A loud cacophony of indecision
will break a silence
without vocal interference
some remedy lost
though it would recall.
Nostalgic moments
direct our psyche
when it is a time allowance
to imagine
some heartfelt memory
the sort that seem forever.
We seek the truth
yet we will fight the hurt.
©️ Thom Amundsen 6/2021
Words will only restrain
such is beauty in motion.
An actual acknowledgment
within a silent serenade.
For this is love
when planning matter not.
For love is
somehow a quizzical reminder.
Our lives not bound by preface
if we live in simple harmony.
Love is
a quiet refuge stills the shadows.
©️ Thom Amundsen 1/2021
By the way, look in her eyes,
you will see my own,
a distant wonder denies
the presence of passion sown.
We are all traveling alone,
despite seconds away
we would tell you what we have known,
if only allowed this one day.
The lives of her own discovery
seem rather telling, weeping
personality with little ceremony
yet sweet harmony still is telling.
For there is a silence in all of ur lives
accentuate beauty when love thrives
© Thom Amundsen 12/3/2020
a walk in the woods
quiet serene streamed light
we listen to silence
rustling breeze
we can hear the sound
begin from across the lake,
until in our world, we sense the true
nature of a forest,
maple, pine, birch,
a history of love in recluse
taking a walk
one day I realize
we are all the same
when climbing our trails
When just a glance
offers no chance.
When a quiet remember
ignites angry ember
While offering some solution
quickly dies our absolution
With every offered ideal
there seems a ready deal
I walked inside a mirage the other day,
I thought i had sort of found my way
yet I was schooled
nobody fooled
there was still some recompense
to help me certain not make any sense
of the world around me
the choices astound when we
lose our way
step away
for the light of some distant thoroughfare
would shadow reality if their own fare
were an ultimatum that offered choice
an opportunity to personally rejoice
while the other, the saboteur seems an outlier
quickly thought to be just that suggested crier.
While in truth the merits of one
would that we were never done.
Today is the birthday of an elder,
a daughter just lost her father,
a young boy,
playing in a culvert,
watching handmade wooden ships
float toward the sewer,
no judgment in mind,
simple childhood,
with an elder keeping his welfare
in mind.
We wonder sometime about the truth
in aging, the wisdom found,
the mistakes we wish to take bake
yet now we simply go on living
appreciating sometime
the turn of the coin
where once we believed this,
now we are forever asking for
sweet forgiveness
because with age
comes for some a sense of
quiet humility.
Oh do answer the question
that when under the knife
my body shut down
for modern medicine
did I go anywhere
with my dreams
beyond waking again,
seemingly fixed
yet forever drawn
to wondering just why.
The age of this my freedom
Will by my silent fiefdom
Ever wonder,
when you look them in the eye,
if their response
is a genuine effort to lie.
A mean-spirited man once said to me,
if you wait around, you die.
Ever wander
through a day and sigh,
just not sure how to complete a moment,
instead letting it pass,
by listening to the tick, a steady reminder,
of every lackluster effort
we decry.
Ever wonder,
what it is like to
find the answer
without actually recognizing why,
said the man,
to the other man,
who thought of the man,
to be lesser than
the Man.
Every sound begins a sermon
tells me where I am
what I have become,
where the next adventure lies.
I started with a ticking clock
symbolic of our borrowed time
always a reminder
that our lives do hang in the balance
when suddenly drowned out by machines
those that run our lives when we awaken
from the silent revery of our destiny.
Distant in the background
the ticking remains
yet now I am alone
listening and trying to hear
that word, or phrase or natural light
that indicator of why I do exist in the moment
why right now as I lay here on my couch
my life has purpose
and everything around me,
is part of a design
a greater vehicle of fortune
that I might ever imagine.
In the silence I hear my children’s voices
laughter and innocence
when neither they or we
concerned ourselves with the next day.
That’s different now,
when we think about what is next
much like the chords on a guitar
waiting for the next ballad
there’s always a ballad
looming about during moments of reckoning.
What is the music that played when silence
began the spiritual journey toward humility.
