This Little Man

He exists only in some plan

a diversion of mine and hers

we are lost in our own hearts

one simple flare of the Man.

~

Seems there can be a truth,

we listen, bear our hearts

without worry of wrath, imparts

a cycle of hurt so very uncouth.

~

If in God’s eyes he train the mind

to live on its own accord, afford

our lives to bury the sword.

Live with love is our humankind.

~

How do we know to forget

or is a stored energy we play

for the autumn is nearer today

fears that stubborn scorn let.

~

Let them lift their bodies cold

find a sweet warmth spoken

a slow and harmonic plan

will lives to share love so bold.

~

Once while observe the moon a crescent

without the whole she could not be present.


© 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

Because It Never Is Real

Until the weeping eyes are visible

we can’t really know the pain,

when everything seems possible,

instead we lose our train

of thought,

so frought

we fought,

when ought

either one of us might instead,

recognize there is no realistic

time on love that wasn’t wasted

because we’d rather be frantic.

this security

a certain witty

banter is shitty

when only pretty

memories seem our last resort

because it never is real

our lasting hoping is out of sort

because it never is real,

until one day its all gone and we think it a pity

this casting shadow of hope’s lost serendipity.

this casting shadow of hope’s lost serendipity

this casting shadow of …

hope’s lost serendipity.


© Thom Amundsen 8/2021

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

The Rains

I sat with a desk lamp nearby

listening to the rains,

I knew clearly the reason why

this forest maintains

~

such wonderful animations in the mind,

a forest may the soul in peace unwind.

~

Earlier in the afternoon sunlight

before the setting of dusk,

I watched the clouds in plumes might

settle into a natural melodic busk.

~

I listened to the rains and next the tears

would speak quiet to my mind

wishing only might I ever quell fears

shook her away to rewind

~

Yet I couldn’t help but wish such beauty

might hold promise to love

as would the sound of rains serenely

slicing through the skies above…

~

Such wonderful animations in the mind

a forest may the soul in peace unwind.


© Thom Amundsen 7/2021 

Wishing Dreams

A spirit guide might visit a passion

setting in stride life’s beauty is a ride.

Yet time does wait upon internal

remnants churning within my psyche.

While outside lives a life of pleasantry

agreeable acceptance and absolutes,

if only the traveling disdain subside.

Would then wishful dreams pass forward

an energy with love could line a reel.

May then we be happy with our fate.

May then lives a sigh for love too late.


©️ Thom Amundsen 6/2021

In Hypocrisy Is Solution

Wonder about the rules,

whose design,

what makeup,

howsoever long the game be played,

is their truth in a lacking

understanding

or are we always meant to wonder,

is that the purpose,

does it give our lives a reason

for a constant wander

of the mind

to be the answer

might a patent suggest

we will now end this war,

this examination of a fruitless

endeavor

meant only to pad the walls

of quiet insecurity.

In a matter of words

often the purveyor

is left, are left, certainly wondering right

from wrong,

in a calming manner,

the world lives on,

even after the shadows

drift along the avenue

following another serene

universal sunset.

Addiction and Finding Beauty

Oh to discover a resolve,

to know just how easy it might have been,

now with years of solitude,

time enough to let one’s heart bend.

 

The sallow nature of my contempt

for a life beyond any circumstance,

that bellows the societal ill

I might wish to dissuade perchance.

 

When once sheer beauty is measured

in the safety of love without cost

only known to be a natural inkling,

with little agenda, ascertain no loss.

 

While walking in a solo atmosphere

there seems always a chaperone

of ugliness, wishing to know beauty,

and yet all along that love is known.

 

Oh to find the solace in natural age,

when all the soul has found complete

the offering of a peace, some tranquil

response, beauty without we compete.

Faces On Demons

Oh the (dark) places we go,

if only Dr. Seuss could remedy all,

perhaps the quiet abyss might no longer,

contain the strength,

the grasp sometimes

inherent in my every step,

the outlook of my day.

 

I sometimes wonder the strength of my addictions,

are the reason I move slowly,

perhaps in reason the justification

of lost principle,

allows me to wallow in my

sad and lonely way.

 

I’ve made mistakes,

they are plain to see,

unless you wouldn’t know me,

then maybe,

I could walk around in circles,

seem,

a bit more mistake free.

 

It is an inherent trait in our society,

to judge the person on your left and right,

in order some would argue,

to set your own demons free,

or am I only speaking of me.

 

I sometimes reflect on a world

of alcohol and drugs,

oh the sweet nectar

of setting myself apart

from every

symbol I felt of hope and faith.

 

The gambling arm,

set in tone the rest of me,

and for the little time I’d known,

I would seek refuge there,

only to come to terms,

with another bottle of scotch,

with an endless pour.

 

There is something remarkably beautiful

about peace,

peace of mind,

a peace to build our hopes upon.

finding peace,

inside the miracle of time.

 

I look to find all the faces,

that disturb my sleep,

in the middle of the night,

left staring at a wall,

rather safe than closing my eyes,

to once again,

know,

in the middle of a dream,

would there be an onslaught …

faces on demons.

 

We might suppose,

they’ll always be there,

quiet reminders,

like skeletons with favorite postures,

we liken them all,

to our own sheltered storm,

inside an expression at the county fair,

won’t allow a soul,

to imagine any other pain,

otherwise.

 

Occasionally when walking alone,

I do,

I choose with earnest,

to put my own,

face on demons,

I suppose it may appear absurd,

but rather than in a crowd,

I can own my own expression,

no longer under a shroud.