Watched him today
many eyes
would notice
a downcast security
my body my own my mind
thrown to the wolves
with one glance
back.
Watched her today
some certainty
might allow
a surrounding hypocrisy
unleash ugliness
for is it not he, she once,
he will wish
they might he know
she lives, he
…
Lives.
When all they ever wanted
a glance a love none flaunted.
©️ 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
It’s okay, he said.
The snow began to fall,
and he wondered about the natural course of things.
While tucked away in the corner,
reflections of life
carried on,
a conversation between two lovers,
innocent to the eyes around,
simply enthralled
she said with a smile,
and he
sort of moved in.
They hadn’t really experienced life yet,
thought the onlooker,
his coffee now calling
a lovely segue into creating a moment
for himself.
Little boy walks right up to his knee
stares with doe eyes,
and the writer has to
make a choice,
usher him away or smile,
and a voice beckons and the little boy
retreats to dad,
letting peace again consume
the quiet man behind the eyes,
waiting for the storm,
waiting to watch the snow fall,
like a memory may not remind
the immediacy of Winter
a nearing charm.
In the middle of the night
he might wake to find
his heart beating
at a rapid rate,
a telling reminder of another time,
when snow fell from branches
like angelic boughs,
a plop to the sunlit morning,
the cars drifting along the avenue,
in some remarkable ceremony,
his time to say good-by,
his time to wonder why.
Sitting now, the snow has begun to fall,
so many moments like tonight … a gentle breeze.
I wonder about what might remain,
the pieces of me throughout a memory,
is it my own, someone I knew,
I know,
a circumstance I cannot return.
If I were to wander far enough into the forest,
might I be sure to follow
some path
a traveling analogy
holding promise for tomorrow.
Forever is the time we remember,
when everything else we know
falls victim to promise,
our lives amidst the mix
of the masses.
Who might ever recall a sadness,
when a happy moment awaits,
shoring up the energy
to celebrate
the human condition.
Cast away the doubt of recall,
for there might be some journey
ahead
we could never predict,
yet plod on forward with a smile.
If asked what it is I might be listening
now in the twilight of winter
beckon the cool winds of a sky
waiting to descend
sweet air of a crystal midnight.
Oh if I might seek such is time,
would discovery ease a life strain.
© Thom Amundsen 2019
Wish I could find
smallish memory
wrap them in twine
drop them in the sea
Then might my eyes
witness some effort
now questioning why
an absorbent support
Will their history
rather sink than float
farewell this century
shadowed life he wrote
Above water may I not abhor
Pain left living on the ocean floor
If I could, how my body winds
down
inside a cavernous
dream
I might truly admit to feeling
down,
rather wish to imagine my life a
dream.
A Sunday night and here I go,
winding down
like the moisture in a culvert
draining toward
a bitter end,
and yet in a moment,
I glanced outside.
A moon, in its spectacular
Autumn rise,
A Hunter’s Moon,
to light the forest
so precious
is the moment
when the human condition,
might find life beyond
our own.
I watch the moon,
imagine
the world around us
we are all glancing in the same
direction,
hoping to find our eyes
have similar ideals,
sweet remains
our favorite
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.
