To Find My Soul

Often as the wind might change direction

so does my heart begin its own journey

to find my soul, to search for absolution

from the scariest parts of my, my disarray.

~

Oh to know the beast of my own conclusive

nature toward wanting only a defeated psyche.

One could easily describe such is my missive

designed to incorporate my own quiet psyche.

~

It is that machine he spoke of once in a movie

we all move the same because it is what we are

told ought be our direction without any scrutiny

on motive alone, designed to have gone too far.

~

I watched you dance one evening without any step

just a casual saunter around your own countertop.

Remember later when we remarked upon feeling kept

alive, sweet serenade the shuffle of fantasy in a mop.

~

Yes, we are as common as the world might ever allow,

no special guidelines, only kindness in a compassionate

surround of affectionate desire and sensuality and how.

We did begin a wonderful journey together a silent state.

~

So now in the public eye seems some loss of what might enhance

the beauty of two lovers who once in awhile chose to take a chance.


© Thom Amundsen 8/2021

-for kk

Relentless Passion

In hers a quiet world would she live

Each morning routine an evening of peace.

Sunrise walks with only love to give

a family, her children, her silent release.

~

His would be a need for truth in her

struggle to be she asked, a simple life

Not this constant caressing a trigger

shoot holes in her wall, cut like a knife.

~

She would her bootstraps always taut

a world of indifference, a learned trait,

one person is love, another still taught,

feel respect, to watch, might she create.

~

His was soon to be a battle in his mind

hers a simple ask me to live alone

causing him to feel this constant bind

to know quick, dynamics already known.

~

Would she, could she, soon enough relent

His own idealism she wanted to prevent.


©️ Thom Amundsen 7/2021

Wausau 1979

Try to imagine

where it was,

the moment

inside a memory,

what did the breeze feel like,

certainly there was one,

the glen inside a cove

surrounded in maples and pine,

and short shrifts of sumac

pine needles all across the forest wood

where we as children climbed

only the same tree,

familiar branches,

I sat there last year

he said to her,

as she wondered if or when he might

try to

kiss her

under the oak,

the childhood symbol of growing up,

at least,

understanding that

decades later,

the memory of which

might be less profound

than the immediacy of a heart racing

illusion

of

love,

in the eyes of two thirteen year old children,

holding hands on a public street,

smiles and backpacks and

acne and eyes that searched only for

each other

because

that is what we had been told

that is what we had been told,

is the meaning of love,

in a quiet midwestern town,

where concrete

could easily confuse

the very natural ground

we laid upon years later

with a lover

and smitten eyes.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

A Nostalgic Christmas Fairy Tale

We met in a college football atmosphere,

eyes locked immediate intrigue,

the sort you might not remind anyone

for it is meant to be a

quiet recall,

a soft memory

when everyone else went home.

 

There’s no one left to remember,

except perhaps

her,

the snowball fight,

the falling flakes

as big as night

Hennepin avenue forever,

we would run into each other’s arms

this sort of love

thing neither understood,

nor would either try to

recall another season.

 

We were playing soul-mates

while cars drove by,

people glanced and imagined

two people in love

playing in the snow,

a winter’s night,

a quiet recall,

I remember being with you,

so now the memory is left me blue.

 

I would say Happy Xmas around now

for we’ll never recall just when and how.

On Montmartre Stairs

Circle

Photo of The Day

( I do hope this fits with the figurative notion of ‘circles’)

A rainy afternoon,

we would cry together today,

svelte hands and wrought iron rails,

steps that concrete shavings felt right,

we did smile as with our turn we might catch eyes,

if not this turn, the next twirl I could find you there,

we dashed to the doorway, the rains were heavy,

in there our embrace becomes a mix of delicious love,

peek out, see the misty rain, the street below,

we own the moment, let’s dance to our center.

