Tag: free verse

Fighting Demons

We all know them,

some a first name salutation,

waiting under our bed,

hiding in closets,

appearing as a shadow in the middle of the night.

Ever see a moment

when the flash of an eye

we wonder,

did that or is it

what is my imagination

if not

a real experience I can tell you about.

Or is it,

that conspiracy to make everything we believe,

seem sort of an outstretched hand,

waiting upon us to grasp

the reality of our own disdain.

Easy to call them demons,

those moments we disagree.

© ThomAmundsen. 11/2021

I want to cry sometimes

when I can’t find my rhythm

a towering inferno

either this or that.

Which one really holds a pulse

versus I will choose

some easier road, or gravel or yes.

I watched the weather

one childhood afternoon

in disbelief

it cannot possibly be that strong

with it purples and reds and fiery mass forming a bow.

If life were meant to be easy

so many strings wouldn’t sway.

© Thom Amundsen 10/2021

Writing Peace

Suddenly taken

by the normalcy of error,

would wonder speculation

that part of fear.

An indecision of the mind

We are tortured

within a wonder

when the brain

might matter

negotiating my state of mind.

Found in the moment

am I this facade

this fraud

this foul

this ill-wrought creature

of habit

some disregard

There is an apple of truth

waits the real me


adoring how the meaning ‘be’


© Thom Amundsen 10/2021

Solace Undefined

One of my favorite words might be overused,

less important to you

even if spoken in the nature of


Could we ever really give final definition

to the thoughts we realize

are sometimes a notion

in our mind.

I would sit here all day long only to offer

her a moment of quiet peace

in her silence

her own space.

If every time I would suggest I want only

to offer you a moment of silence,

that feeling of abandon

without loss.

I once sat by a lake and as waters rippled,

my tears did flow, a sort of God moment

actually it was that moment,

and my tears did fall.

Wonder with me what is the simple act

of sight, of knowing, of feeling

where our bodies become

an artistry of love.

© Thom Amundsen  7/2021

When I Cannot Breathe

There becomes a slight pang,

grows with each sense of desire

perhaps some might call it pain,

yet this speaker would suggest a small fire.

There becomes that need to understand,

yet the clock ticks its metered reality,

and the notion, the ideal, some aspect

of hope,

is filtered down again,

to a one-time solution that never satisfies.

We can sit here all day long and spout off about

success, recovery, decent appraisal of our lives today,

though the path seems clear, still we wander,

when turbulent seas settle in to the mind,

there must be some reaction, an outlet, a place

to land the angst we have so often gained control of

in the past.

Yet, I want to be here,

this present of serenity,

this presence is all I ask.

How might we figure out some way

to address the constancy of



inherent failure modeled around

a sometime human compassion.

Other time a stigma whose most powerful advocate

must be the man, the woman, child,

the benefactor of resource gone awry.

There it is then, that transference is well on its way.

Get thee to a session old man,

Get thee to a human factory of love.

If, When Again

if when

while we shop our ploys

need as we


suggest we have

find a further definition

if you ask me

I will suggest

glance across a simple blanket

a nature

a product of our

lacking involvement.


we might include

a moment,

some call it

a needed epiphany

long after we could

want to find some sacrifice

we call our own,

our discovery

when all along we were

already there –

bask in a superficial

atmosphere real-time


in case we forget

please ask again,

we might always find

a new opportunity

to sacrifice ego,

to understand we are

pervasive to a fault,

yet everywhere we

look there lies another

a sort of hidden gem,

a quiet memory,

a soft, sweet, celebration


waves. streams with piqued

sky and all around

our eyes will speak

to similar horizons.

we do want,

we always will

when even at our simplest

recollection, the world

continues to need,

we wish for those,

hope, salvation,


Rhythm and Rhyme

Much like my own twelve string, I play the words

in such a manner makes me believe I might

need a keyboard to tell my story,

give me the rhythm to generate a mood,

the rhyme to suggest a setting sublime,

we all have our own worlds we like to dream,

looked outside tonight into a moonlit sky,

as ordinary as that, nothing peculiar,

deep, distanced, decimated disorder.

I like to laugh out loud without formulating

words, like my ancestors would have

not knowing how to speak their way

out of conflict, instead ale and fists,

and broken teeth with puffy eyes,

and smiles all around afterward.

At least that’s the way Id like to believe,

the story goes while I play my keys.

Nightly Reverence – A Sonnet

© Dani Stites
© Dani Stites

When while a day goes quietly the nigh

soft hearts may ponder a delicate noon-

time pleasure. That is the moment inside

a dream slow to respond, yet urgency

calls upon a name to satisfy sweet

melody, a caress, play, we digress.

For when might anyone ask forgiveness

upon simple words, golden, a sparkle

of intent defines passing encounters.

Each streaming ray of hope dances our brows

well toward jest’s enigmatic interlude.

-patience beckons a rare emotion served-

When then we bask in the moonlight of love

we know surely, our lives are drawn above.