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 7d Mins
Rastislav
power is not force. it is presence that doesn’t leave.
(the one who stands and is drawn towards — not by command, but by gravity.)


i do not command —
i endure.
i do not move.
i remain —
and so, draw.

not with force,
but with gravity —
the name silence wears
when someone listens
long enough.

i am not flame.
i am the hand
that might one day
be lifted.

power is not possession.
it is presence
that does not flee
when you need
to be seen.



you do not ask —
but wish to be held.
you are not pleading,
you are forming —
a shape unfinished,
already breathing.

you do not surrender.
you open —
like a hand
where a name
wants to rest.

this is not weakness.
this is the dignity
of being known.
 Apr 5 Mins
SCHEDAR
Sit quietly now
and look
beyond the page

the blurs
outside the lines
and patterns
shape the hours
in our days

gently shade my creamy skin
in creases, tints and hues

creating a colorful universe

just a crayon
me and you
 Apr 4 Mins
Rin
Sunrise
 Apr 4 Mins
Rin
The sun has risen,
can you hear?
the songs of the morning birds.

Life begins to wake,
the gentle breeze,
blows softly against the trees.
A lovely view awaits.

The orange sky,
the feeling of life!
a beautiful sunrise it is.
:D
 Mar 31 Mins
Decembre
You
 Mar 31 Mins
Decembre
You
Why is it
that whenever I pretend to love,
or try to think of
how it would look,
I see you?
 Mar 31 Mins
Damiano
To be a piece of paper
Thrown at sea,
Crumpled—furiously
Unable to be.

To row against
Undaunted waves,
Tall as mountains,
Jagged as nails.

Oh, to wish
To greet the sand,
Just to meet
Some reader's hands.
 Mar 25 Mins
Thomas W Case
There's a little
boy that hides in
the dark corners of
my soul.
He doesn't want to
be hurt anymore.
I spent eight years
with Beth.
For the most part,
it was hell and
constant pain.
She made nightmares
look good.
I heard the
little boy cry
late into the
silky night,
while snails got
smashed on the streets
of Ventura.

When I drank, which was often,
the little boy seemed
at peace for awhile,
while swans were
murdered in Venice,
and I tasted the ashes
of Neruda.
Years flew by
like seagulls;
up
down
and darting.
The little boy
continued to
hide in the
dark corners of my soul.

He wanted to
come out and be loved.
He was thirsty for it,
but there wasn't
any around.
It was dry, like the
deserts in hell.
It's too late for
sorries here comes
the plow.

He began to see
the pattern of life.
Some monsters walk in the light.
Vulnerability equals pain.
The little boy got mean.
And now he carries
a knife.
Here is a link to my latest poetry reading on you tube.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSKnZMnMlTw

I read from both of my recently published books.
It's Just a Hop, Skip, and Jump to the Madhouse and Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, both available on Amazon.com

www.thomaswcase.com
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