A Silent Snow

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.

Pieces of Time

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

Once

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.

A Circular Rhythm

We draw circles around a mask, our lives.

Each path we give another sweet facade

however might surmise such actions odd.

For we do covet a straight line that thrives.

 

Such is a world built as linear lines

meant for a passage without a defense.

acrid is a shelter by those who whence

internal facade sooner discard vines.

 

We stand inside the realm when given time

see such are the eyes of judgment are held

accountable of course our lives do weld

shapes and forms would eyes accept on a dime.

 

Oh strike us down in fraught shallow schism

It is such absurdity upsets rhythm

 

 

Who I Was, Who I Am

A script exists for all of us,

none of which will drag on

no melodrama

only the reality of our lives.

 

We choose to want to know

long before we ever have a need

the two iconic parallels

oh wants and needs, oh travesty.

 

I once took a ride on a city bus

staring off into the world,

I didn’t notice my mother

walking alog the side.

 

Later that night she outed me,

said she noticed and tried to wave,

said I ha look, a certain disposition

like I was wanting a different life.

 

Mothers are funny that way,

not willing to share the reality

unless the effort is made beforehand,

the pains, such are gains we feel.

 

I once felt like my world was a Hollywood movie

no Oscar by any stretch

scene to scene playing out the real

inside the illusion of dreams never had.

 

What I was and now seem as I am

has no bearing on whom I wish to be.

Breaking Apart Wrath

This communication

a desire to know,

to understand

a device inside a spectacular mind,

drowned in the circumstance of vice

each community

drawn by memory

responsive to a quiet solace,

always drawn by the tension

the human condition

a societal mandate,

how would you respond

to a crying appeal,

we want what feels right

rather than the circumstance

of indecions

and disparaging commentary,

so while away

the coming day

or decide upon a travail

a sojourn toward

peach of mind.

The Psychology of the Human Condition

The answers exist,

wait, not today,

perhaps later in the evening,

some cathartic moment,

praying for an epiphany.

 

The heart stops and the mind cannot compete

we are a solid lot of indifference

dependent upon the sunlight,

rainbows strike a nerve

coupled by nostalgia or endearment

to a moment,

the moment

when in that circle of compelling delight

we did experience,

did evolve,

would resolve the questions in our mind.

simple logic, sweet emotions,

beyond the scope of tearing down our own

idyllic beauty.