Wanting Relief

Last night I listened to the winds howl in melody

seems they were speaking, warning of a parody.

So quickly our lives, my own, grooves self importance

wanting only to observe, less patience more chance.

 

I speak in my head a constant life of simple romance

that sort that would suggest our lives live in a trance.

The famous writers who could travel in love’s pain

a prowess with words, retelling always the reader’s gain.

 

I wondered how long it might be in this state I remain

whereby my actions would prevent me feeling the rain.

Where simply do we go when the winds to pull us under

An impossibility, our minds will not be want of wander.

 

Last night I listened to the winds howl their melody,

A certain peace is Her vibrant reminder the ready.


© Thom Amundsen 4/2020

Always An Urgency

We talked about the human condition,

how certain tendency

would remain years later,

the same,

decades of programmed imagination,

falling into the same pattern

some unforgotten imprinting of our soul.

 

Yet tonight as I stand here

on the same ledge of forty years ago,

I wonder what really has changed,

oh there is the picture that I once did create

together not alone,

altered forever now

with only speculate conclusion.

 

Tonight I wonder of deception,

the loss of meaning,

the further resounding defeat of purpose,

when two people no matter

still become lost in their own travel,

having let go of the other

until just a glance inside the wake

of every cresting wave,

when then they do disappear

no longer seeing …


© Thom Amundsen 2/2020

The Edge of Reason

What stake have we in righteous turbulence,

perhaps is reason to submit, suggest,

offer and consider, compassion

might allow a progressive response

yet allowance of circumstance,

that told responsibility

a valuable lesson.

 

In night air came a perpetual fire

taunted by winds, a breeze

so is a prevalent sky,

leading our lives into the storm

central to our being.

We spoke upon the a rail rise,

the L train, C, the longest nights

where time is not allowed

a sleeping giant

long after the last stop.

 

Yet further on

in the return home

spoke an entanglement,

on the threshold of a dream,

this reality

knock incessant patterns,

this discord

reveal a fantasy

rather beyond the norm.

 

When all else does bury logic

this value will settle cryptic.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

the ‘august’ of my childhood

for I remember when only as a child

I would on a hilltop nearby

cry out my fears alone at the edge of gravel

a pathway held my dreams

and my sanity

for alone I could scream

without being known,

only I might be the wiser

in a world so overthrown

as some confusion,

the medley

of a young boy

nearing his own insanity.

 

for I would then depart that hilltop,

walk the gravel trail,

return to my world,

this sea of humanity,

claiming to know the truth,

by their actions,

those of which I watched

intently,

wishing to find some avenue

a comfort level

would give allowance

to teenage angst rather than a

labeled disorder.

 

for now might be all the decades of time

the traveling monologues

starlit nights,

and golden sunrises,

clouds might give some detailed reminder

of life as it is

meant only to be lived

rather than caught in some constant

scrutiny of why that determines

well-being.

 

My struggles well documented

in the porous fabric of my mind,

tales of which I might

redefine,

in order that some peace of mind,

peace of mind,

peace of mind,

would that I could piece together

this static fame of mind.

 

I am in the ‘august’ of my childhood,

oh such is life that took us

on a roller coaster of emotion,

the different degrees of temptation,

obliteration of dreams,

the calming sea of

finding solace

in the truth

that speaks to that

lonesome road

so often felt

yet clearly denied

for sake of some

sweet symbolic stability.


© Thom Amundsen 2019

A Foolish Proposal

To imagine nobody knows,

our hearts turn to stone

we might waffle in envy,

scorned by our own soul.

 

When a stroll in twilight

seems singular

what happens if the world

around is forgotten.

 

Lives become measured

without sacrifice

only retrospective annals

of lost imagined horizons.

 

While traffic lights blink,

cast away the fears of our now,

reach out, breathe, anticipate

lives respond, sweet elegance.

 

While the business of reality

pokes the bear, laugh out loud!

 

 

The Poetry of Suicide

Screen Shot 2018-06-05 at 2.18.45 PM

A woman whom I do not know,

not even close,

took her life this morning.

~
It was in the news,

more grisly to the imagination,

than the simple passing,

the mortality of our

human condition.

~
Word was immediate,

she hanged herself.

~
Listen to the words,

hear them

resonate,

like a deep dark echo

on a hot summer night,

when we know,

somewhere,

something is wrong.

~
The thing about poetry is,

we write it as an expression,

sometimes we clear the air,

other times,

the toxic nature of our lives,

unfolds on paper,

the ink a spillage of prophecy,

and yet,

still no cure for depression.

~
Just words again,

words on words upon words,

and

still no cure for depression

~
I tell my kids,

the ones that listen in the classroom,

call someone,

use the phone, text,

use your mind to reach out,

despite the exhaustion,

yet there is that,

the fatigue piece,

whomever the motive

second-guessing

always here.

~
Have you met depression?

~
That dark place where every

misgiving one might possibly imagine

rears its ugly head,

it is incapacitating,

walls that do not exist,

screams that no one might ever hear,

and yet,

they do hear them,

incriminating, defeating, hopeless,

some of the words,

in the mind of the act,

while the rope tightens,

the air suffocating the misery,

the life lost in a couple of

real convulsions.

~
We lost a lot of people

in the pouring out of this ink,

there are more ahead,

tonight, last week, in a couple of days,

hours,

a few minutes from now,

there is someone will

forget they exist in a community,

find the door,

we are all welcome inside.


dedicated to the life of Kate Spade and all suicide victims past, present, future

Suicide Hotline 1-800-273-8255

(I’ve had my days, we all have, stick together please)

photo – Pinterest