know really,

not even now,

only real piece to hang onto,

is goodness,

we come to realize it does exist,

our hearts are capable of love,

the real thing,

the imagination once tested with artificial

stimulants,

has suddenly been taught to feel,

we do visualize beauty again,

the sun rose this morning and remarkable as it seems,

I …

I noticed.

What Storms Follow

rains

Rains melt the landscape

while I wonder,

I am curious to know

what is it that lies outside of my reach,

just beyond the grasp of my

human condition,

that piece that comes as love

when a torrential storm of reality,

that gift of reckoning,

moment by moment when we do

suddenly realize

our time has reached that pinnacle,

when a choice be made,

when we altogether but alone,

must take another journey,

one of a humiliating theme,

that one,

we look inside our mirror tonight,

and haven’t a choice,

the change must begin,

much like after the storm,

the raging winds do eventually,

subside,

leaving ourselves

to pick up the fragments of our lives,

and continue the sojourn,

that is,

defining our soul

my soul,

yes to the gentle breeze.