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
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
We circle our lives
in a constant twirl
deciding upon a sacred
trust of following trails
cascading in waters
a fresh, puritanical veil
we are always looking,
wondering, in a wander
if this is what is meant
to be our only real.
Remember when as a child
the sweet irony of morning
the sun cast across the sky
our lives simply meant this
moment only, nothing beyond,
we could dance forever
in a myriad of circumstance
always feeling welcome
in the world we did belong.
Sometimes today,
when glancing in our
rearview mirror on this
our life we lead,
we wonder about the tools
we carried forward,
those we left behind,
the evils, the strain,
the confusion,
if only we could keep
ourselves moving forward.
There seems a purpose
to all of this, our memory.
People suggest
we ought not imagine
conversations with
the dead.
The afterlife we’re told
often speculation
a creation of our own need
to reconnect.
Yet if it weren’t true
they’re listening,
then these tears that
fall would not be real.
I have conversations with my dad,
the difficult questions,
the hard to know answers,
I know he’s thinking for me.
I suppose what he might say
standing here in the room,
is the same answer he gives me
from faraway where he remains
Waiting, hoping, wishing are all
positive realities toward doing.
Oh to play with the notion of thought,
to understand the reasoning behind
purpose, attitude, maybe the inspiration,
we all do seek when lost in the shuffling
nature of the season.
Oh, when winter will remark upon
a simple morning frost, to make allowance
for concept, to create, maybe instinctive,
our bodies, our selves, intermingle
with the true meaning of life,
when swept inside the tenets of an arctic
breeze, chilling and responsible, ease.
Once, while a child, ‘I watched in solemnity,’
his body laid into the cold, dark earth,
forever to be walked upon, glanced nearby,
thought of in the chilly absence of life.
We all stepped tenderly away, him alone,
the music did continue to play,
but I, the child, I never really understood.
Walk with me, she said that early evening,
her smile frozen in the iciclic nature of time,
I wondered if when we ever did reach
a destiny, if then, perhaps would be a time,
we might center ourselves and then ask when.
But the winds were fierce, the bridge far too close,
the edge always asking for me, screaming really,
our separate paths become the night pattern.
Oh to hear the sounds, the visions do emanate,
for the will of our lives, the anguish we debate.
If the world turn suddenly brilliant with fire,
what would be the response, a natural desire.
if in armageddon we are selectively defined,
what matters the moments where we wined.
While we imagine buildings collapse, lives lost
in this magical spectacle of an embryonic frost,
is the notions of survival even an able cause
when with certainty our lives bely natural laws.
There is the element of human nature in us all,
we strive to be real, to connect, to stand tall,
in the midst of turmoil, sadness, a chronic display
of gratitude only arrives when it is judgment day.
If that be true, perhaps every moment is a lease,
Oh to recognize the greater value of global peace.
When a child
reaches for the sky
arms spread without conviction,
simple pleasure,
a naivety is desire
we clap our hands
allow the momentum of innocence
might prosper toward a freedom
in idyllic tones.
(part 2)
We see the same
you and I,
years before
we stood today.
We wonder
similar paths
while away
our worried soul
yet out there
again
just the same
the blood red moon,
holds us all
we are together
once again,
like the time before,
and when we did,
wonder the same,
that other eon,
that passage of
rite of
historic event when
we reacted
quite the same,
miles away
in concept, dream,
hope, wonderment.
We always do
wonder with
wild abandon
when allowed
to think
beyond ourselves,
beyond an ancient moon,
a blood red moon
speaks to my soul,
your soul, theirs,
the time before,
when we would want
the same again.
Yet we still
look for more.
Tonight we did
begin again,
until the next one
asks the same,
sees the same,
wonders,
hopes,
dreams the same
under the moon.
The blue sky remained outside
immediately afterward,
the crowded room changed faces
immediately afterward.
The reckoning, a personal march
of emotion, that enigma of the true human spirit
that weathers the test of chance remained
immediately afterward.
Without memory we cannot recall
the demon or sprite, faery or ogre,
attached to our limbs, our mind’s image
of a different time, a sweeter time,
an all too familiar reality
we sometime give greater credence
in the spirit of fantasy, a nostalgic trip,
than society might ever allow.
If then, when, while we recognize time,
we pass eyes with fond memory,
perhaps going forward,
our lives do rejoice in the spirit of …
Now!
~
*photo found on placemaking on WordPress
Which one are you in the midst of time,
a clever rendezvous in life’s sweet climb.
~
Perhaps you held the key to love all along
the rest being shelled, wanting to belong.
~
I watched a moment twenty years ago today
that’s what you meant, acting in that plaintive way.
~
If we could choose, a certainty in our attitude
I’d bet we’d lose, our need to attack Beatitudes.
~
Inside this active room, I might notice things,
a flair to be just whom, all while the pendulum swings.
~
That couple speaking sweet, then who we were
playing only to the beat, of saying, we were here.
~
Over in the corner, near the exit door,
sits an old reminder, of just what’s in store.
~
In the back room earnest, they design their moments
fresh in mind they cannot rest, when wined in their torments.
~
The conversations about, are all the same to me,
there is the devout, and over there the wannabe.
~
The setting the same, we might all remain
caught in a new game, similarly lost in gain.
~
While we watch each other, grow and blossom anew
we might still remember, or at least I will, of you.
~
A Theatre Website 