~

On an august evening the steps were trampled by

strangers in the night who would pass our memory,

we could always recall that kiss by the oak,

the quiet night, where a luminous magic

began our journey together – we did walk

until we could under the lampost

remember our night together,

long before the business of life forgot their way.

*photo: Allen Parseghian Photography

Morning Solace

When wake of day the sunlit rays cause a stir

we might know the beauty of another may.

When soul do cross path, we might register

a new sort of peace, a kindly takeaway

~

We do welcome the light of day with hope

a happiness may speak volumes so near

to the heart of that which creates our slope

where descend or rise we might commandeer.

~

while soft the fever of the mourning leaves

the mind to gently wander near to bask

in gentle storms, without wallow she grieves

that very night where he may leave his mask

~

Sweet the eyes of a waking day might release

Chance pheromone albeit, a lasting peace.

Choosing Sides

My first attempt at The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “First Crush.”

~

We would walk the neighborhood together,

hand in hand at times,

more importantly when eyes were nearby,

shoulder to shoulder, and smiles,

nervous energy proud in front of

friends, those that didn’t understand.

~

if we could make it across the lawn

without losing … our connection,

it meant to us a steady motion,

therefore we were,

the two of us, she and I, me and her,

in front of everyone else,

going steady, shoulder to shoulder.

~

When the day came and mom and dad,

having martinis with friends,

the breezeway, the knotty pine,

the local neighbors talking about the judge,

her dad had found a home,

and suddenly at four years old,

Celie and I were no longer going steady,

she was going away,

our childhood memory would forever stay.

~

I remember that day in high school,

I was the new guy, listening to the P.A.

reciting the sports of the day.

I had just transferred, a punk lost,

trying to find his way,

when the name came across,

Celie ____ , first place in last night’s meet.

I didn’t know anyone to look to

to ask,  who was the gymnast that won,

that one,

that young woman was my former steady,

and now we were 15 years old,

ten years later.

~

Funny how we can find each other immediately,

when the day before, we held nostalgic sides.

The Green Light

In a well known novel,

there’s a man that waits on the shoreline,

watching in a hopeful stance.

When anyone comes nearby,

he too will disappear into the night.

If he walks outside tonight,

strolls the neighborhood,

while curtains drawn lives become private,

what thoughts will fill his mind,

as the stars create music above.

Are we all waiting for the same thing,

just different degrees,

but essentially standing in wait,

Who decides the value of the green light?

Gatsby never really went forward,

in fact, he stepped back,

waiting in the shadows,

hoping there might be a solution,

without his own effort.

Instead she made the move,

again,

just like Hollywood.

Piano Keys

That summer

I listened, you heard

the keys of his piano

swept my life to a dream,

perhaps I was only in a wish

a hope to find peace with you

to discover how we as two

might find our one.

~

That summer

I listened, you heard

voices that beckoned

a state of mind, or affair,

desires beyond the words,

the keys that played

in my head

turned rather to pain.

~

That summer

I listened, you heard

my resilience torn away.

I stumbled alone to wait

while your world did evolve,

perhaps mirroring my dissolve.

If only then I knew the keys,

perhaps … well just

perhaps.

~

Crossing Twilight

Walking slow, a barren street ahead

around the quiet of still voices

tucked away with a sort of purpose,

he just strolls invisible

to the world around him,

using the stars to guide him

somewhere he just doesn’t know.

listen to the night sky,

the sweep in the evening breeze,

always when he reaches the pavement,

glances across the way,

sort of peering over the runway,

can imagine that she might be

walking on a similar avenue

with the same notions,

questions, thoughts, in idle pose,

perhaps there in the lights of the

crossing twilight,

they might meet somewhere in the middle,

always falling into just adequate.

He turns his head a way,

a smile in the ashen light of night,

the corner helps him disappear.

Minutes go by, and she walks

across the edge of the bridge,

glancing about, feeling

like there might have been a hymn

where they both recognize

how twilight might guide

their worlds to find one another

again.