Foliage Hidden

For they do sing in suggestive breeze,

still discreet in foliage

their lives depend on a travel,

readying swift reply to the wind.

 

Watch out your windows such

is preparation of a Creator,

grace upon our planted wilderness.

An imagined love in autumn

 

Sweater in hand time for a walk

In the quiet air of an arid migration.



© Thom Amundsen 2019

Sunday Night Moon

IMG_1270

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.

A Question of Authenticity

All my life,

a struggle has ensued,

when papering my walls with legal pad writings,

one after another after hours, after years,

until years later,

the wallpaper came down,

storage boxes collecting dust and shadows.

 

Someone said once,

who do you see,

what might you feel,

in a glance in the mirror

when the moment before,

you felt a single tear.

I wonder if we ever realize

when that day is near.

 

I glanced at the moon tonight,

it was profound in its full bounty,

the Hunter’s moon it is known,

to light our forests,

cause our hearts to gasp.

I wonder about this august,

seems to follow me,

on nights when

minds might

rather,

than

bay at the night sky,

feel a gasp in the wonder of

Nature.

 

I wonder about the moon and a clear night sky.

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.

Once, In Sunlight

We did

in quiet observation,

attend of course

the eyes

windows that speak

well beyond the notice

of a fashion,

of a trend,

of an expectation.

 

Instead, just a glance

where both pain and joy

can reside,

can wait for the next opportunity

to speak aloud

in the framework

of sweet silence.

 

We are that coincidence

when two people

encounter one another

on a summer’s day,

in the heat,

the passionate embrace

of a spectacular

sunrise.

 

We look for the eyes

accentuate the why


© Thom Amundsen 2019

Our Spectacular Being

I can feel you,

crossing a path,

planting my feet in

the morning mud,

last night’s rainfall,

making apparent

the day ahead would

not carry the same weight

in a sunny afternoon.

 

I think about aging sometimes,

more than some would like,

I imagine those days,

suggesting,

if I could …

all over again.

 

I wonder what might happen,

would there be other

faults

to replace the ones

having beckoned

my mind for

a half century.

 

Would awareness allow me

to feel right in my dreams,

or how long might it be

that I come to terms,

with this new life,

no longer carrying

the reminder of the old.

 

I read a book today

about ‘letting go’

a scary reality

when there are those matters

we wish to hang onto

all of our lonely lives.

 

Yet, the takeaway

today,

was not that we could never

look back,

instead we might

find a way,

always

love the reality

of our time.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

Subconscious Tears

It’s when the moment is gone

we can feel it

drift away

leaving meaning apart,

the concept shared

decidedly forgotten about

an island

a small fortune of nothing

drifting waves

slap our egos

so we look upon that

sunny horizon

and realize

nothing remembered

take a picture

and years from now,

that moment

we will say hello

to a time

when we glanced

upon that memory

means nothing today,

same old mechanical

afterward of

meaning,

we drift away,

we say ok,

we want to fly

away in a simple

good-bye.