Capture My Mood

Tell me how you’re going to feel

the next time you touch my soul

~

We could be friends forever

organize a press release

sounds poetic, a tad eacer

someone, we keep the peace

~

There was this one afternoon

we spoke of our adventure

shipwrecked we might maroon

our lives, this our forever.

~

Tell me how you’re going to feel

the next time you touch my soul.

Tell me how you’re going to feel

the next time you touch my soul.

~

When the walls began to cave

ought we have better understood

the freedom to love and save

seemed trite and rather screwed.

~

Stand inside the balance

and feel some sacrifice

Stand inside with chance

the love, your favorite vice

~

Tell me how your going to feel

the next time you touch my soul.


© Thom Amundsen 9/2021

Sifting Through Fear

A candle burns nearby

a reminder of some peace of mind,

tranquil is the flame

out of the corner of his eye.

Speaker beware,

someone might reveal,

their reveal,

that word causes headaches in some circles,

those afraid to look in the

mirror.

© Thom Amundsen 9/2021

The Lives We Lead

I turned a corner the other day, received some applause.

Remember imagining there was not anything in our way

when now we give in to our ideals, this harmonic pause

we could only stand alone remembering, day after day.

~

There was a dance floor in town where everybody showed

their moves, their needs, their wants, their satisfying eyes

it was there on Saturday nights when everybody glowed

yet there we were dancing, quieting our fear in disguise.

~

When did we become what our parents all might dream

that someday our hearts would carry a soul in our hands

When did we become what our parents all might dream

For it is always true we live out the memory love demands

~

It is hard to trace the steps, the Jitterbug we all remember

an onset of adult life motions, we created dance together.


© Thom Amundsen 8/2021

He Stood On Memory

Can you sing me a song like they do on the radio?

the kind leaves the kids smiling in their beds.

Can you sing me a song like they do on the radio?

The kind leaves the kids smiling in their beds.

~

I remember when I was only a child in the summertime

listening to the old top 40’s and the detective shows

there still seemed to be some room for the sublime

nature of humanity with compassion for all of those.

~

We listened to the radio, watched mama by our bedside

singing songs, writing love stories, giving kisses

always knowing dad was nearby with cigar as a side

creating novelty in normalcy while society misses.

~

I was asking God one night, late with a full moon outside

could it be real that we have a reason to be in here

this seemingly large crystal ball of wonderment untried

Are we all part of a whole we cannot forever adhere?

~

Can you sing me a song like they do on the radio?

the kind leaves the kids smiling in their beds.

Can you sing me a song like they do on the radio?

The kind leaves the kids smiling in their beds.

~

Well isn’t it memory then screams our name in the twilight

Isn’t a full moon some reminder or a mystique in the night.


© Thom Amundsen 8/2021

Waking Silence

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

The Edge of Reason

What stake have we in righteous turbulence,

perhaps is reason to submit, suggest,

offer and consider, compassion

might allow a progressive response

yet allowance of circumstance,

that told responsibility

a valuable lesson.

 

In night air came a perpetual fire

taunted by winds, a breeze

so is a prevalent sky,

leading our lives into the storm

central to our being.

We spoke upon the a rail rise,

the L train, C, the longest nights

where time is not allowed

a sleeping giant

long after the last stop.

 

Yet further on

in the return home

spoke an entanglement,

on the threshold of a dream,

this reality

knock incessant patterns,

this discord

reveal a fantasy

rather beyond the norm.

 

When all else does bury logic

this value will settle cryptic.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

“We Are All Human”

I’ve been thinking about New Zealand along with the rest of us since Friday morning.

Yesterday evening I was sitting in a coffee shop that is a frequent meeting place for a group of Somali men. I go there often enough to recognize their faces and exchange pleasantries. Last night was different. They along with a community of their family, friends, colleagues had to endure the tragedy of a mass shooting in New Zealand where 50 (current count) people of Muslim faith where gunned down in senseless violence by a white terrorist. The killer carried with him a manifesto that attributed the influence of our current POTUS and his remarks toward the Muslim faith. The dead are sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, co-workers, colleagues, neighbors, grandparents, elders, friends … the list goes on and ought to sound familiar to everyone. They are people, like you and me.

I am a high school English teacher. Earlier in the day, my students watched a Ted Talk by Suzanne Barakat titled Islamophobia which spoke to the loss of her brother, his wife and their friend in a senseless shooting in North Carolina in 2015. Same situation, different white terrorist, a hate crime against the Muslim faith. Looking at her Facebook page today, I discovered her brother and his wife and friend were killed four years ago on February 10th, 2015. Just over a month ago, and her comment on her page last night after the news of the New Zealand tragedy was very brief, “I can’t. I just can’t.” I have to wonder how frightened or angry or defeated she feels today.

As I left the coffee shop last night, I looked at the men in conversation together and felt compelled to approach them. I told them they were all in my heart, and they thanked me and nodded their heads in understanding. One man looked at me and said, ‘We are all human,” and I shook his hand and he said it again.

We are all just human beings. Is there any other explanation to give people of the Muslim faith, or people of color, or people that are different than ourselves a reason to be respected? One of the messages from Suzanne Barakat is to speak to your neighbors. Even if it feels like a small gesture , she said it will have miles of impact. It is a start, and today, the healing needs to begin.

We are all simply human beings.

Please practice love today.

 


 

Islamophobia – Suzanne Barakat

The Tragedy of Time

Perhaps it is the not knowing

a circumstance

a press release in the evening news,

a morning alert

we all have found ourselves

recognizing the vulnerable nature

of the human condition –

oh is it death,

or simply the prolonged life

medical intervention,

that would have not extended any truths

centuries ago,

we just died,

a sort of flu,

unabated and watched,

observed and grieved.

 

Today, we see it in slow motion

the trip to the hospital,

the car ride,

a sudden turn

a flash of lights,

the triggers of taking a step off the edge,

and yet

there’s no time remaining

then,

afterward we know

only a memory.

 

There is that other real

tragedy of time,

those that wished for more

yet in their final moment

decidedly found Grace

where a soul

became such that entity

that begun a new journey

allowing the living

to pass through and step inside

a dream,

a fantasy

we cannot know

until some elegance

begins

while we do eventually

come prepared.

A Life Led

Watching movies all of our lives,

imagined scenarios,

romantic interludes

with coveted designs

all created within the scope

of such sweet select yearn

we celebrate a constant envy.

 

While the world reminds

us of simple routine,

a Thanksgiving Day parade

the Macy’s celebration,

streets lined with normalcy,

our world in a capsule

filled with smiles and reason.

 

Watching a stranger now,

who did once lead a life,

a sort of mechanical failure

brought him to his knees

standing outside

a warmth and peace inside.

 

We choose our lives.

Would we that gather an

idyllic scenario

now that terms are met

could we ever disregard

the notion of our lives

to be the

sweet remembrance of why.

 

In lasting conversations with friends

as memory suggests, pretend.

There’s This Place I Like To Go

In the quiet reminders of how we live our lives

a silent recall will always come knocking

always come knocking

always come

to somehow tell us we are a concept

we remain here forever,

always knocking,

a steady rap of recurring thoughtful

imagined lives that stir our hearts

until all the passion we feel

suddenly spills into the next

time and place

where 

always knocking

a soft moment, 

we might certainly

become enthralled in sweet 

reckoning

because we share our lives

inside the spectrum of some

displaced anxiety,

an autumn sunset

begins a solemn wholeness,

the human condition,

always knocking

on Heaven’s doorstep.