Category: On Writing

There In The Deep Wood

There in the deep wood I would watch,

the lights on the house in the distance burn,

the figures inside I knew like my own,

in the damp soil, I would wait in the wood.

wondering if they would ever venture out,

would they wonder where I might next shout.

There in the deep wood I would watch.


There in the deep wood I would watch,

the cars travel by all strangers in the hour,

their lives meant for homes beyond my eye,

I would ask about their wonders and wanders

though I would never hear, just keep an eye

on their lives in the brief moments, passers by.

There in the deep wood I would watch.


There in the deep wood I would watch,

the stars illuminate a night sky in fall,

I might wonder about the earth in universe

watching all the patterns of the Milky Way,

there were so many, so brilliant their lives

though some I had known, others would fade.

There in the deep wood I would watch.


Knocking On Doors

I choose to navigate the open walkways,

a common thread

similarities in typical days

places I dread.

I wonder sometimes about certain choice

if we might know

just why it is we find the time to rejoice,

however swift hearts grow.

When a decision in retrospect is made

we sometime slow realize

that memory that conscience forbade,

will leave our wonder wise.

When a lift in melody caught sweet attention

the very source of gallantry

spoke aloud with strong desire to love, mention

in all its chivalry.

Welcome the moon in familiar tonight’s pattern

while the sky awaits morning light

a beautiful life we swift acknowledge in turn

when covering shadows in the night.

When only the naked mind is given allowance

In simple virtue our humanity’s bliss is chance.

I Wandered Home

I’ve come here often,

when I could remember fear,


when time seemed to stand still

I would look over the horizon,

picture running through fields as a child,

suddenly thrown into my teens,

those places I would weary my return.

I wonder about people

those I knew,

those I wished I might never know again,

I remember why it is I sometimes don’t really like people,

not everyone of course – I do love you.

I just

just when I might begin the next year,

I wonder sometimes why it is we continue to return to that place

we began to fear

when time allowed us to question ourselves,

when we had far too much energy to worry about who we

might have been, had become, wanted to seem,

where it was we all remember this might begin,

little flashbacks,

idioms of pain,

little moments of reckoning,

stir the anxiety in our mind,

while returning home,

where there is love, where we unwind.




we all do return after all,

it is sort of ironic really,

how quickly we begin to wonder again.

These are the people I remember

I listen to a certain melody to bring me somewhere,

need to step out of where I am,

perhaps an escape,

one might call it a sojourn,

only works when I can find my right rhythm,

my beat, my way of departing from my real place,

into that world of imagination.

I use music to get me there,

but it can take a lot of hours,

just like the many days that have passed,

those that I recall when the words and tones of music

help me return to that place,

cold or bitter with the pain of my reality,

I can still find myself there.

I listen to music to bring me home again,

to that place we’re only supposed to go when we are ready to be there,

I suppose it is like a journey to another time,

that imagined pedestal too high to climb.

I have my music as a sort of blanket,

that one to suffice when emotions raw I can’t handle any outcomes

on my own.

I need your music to bring me there, again.

Warm Face

The mask we wear,

shadows our lives,

might be removed when close to home

if we can see the eyes of those we love.

Today in our world we gather in peace

in hope tribulations, anxieties, unsettled

reminders of our humanity,

might be left outside in the cold unforgiving air,

while inside our lives become one in memory and story.

We will tell stories,

bring those people back to life,

for they have never left our side, only in that physical sense,

that in this moment, we continue to use to walk around,

to engage,

to make our presence known.


We are in love’s grace with our predecessors,

the mom and dad, favorite aunts and funny uncles,


the sweet memory of childhood dreams never broken

for compassionate arms always held our greatest fears.


We are in love today with our futures,

the gleam in eyes, the silly smiles, the elementary accomplishments

moving swift as young adults

help us realize the circle does continue to turn

wisely, all aimed toward that setting sun.


Today we feast on the beauty of family, and in the quiet of our

settling lives, we are reminded of certain fortune and peace,

a gathering of energy we hope might spill out into a rather

unassuming confused world beyond our control.

When reliance we do on whatever gratitude means in our minds

good heart and soul will reach for the heavens;

be thankful we are alive to celebrate spiritual agonies and beauty,

be the Grace we learned and pass on and into our hope.

be elegant and just love.


Warm faces, lulling laughs, quiet tears,

we all know truth today.


© Thom Amundsen 2015

The Satisfying Poet

The one that rhymes,

cadence happy fellow.

when forever seems attractive,

a silent dawn really quiet,

a mountaintop filled with glorified promise,

a valley below that suggested,

a passing fancy drawn

by a river of gold.


We can believe

our hearts are sold

to the highest progression

of internal rhyme,

the ability for our soul

to be penetrated by syntax;

affection, passion,

a sordid list of precarious

descriptors all seemingly

driven by the power

of an opportunist spilling



I once knew a gentleman

who rhymed a silly song,

and when I tried to dig deeper,

unleashed a fleshy wound

of hypocritical malice,

my words were not well received.


I complained,

the world heard my voice

alter its tone,

suggest an otherwise,

once again,

there was little needed

in the realm of life-changing



I wonder sometimes,

if there ever really has been

a time we could all

agree in verse,

trade our wholesale value

for the sake of

listening to the one,

the place holder

that began our journey



Sometime we might be asked

to let go of a fear,

allow it to fester,

like a Hughes memorial

to growing up in hatred,

only to live our lives,

the way we wanted to

if only,

just if we could maybe,

believe we might,

for only a couple of hours.

Thank You! – Three Years – 1000 posts!

I glanced at my post count today, and found myself at 999. So I am using this, my 1000th post to thank the people of WordPress that have embraced my work for the last three years. I began my blog with what was intended to be a journal of my recovery from surgery, and from there it has evolved with some essays, memoirs, eulogies, and a few commentaries. Yet, the majority is poetry. I have liked writing poetry for over 30 years; in fact, a dear friend of mine sent me a picture of me he took over 30 years ago in which he suggests I was honing my craft. This is me in my early twenties …

-probably listening to the Beatles-
-probably listening to the Beatles-

So, I dedicate this 1000th post to all of you, the readers and friends on WordPress whose encouragement, and feedback have kept me intrigued to such a degree I post an average of two poems a day. Certainly theory out there suggests that with practice anyone can improve. I do hope that eventually becomes the case for me. Thanks so much for reading everyone! -Thom

Writer’s Block

Funny right?

Nobody ever acknowledges it, just talks about it,

well, reels and reels in panic about just that lacking

inspiration, inability to put anything down,

not a lacking desire, just a slacking fire,

the burning candles are all smoldering inside a tempest

of angst driven loss of


For that is why we right ourselves in society,

to be ‘write’ with the stars,

to feel as if every step we take moves us a little further,

closer to that gradual incline toward


So tonight, as I write, complete and utter bullsh …

well just know before I even laid down a word,

I had nothing, nada, nil inspiration,

I was standing on a block of ice,

damned if it even refused to melt,

provide some imbalance,

a reason to want to, ah, well,

a desire to,

a passion with a need,

to speak,

to talk about it,

or at least … write.