Ticking Clocks

It’s 2 am

a little Brubeck

echoing in the silence

some distant harmony

making allowance

for a mind

unable to shut down,

just quiet,

listening to various clocks

set their own time,

ticking reminders of the seconds,

tearing about the fabric

of our own sanity.

 

There are pictures on the wall,

each holding court

with years,

reason,

time stamps

our own personal library,

not for public showing,

just, reasonable

reasons to wonder why,

when we do

struggle to answer

a few remaining questions,

we pause,

then realize

then forget again,

these wonders,

the questions in our mind,

stay with us

forever.

 

Simple jazz brought me

here tonight,

letting the hours slip by,

knowing I will have some

absence in my mind

tomorrow when reasoning

how to

catch up with the loss,

where some might argue,

time is not simply defined

by the hours in the day,

or others might suggest

time is really beyond the scope

of what’s inside our mind.

 

Another might just say you are

full of shit,

just go to bed.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

Listening, As Bullfrogs Might

Outside my window,

The sky black in twilight,

No breeze to offer an anxious

Tear into a calm evening.

 

Except the bullfrogs near

Must be a dozen at least

A three sound utterance

Shared by another nearby

 

Three times that’s all,

Perhaps the pitch might change,

Another again will chime in,

They’ll all be together in sound

 

I wonder about the simplistic strife

Surrounded alone in a pond of afterlife

The Sitting Hours

I always looked forward to the late hours,

the night flying by with dialogue and absurdities,

everything we could say we believed, and more importantly,

we loved,

We did delight in knowing we could look in each other’s eyes,

well into the twilight,

all of us, whoever might have chosen the time,

or simply allowed ourselves to be drawn in,

that was the key,

we knew always we wanted to be there.

 

These are the holidays we would request

each other’s company,

my sister, brothers, and mom,

our sister’s, children and the occasion of relatives …

so current on everything we knew.

to be important in everyone’s lives.

With dad in the background, an occasional chuckle,

he’d pass out the a beverage with endearing blue eyes,

we all heard his screams inside,

the delight of our lives, he is a beautiful man.

 

We were, are, can be the beautiful people,

the family that smiles, tells jokes, lives lives with uncanny candor.

These are the nights when time would value,

only the shared nostalgia of wanting the laughs

in the history of our lives.

These are the holidays when love does always,

compete well with the nature of our own,

sweet recall, when the essence of everything we believed,

in the realm of the human condition,

could suddenly find the energy

to contribute the next line,

so the stories never found a way to end …

Twilight’s Reckoning

looked outside when the skies cleared

was wondering if I might see

what I was looking for today,

if it might be any different

distinguishing another day,

another time perhaps,

when my purpose stood before me.

When you spend some time

looking at the starlit sky,

waiting for the fall,

can’t help realize there’s far more

beyond ourselves

yet, that moment when I slide the door,

my routine will return and the stars

a distant memory.

So how can I  tap into that energy,

the one that suggests that we are on our own

unless of course we can map the growth

of our night sky, waiting to take us home.

Twilight is a beautiful thing,

I have to agree, because just to be cool

means great sacrifice in the greater scam

of twilight’s autonomy.

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.

Twilight Speaks

sky

I wait for these moments,

clearly,

when some how I begin,

there isn’t a way to describe

the need for expression to find

an outlet that feels right, feels

just almost like a fine thread

being needled through a canvas,

an artist’s sketch,

a Van Gogh perhaps in the mind

of that person creates the image.

A certain melody,

a memory,

perhaps a loss, yet somehow new gains,

the world begins to tick again,

stillness no longer impactful.

We need motion,

always to move forward so when upon a step backward,

we might patient in our minds, figure out a new step.

In every night’s twilight,

I can almost get there, oh so close,

so very much next to me, yet just out of reach,

always, beyond my scope, enough to have me question,

why is it I am so compelled to ignore the stars.

Waves of Twilight

Inside the silent retrospection lay contemplation,

will each opportunity occur because they should

or has that message run its course, are we evolved

are the tasks we face the same as they ever were.

~

These notions in twilight’s reckoning speak devotion

while trying to sort through an insomniac’s world

be desire to understand just what mystique involved

calls out to the unsettled mine, We note another

~

individual whose pallor has brought their fruition

much lauding, a constant drivel of because we could.

Yet, what if all of our silent midnight misgiving revolved

around simple logic lost within materialism’s fodder.

~

Then might the man who wakes to check the time

know love is in twilight’s passion, a garden sublime.