I Cry, Sometimes

Sharing a story,

recalling a significant

rite of passage

in my childhood,

Not one I chose

I might be so

reminded.

 

One day,

her glance

a twelve year old mind,

frightened by tragedy,

submission to God’s plan,

a confusion,

yet her eyes,

would tell me a story.

 

I then

and forever

touched

would struggle my means

would understand

only a criticism

I would believe

in my own heart,

only to find,

years upon years,

I would recognize

her heart to be pure

holding firm

a supportive glance

in a time of sadness.

 

Oh, today,

I did cry,

I felt a passion

to share, to allow

a soul

might know

my own choices

in a life

where all of my instincts

tested

at a very young age,

one OI would choose

to live again,

a parallel life perhaps

touched by

happiness.



© Thom Amundsen 2019

Humanity Pleads Perfection

If while our lives compete

silence stands beyond our wares.

 

Pre-disposed to finding value

in a fragile state of mind.

 

We dig humanity, its pitfalls

suggested to be given advocacy.

 

Wanting to forge forward in valor

a calculated appraisal of possibility.

 

When suggestion speaks necessarily

give allowance no matter scrutiny.

 

Find your peace in the beauty of time,

for this or ever complication subside.

 

We are resilient in a time driven desire

to find peace among masses the same.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

the ‘august’ of my childhood

for I remember when only as a child

I would on a hilltop nearby

cry out my fears alone at the edge of gravel

a pathway held my dreams

and my sanity

for alone I could scream

without being known,

only I might be the wiser

in a world so overthrown

as some confusion,

the medley

of a young boy

nearing his own insanity.

 

for I would then depart that hilltop,

walk the gravel trail,

return to my world,

this sea of humanity,

claiming to know the truth,

by their actions,

those of which I watched

intently,

wishing to find some avenue

a comfort level

would give allowance

to teenage angst rather than a

labeled disorder.

 

for now might be all the decades of time

the traveling monologues

starlit nights,

and golden sunrises,

clouds might give some detailed reminder

of life as it is

meant only to be lived

rather than caught in some constant

scrutiny of why that determines

well-being.

 

My struggles well documented

in the porous fabric of my mind,

tales of which I might

redefine,

in order that some peace of mind,

peace of mind,

peace of mind,

would that I could piece together

this static fame of mind.

 

I am in the ‘august’ of my childhood,

oh such is life that took us

on a roller coaster of emotion,

the different degrees of temptation,

obliteration of dreams,

the calming sea of

finding solace

in the truth

that speaks to that

lonesome road

so often felt

yet clearly denied

for sake of some

sweet symbolic stability.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

There Are These Days

When the right reach

seems just beyond

Instead of knowing

we’d rather

capture

ourselves

in a previous

state of mind.

 

We know the truth

is somewhere

we might call it fond

a memory,

climactic,

some experience

a tangible travail

when once we knew.

 

Seeking sunset splendor

the waiting game

a day of hours

where in the quiet

mindset might

falter upon old witness

the travesty of

human frailty.

 

So now we breathe

the dry air

of  some distant

distraction

creeped in upon our  own

reality,

to suggest

listen to your instincts.

 

Remember when

we could sit for hours

talk about this sixth sense

of knowing,

how long ago,

did that skill,

step into the twilight.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

In Fields of Memory

Cast eyes upon mellow, a sun streaked sky.

Choose to know a spectacular sunrise

knocking upon lives in a quiet wise

manner speaks to answering only why.

 

Once, while regarding, ponder truth in life

for a people know safety in number

a song, memory, sound to remember

follow the sky, in meaning beyond strife.

 

Walk inside the grains of sand a hot mess

would recognize, altered states of truth.

Lonely participants weakness forsooth

such might be a lifetime enduring stress.

 

A stroll in summer wheat fields may release

Silent nostalgic melody in peace.



© Thom Amundsen 2019

Nature Intercedes

What mark of man must density permit

the forest alive a story its own.

Observation deck witness sunlight shone

what human mind imagine own limit.

While way back home a lifestyle does exist

causes me a yearn certain better time

in a world I once believed boast sublime,

Stand inside a forest Nature’s promise

to blend our lives now beyond the mundane

where certain eyes exposure does refrain.

Being selective assumptions remiss.

Step onto a rock a personal vow

live life in a freedom the time is now

Midnight Solace

We might seek some outcome with truth,

A life filled with sorrow is often believed

to be self righteous angst rather than real.

Seems our lives respond to a painful source.

No rhyme or reason to understand choice

just pull up bootstraps, what we are told.

Growing old matters little when an anxious

rival is drawn in our head. We haven’t

achieved what we felt we once deserved.

A life built without promise is easily felt.

How simple to imagine a small certain goal

Is holding open arms to now honor our soul.