Tag: insomnia

Ticking Clocks

It’s 2 am

a little Brubeck

echoing in the silence

some distant harmony

making allowance

for a mind

unable to shut down,

just quiet,

listening to various clocks

set their own time,

ticking reminders of the seconds,

tearing about the fabric

of our own sanity.


There are pictures on the wall,

each holding court

with years,


time stamps

our own personal library,

not for public showing,

just, reasonable

reasons to wonder why,

when we do

struggle to answer

a few remaining questions,

we pause,

then realize

then forget again,

these wonders,

the questions in our mind,

stay with us



Simple jazz brought me

here tonight,

letting the hours slip by,

knowing I will have some

absence in my mind

tomorrow when reasoning

how to

catch up with the loss,

where some might argue,

time is not simply defined

by the hours in the day,

or others might suggest

time is really beyond the scope

of what’s inside our mind.


Another might just say you are

full of shit,

just go to bed.

© Thom Amundsen 2019

My Personal Insomnia

Step into my world

a man

frazzled yet still

a remarkable breather

able to stand

to negotiate

appreciate some aspect

of life.


Not perhaps until the day

for tonight,

his life remains behind

invisible bars

that only allow him

to remind,

to replay,

to re-evaluate

and always the same thing

every time

no solution,

only another night,

he won’t sleep

he might rather weep.


The insomniac on so many


this one though has a simple


stop checking for the same outcome

the clicking, the wandering, the wishing,

an inevitable drain

in the human psyche


until finally he might realize

tomorrow is another day,

oh my

life really is a sad cliche.

Rest Quiet

Forget the burden of wonder,

the appalling nature of discovery,

that moment when our heart

rages with a fury of emotion,

pulsating, your chest aroused

to such a level of anxiety,

one cannot recall a calm.

It may please you to know

a comfort level awaits

one the surge of the moon’s tide

allows the energy around us

to slowly fade into a quiet

twilight breeze almost forgotten.

Might it be then, we can rest,

breathe deep the reality

of that which was, and now

tonight can be all over again.

Once there was a blinding storm,

that slowly when the fog parted

revealed a utopia

that place we all seek,

a garden bountiful

with dreams in soft melody.

Nearby is the cove,

that awaits your tired soul.

Drawing Time

The hours, long

melt away in the evening

canvas, leaving a sketch

to be drawn upon

tweaked and rearranged.

Outside the sprinklers

have begun their work

and time becomes defined.

He knows another moment

has become many thoughts

well into the autumn sky.

One wonders when those inklings

the patterns we strive,

we live our universe by,

will ever cease in earnest

to draw time,

away from one’s capacity.

He wallows feeling the night chill

hopes again that some aspect of the waiting

will eventually find reason,

help him welcome his decline.

On Staying Awake

You see, if we remain awake

we pretend away the future

fight it out

and the next day doesn’t come

there is a psychosis

that goes hand in hand

with avoidance

late nights,

not letting our minds wind down

rather I want to ride that roller-coaster

that constant wave of wonder

that allows my mind

to simply co-exist with nothing

nothing at all.

The fear of falling asleep

knowing we will awaken

and go through it again.

So perhaps if the body

stays alert, or at least somewhat comatose

without rest,

perhaps that day of reckoning

the next one where the anxiety lies

perhaps that morning of sunlight

that plays with our reality

time and time again,

perhaps it will be prolonged

but then when

where, how do we imagine rest

in its absolute form?

We are common

we are wakeful

our balance is assuring our peace

1:38 AM

If someone knew him

they might understand

perhaps they might not

they could take a stand

to suggest to him

the hour of nigh …

That’s a leap

when someone else

asks him to change

what he created himself.

Time of night

lost in thought

thinking about this

reality, and wondering

is this the insomnia

that people harp about

or is this that choice

a moment of reckoning

when we allow ourselves

to stay at it

but only can we then think

to stay at it

if we are being productive

in their eyes.

But the truth of the matter

there’s no eyes around

at 1:38 in town

to measure that static.

So we’re not sure if actively

staying alive in the moment

can be called insomnia.

Perhaps the true name

would be quite simply

stay out of my game.

Night Tease

There are those moments we wish away

when the evening light begins to fade

we often haven’t got the time to remain

yet our lives are on hold, we might just say

the day’s preoccupations are now at bay

and we will soon begin another day

but ah, there is that sleep thing in the way

when wanting to simply avoid the pay

that may, we say, just delay

our chance to rest tonight.

For it is that final tease, that unsettling ease

we have with putting off our sleep

in order to solve the riddles at hand …

yet, we never seem to find a solution

we only exhaust ourselves that other way.

Wakeful Solace

I am awake

late, abandon, havoc

in my head

won’t stop reminding me

how often I remain

far ahead

of my dreams, desires, demands.

If I knew what they were

I might then begin

to overcome that pressing need

to avoid, stray afar, give room

to that uncanny ability

to lay inside a nightmare.

If my eyes remain open

I will see everything

shut lids prevent reality

from holding court

with my sanity.

Playing with words

stretches the moment

further than a simple phrase

quite probably paragraphed ideals.

What ideals?

this is just insomnia you dolt.

That’s it,

the beat down

let the beat go on,

the beat down,

let the cycle continue

recreating the wheel

every day, every hour, minute, secular

in its divisive nature.

Ah, the woods, indeed

a place to crawl into the unknown

just across the street.

Difficult to take the elevator

to the top

of a majestic oak.

Yet when awake,

when corralled within

a mania

of procrastinate confusion,

aren’t we all seeking?

Nonsensical emotions

inside a moon’s lunacy

allows our disposition

to feel that loss

experience that remorse

wonder why we will wind

our lives around a mind-driven

moment of fear within real.


When inside the moment

All these things don’t matter


A pale moon in august

Droplets clinging

A red barn

City murals that speak

Single lane bridges that create pause

The kind where a set of headlights …

… and yet, natural earth

Remains the same

Vibrant in fragrance



Purpose seems in the moment

To reflect beauty

Simple ceremony

Without notion

Only visual impact

Seems miles of intertwined


Recalls that seed of discovery

Asking for approval



Or possibly some type of escape

Seems we all have these human tendencies

To wallow in our own shame

To respond to that which tears




Becomes a twisted universe

Of sad commentary

Or does it really turn out that way

At least this time it seems possible.