Texting My Death

I have found parallels these days

the manner by which I find

I need to compose myself some way

in the matter of letters that bind.

~

Seems every time I have a thought

triggers in my head will alarm

oh wait screams my mind so frought

with anxiety, now I fuel the storm.

~

If only the keyboard didn’t scream

Get on top of me and dream

If only the keyboard didn’t scream

Life would be simpler it would seem.

~

Since texting has killed my identity

I can’t fight this overwhelming fear,

this strive to lessen my scrutiny

would draw the darker side of me near.

~

If only the keyboard wouldn’t scream,

I might return to life in a sweet dream.


©️ Thom Amundsen 8/2021

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

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

Once Cried Love

Yes

Inside a dream

Could I tear

Moments flash my eyes

Next morning

Sunlight shatter solace

Imagery would fade slow

Spirit being parting ways

For now

Just, for now

Tomorrow will start again

Well, night sky

When I could seek

Sweet is the moment.


©️ Thom Amundsen 6/2021

When A Feeling

If sometimes I cannot complete a sentence

it doesn’t mean I won’t understand

if you are hurting

if your state of mind isn’t feeling wise,

instead driven down by whatever the wave

of a moment,

a passing fancy,

a time when all of our lives

become wrapped into that one moment,

all others depart and we are left in a sort of dream

trying desperately to define whatever it means.


© Thom Amundsen 2/2021

In Autumn

Recent winds begin a turn

symbolic is sudden change

we can feel in our bones

sweet remedy in tones

of rapidly drawing a map,

surely memory we grasp.

~

Would that our lives have

remind of winter’s rasp

so near, the air is a whisper

of another in sudden nature

willingly drawn upon skin

that readies itself a scant

wardrobe would we wonder.

~

So now tonight joints ache

sometimes all we can take

while the world around

seems certain to have found

a new lease on life

that we forgot such advice

might we venture forward

resilient in our own toward.

A strength is what we speak

and yet today winds do peak

upon the settling sun

follow ominous moon.

~

Moving away from a charm

that youthful spirit never harm.


©Thom Amundsen 10/2020

Dreams & Shadows

Thank God for dreams

though they might frighten

in a scheming time

no filters no recourse

just a forcibly open mind.

Welcome to a bright ‘sunshiny morning’

So much enhanced

seeing the light of day

leaving darkness behind

my eyes did open

I did feel a sudden pain

slowly lifted

stepped away

in my dreams

shadows remain.

©️ Thom Amundsen 8/2020

Finding a Moment

 Go home and write
      a page tonight.
      And let that page come out of you—
      Then, it will be true.
– Langston Hughes
~
Though when time would suggest
it is an easy ask,
this only task we have in life,
is to speak our truths,
who it is we might be,
what we believe,
how it could possibly be
that all of our time spent
in speculation
just another round of
wanting to know,
to give us reason
to live our lives by,
understand the whole
no matter the loss of insight
brought upon ourselves
with some unraveled deceit.
~
Finding the words
the best way to relate my story,
glancing out windows
where my life once used to be,
sort of meant to be,
the picket fence round gardens,
dog running free,
children in a play set
being watched by
you and me.
~
My view is a spotlight
across a little street,
windows like my own,
yet different lives,
we all seem to share a similar
structure
meant to hold form
rather  beyond an original,
that formula had its way
for decades or more,
and now,
in an aging pattern
of recognizing our mortality,
here to stay,
this will be the remainder
of my game.
~
I would look for my children
for theirs are the memory
I reflect upon,
standing by the river
teaching them both
how to dribble a ball,
skate on ice,
master a bicycle,
show excitement when they search
my own eyes,
rather than letting them see
some pain I must hide
I would wish they feel
laughter and love,
an eternal fantasy in dreams.
~
For now would these words be
the reality I am ask to only seem.

© Thom Amundsen 7/2020

Hang Onto Dreams

Oh how we do experience fallout

letting our safer dreams fade into blue

the light of day soon cast away from view.

Eyes begin to lose life tossed about

 

in the mainstream; an acceleration

of a mechanical nature spans time.

(imagine lives driven only by rhyme).

We saviors within our own affliction

 

must then resort, balance upon virtue.

When in the heat of salvaging mind

would battling truth a constant we find,

recall sweet the elixir – living true.

 

Don’t ever let we might somehow release

sweet imagination, a twilight peace.


© Thom Amundsen 6/2020

Fearing The Worst

I remember the dreams, the constant reminders

a continual tease, a surreal world of sidewinders

 

Each one with a story, a parallel universe

would try to shake me, send me in reverse.

 

I could never tell if a person real or imagined,

it was a nightmare the bottom was assigned.

 

Otherwise the lofty airs of fascination

always relied waking realization

 

Just a dream, perhaps a reminder

only the illusion of the constant sidewinder

 

drawing imagined color scheme on the surface,

so the internal player would always save face.

 

Walking slow inside a familiar nearby memory,

I might choose to leap, try to escape this quandary.


© Thom Amundsen 2019