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Thomas W Case Feb 13
I’ve been to a place at
The end of the sidewalk.
In between safety and  
wild debauched nights of
concrete and neon.

It’s a tabula rasa.
Pristine and precious.
I love it there
where creativity and
innocence dwells on the
backs of phoenix birds and
purple pigeons,
and on the slopes of verdant
valleys, lush with cerulean
blue ponds.

The trees all
gave and gave.
Dragon fruit and  
mangoes and
plants that taught me  
things.

Every fish and turtle that
I caught talks of Keroack
and Dali,
dreams, and love.
Serenity,
thick as maple syrup.
I met some surreal people
and creatures in this land.

And every **** one
of them oozed  
compassion and  
truth from  
every pore.
Here is a link to my brand-new poetry reading.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ryqLr9ehn7Q&t=1s

I've been trying to build a website  www.thomaswcase.com
If you check it out, let me know what you think.
Sticky summer evening,
Warm, young, beautiful.
Flitting throughout the night,
Bountiful bundles of fireflies.
Flickering in the breezes,
A soft golden mist.
New summer's evening,
Graced by the lightning bugs.
The Eire canal in Pittsford is home to many lightning bugs.
Saman Badam Feb 6
On yellow sheet of faded whites and blacks,
With twenties' laughter peaking over hats,
A bride in white beside her groom in slacks,
Across the window, near the bedside sat.

The daises fresh were kept in vase at first,
But peaceful days were lost to tiny hands,
By second year, the days were spent in jest,
The tiny terror tracking trails of sand!

As days passed candles longer stayed at nights,
As lady kept her vigil over food,
So, she and he could catch the starry sights,
But not before the child was tucked in bed.

The lady bakes her man's beloved bread,
With sweetest, crunchy crust and spicy smell.
Just after kissing lady, out he fled,
With coffee aftertaste from morning bell.

The son is playing throw and catch with dad,
While heaving ball no farther than four rolls.
With strut triumphant, holding spam in hand,
Declares that she had saved five cents in sale.

The husband washing dishes after meal,
While heart of hearts with needle, mends the rips,
In summer rains, he repairs the roof-seal.
They both in winter enjoy skinny dips.

The child has fever burning one o' two,
The mother cried before the lord and kneeled,
The father threatened doctor that he'd sue,
To cure his son whatever bill it reeled.

The boy is charged and spanked for ***** mouth,
The boy had grown three-fifths a quarterstaff!
The boy then moved away to room in south,
As bed no longer fits their two and half.

The family sets out for Sunday church,
In tight and formal dress with sulky teen.
And after sermon stop for early brunch,
Then homeward bound for chores yet unseen.

As dandelion the boy has flown afar!
The lady knits as Christmas drifts away.
The lord of house has lost the balding war!
She hides from mirrors showing white and gray.

Awaiting granddaughter’s letters every morn,
And taking longer walks along the lake.
While holding me to breast, they softly warn,
That only death together may them take.

Then moved away from lovely bedside stand,
And packed inside the cardboard box with rest,
In shadowed attic I was left to guard,
The tales of dad and mom were laid to rest.
The life of a loving, wedded couple in 1950s from the perspective of a wedding photo.
As for Youthful romance
It's just like foolish Affairs –
Impulsive decisions, Fleeting emotions.

And if foolish Affairs of Youth serve
A purpose; it Serves as a simple Message:

All young Love, is DUMB love;
Until you Eventually find the ONE.
Malia Jan 27
i race across the boardwalk and
i taste the waves,
throw my phone into the ocean and
find some form of freedom—
whatever’s left will do! I’d do
anything to find out who i’m supposed
to be, i guess that should be me,
but i’ve never met that girl
(𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦?)
so instead i keep running and
you might ask from what but
only the Lord knows that and maybe
my tide-worn mother too but once
she tried to tame the frizz out
of my hair but it didn’t work because
she never expected to have a firecracker
for a daughter, 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘳
𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, but i left that all behind so i could
race across the boardwalk
and taste the waves, but now
i am here and somehow the salt
tastes bitter.
I forgot to die, and I forgot to ****
The parts I have inside that stop my being still
I forgot to hope and forgot to believe
That I have what it takes to be alive and live
I forgot - like - charcoal forgets embers
When it rains on it but always remembers
When a spark of life brings back the red it needed
To live out it's purpose, this cycle is repeated

Because it’s human nature to grow through what is painful
And it’s human nature to become forgetful
Be it man or charcoal, in order to remember
Who we're meant to be, first we must surrender
To undiscovered depths and tidal waves of letting go
Of what we're certain of so we can become more,

Most of the time,
Slowly.

All of the time,
Surely.
All of the time,
Surely.
Thomas W Case Jan 22
I wish I were young again, I would bow to the majestic
beauty of the sleepy sunset.
Happy like a kid with a kite, my feet would bathe in the
snakelike streams escaping through
the meadows, beneath the starlit autumn sky.
Here is a linkl to my you tube channel where I do a brand new video.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZptFkj_ezoo
Zywa Jan 14
The little donkey:

proudly young eyes on high legs.


Once, I was like that.
Collection "Inwardings"
Jim Vaughn Jan 14
Your self sabotage is a transient orchestration
in soft pursuit of a potent vexation,
juggling vices as a decade old
one trick pony
circling pastures to meet itself
in the middle of an argument;

You’ll dawdle in the toy aisle,
linger in the doorway,
and parse the wounds of
a family member standing afield;

It could end when you let it,
yet the turmoils have you rattled
like a baby shower gift
presented in glass,
refracting sandy memories
that turned to pleas by a
roadside marquee;

Lone hotel escapades
with uncertainties
set sights on useful
youthful hastenings
brigaded into shoe boxes,
skipped lunches,
and a forgotten birthday
and ripple harm into a harmful world
while we reel at the
second hand trauma
which announces your presence;

The countless open-minded scars
that set you apart
can consume all but echoes,
reminiscent of muddy punk tunes
appearing out of thick air
and plucked with the vengeance
of a forsaken child
who never had enough candles to
blow out,
who conceded happiness to pollinate
fall out,
who branched into nothing to escape
burn out
and who stitched longings into trials
that all end with the conviction
of a jealous ghost
That’s a reminder,
Of who I used to be.
Scars on my body,
Tell me to save my words.

“You’re too young and brash.”

It’s that big mouth of mine,
That gets me hurt.
I don’t think people,
Can take the truth today.

“You’re a bad man, you can’t save yourself.”

I chose silence,
In spite of the aggressor inside of me.
There’s nothing peaceful,
About the pacification of a fighter.
I’m sick and weary, just going through old poems and memories.
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