In the quiet of morning
a glance
perchance
some catharsis looming.
We know the quiet
in silence
in chance
something in a silent
reckoning
happening
to each of us alone
though there would be
chance is only tone
the manner
a solitude
beyond an awkward
resonance with time
and shadows forward
acting upon this rhyme
in our lives
we feel the alives
of heart and soul
though we wish a fool
be our last venture
in fact, step in
the misty adventure.
© Thom Amundsen 10/2021
Sitting by the shoreline,
the water fairly calm,
a sharp breeze enough to
suggest only the time of year.
watching seagulls swift past
the eery history of the mast
wondering just when waters
would ever tell me a secret.
I could listen for hours
while the sun began to dance
along soft waves of yesterday
sounds around me airily fast.
the birds, their legacy staid
by waning summer’s crying lead
in the autumn of these days,
the ones reminding time away.
I listen to Bob Dylan, a surreal croon
speaking of wanting ways
wishing time would forever sway,
‘Blood on the Tracks’ seems to say …
Inside this visual macabre
Our surreal horizon rob.
Shrouds veil our rise within the morning’s mist,
like pure raindrops suspended in cool air
we are reminded certain moments missed
will walk our day, must we believe it fair?
The mind, a wandering vessel of hope
battles sea worthy giants of despair
with each walk, we tangle a fierce strung rope
that clings to every fiber; hanging there.
We want to believe our hearts are so true
to love, to have compassion, a spirit
in happiness can achieve such sky blue
authority upon our angst’s regret.
With human dignity we walk in shrouds
of mediocrity whilst He sweeps clouds
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