This Letter

I would compose a letter that might or could

ought to contain everything,

yet there is that piece of the human condition

prevents everyone from being perhaps

Stephen King, or Charles Bukowski, even Sylvia Plath.

 

Emily Dickinson is said to have lived a reclusive life

in her bedroom overlooking a lawn where children played,

and yet, she only wondered, imagined,

wrote about all of the confusion she felt

while remaining locked inside her own mania.

 

And in a rather beautiful sense of nature,

living a life in New England where poets just seem

a natural part of the soil, was Robert Frost

penning his own recollections of a speaker

living lives with miles to go …

 

Then along came Langston Hughes,

he wrote about the Black experience,

but without hostility,

at least I didn’t feel it,

when his words did bleed compassion.

 

I think about writers and the lives they led,

what did finally inspire them to discover

the avenue of their words,

the memory in their lives,

created this need to express some pain.

 

Yet beauty too would be Maya Angelou in her Grace

with every ballad focused upon loving

one another, each other, the human race,

the pure humanity

exists in love.

 

So while I try to write a letter

wrap my head around my state of mind,

I weep a humility toward those that come before

the courage to speak their ‘wisdom’

rather than suppress the raw nature of identity.

 

We all have letters we would like to write one day,

heal the soul, allow eyes to open, hearts explode with love.


© Thom Amundsen 5/2020

A Morning Notion

Begin in sunlit sky beguiler day
The same result might be impossible.
We wander in mind to discover way
Breathe positivity remarkable.
~
In life to know in peace delightful air
Think heartfelt, soulful, suggest promotion.
Find fortune inside sweet beautiful fare
Solidify choice inside elation.
~
What hold will truth create family love
Universals speak in magnetism
Celebrate change demand history hove
Live free live dignified mannerism.
~
I woke again to fright anxiety
Compassion in winsome allegory

Lacking Skin

I draw little attention to who I am

based solely upon a certain gem

some would call the bane of life

yet I might think of none of them.

~

I walk in a department store alone

gather little if any attention shown

I could probably open the register

take a dollar bill and dial the phone

~

While standing nearby noticed you

I couldn’t help but think of the blue

vibrance in sky that dreams peace

stillness occurs to recognize few

~

We thrive in a world of confusion

a constance bold without solution

little concern merits our evolution

little concern, we await revolution

~

photo found on Pinterest

Playing With Frost’s Wall

rock wall

The wall is crumbling down the way again.

You don’t say, you think you want to start today?

~

I think you might go take a look for me.

Well I don’t feel like it’s my responsibility.

~

I don’t expect you are too concerned about

a few rocks that have dropped into your yard,

~

for those trees will grow with walking paths.

Get dressed we’ll take a look, you’ll see

~

the same rocks we glance every year.

Seems exercise is a welcome tool to have,

~

we’re getting older now; the two of us are

not the spry young fellows we once could be.

~

Do you remember when you could shoulder me?

We walked the fence, rock over rock and moss,

~

we didn’t seem too careful then, you and me.

I do remember falling once or twice I think

~

and you would pick me up to start again.

We’d laugh a postured stance in victory,

~

that began a time when always we’d return.

Seems many years ago to imagine that time,

~

when now we walk along the wall. The rocks

and leaves and fallen wood still look the same.

 

Playing With Frost

men at fence

 

The wall is crumbling down the way again.

You don’t say, you think you want to start today?

I think you might go take a look for me.

Well I don’t feel like it’s my responsibility.

I don’t expect you are too concerned about

a few rocks that have dropped into your yard,

For those trees will grow with walking paths.

Get dressed we’ll take a look you’ll see

The same rocks we look at every year.

Seems exercise is a welcome tool to have

we’re getting older now the two of us are

not the spry young fellows we once could be.

Do you remember when you could shoulder me?

We walked the fence, rock over rock and moss,

we didn’t seem too careful then, you and me.

I do remember falling once or twice I think

and you would pick me up to start again.

We’d laugh and share a stance in victory,

that began a time when always we return.

Seems many years ago to imagine that time,

when now we walk along the wall. The rocks

and leaves and fallen wood still look the same.