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I explored the
depths of hell, and
found it wanting,
wandering the streets,
looking for a utopia.
Not all that shines is
the sun.
Pictures can be
doctored, and when the
layers are peeled away
the purple horizon isn't
royal.
It's a ghastly negative,
with black and white
images that lack
love and depth.

All the potions are placebos.
It's temporary and tiring.
When I grew up,
I stopped playing with
toys, they break and
disappoint, and worse yet,
they leave me empty and hungry.

The sky-pilot found me
and I am full,
belly and soul.
Besides still waters,
green is my bed.
Here is a link to my you tube channel where I read from my recent book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, available on Amazon
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ydsv-JNhEdU
Ice melts on the Lake.
Fish will move into shore soon.
Please bring back the dock.

Anxiously waiting.
I just bought some more tackle.
March, please be a lamb.

Walleyes taste the best.
Get the hot Cajun batter.
I feel a slight tug.
3 haikus 1 theme.  Check out my you tube channel where I read poetry from my recent book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rWJVDxekql8
Thomas W Case Feb 21
In one of
my many
lifetimes, when
I was a child,
my dad had a
sprawling stretch
of land in
Missouri.
He had 200
head of cattle.
We used to run
the cows we
bought at auction
through this
shoot with wooden
beams that closed
on their necks.
My stepmom took
this gun-like object
and put an orange
tag in their ear.

My brother and I used
to play with this black and
white steer.
We called him old #56
because of the number on
his tag.
We chased him, and then he
chased us.
I felt bad for
him, the tag in
his ear.
I talked to my
dad about it.
He said if the steer
ever got lost,
we could find him.
I felt good about that.
I didn't want to lose him.

One night
the following summer,
we were sitting down for
dinner.
I hadn't seen
old #56 for a while.
I asked Dad where
he was.
He didn't say anything.
We were having
t-bone steaks.

As I write this,
my black and white
kitten, Bukowski,
bites at the pen and
tries to wrestle my
wrist as it moves across
the paper.
I'm glad that he
isn't a steer.
Check out my you tube channel where I read poetry from my book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, available on Amazon.com
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnNUCBj1jPg
Thomas W Case Feb 19
On days that
I have a
difficult time
writing, I let
my mind wander
to another
place and scene.

Today
I imagine a
musty attic.
It smells like
mothballs and
old perfume.

I stumble upon
an old trunk.
And when I look
inside
I find hundreds
of my poems that
I wrote and
forgot about.
I thumb through
the brittle pages,
and read.

"Hey, not bad.
This one is pretty
good.
Hey, here's one with
multiple layers.
Writing as a
metaphor for
******."

This silly exercise of
mine just netted me
this poem.
Wanderlust of the
mind promotes
creativity.
Now I can nap,
after I ***
of course.
Check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2roycihKc0
Thomas W Case Feb 19
A long time
ago
when I was
a teenager,
I had a
wonderful,
tender-hearted
girlfriend.
She was patient.
I was wide
awake, and green
as a frog.

She said,
don't rub it so
hard, you will
hurt it.
Think of it as
a new toy you
discovered.
It's small, and
you need to be
careful.
It isn't a
pimple that
you are
trying to pop.

I can still smell
her hair, lilacs and
pond water.
And on
gentle summer
nights, I hope someone
is being kind to
her love button.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2roycihKc0
Check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
Thomas W Case Feb 14
The cats gather
en masse every
time I sit
down to write.
One by one, they
jump up on the
big maple desk,
and walk across the
keyboard.

Mojo swats at
Shadow's tail.
Bukowski nips at
my fingers as they
peck at the keys.
It's going to be
a long night.
The cats don't
understand poetry
or marketing.
Shadow hisses, and
jumps down.
Bukowski gets
bored, and bites at
the cords.
He gets overly
excited, and slips off
the back of the desk.
The wild look in
his eyes flash
centuries of power
and sadness.

I think of my feral
days on the streets,
stealing *****, and
sleeping under
bridges in
December.
I wrote my words on
the walls of the
abandoned
houses.
And now,
such beautiful
providence.
I quit drinking and
I live in a town with
a clear lake.  I catch
fish and eat them.
I've published three
books and I write my
poetry on a
computer that my
three cats view as
a playground.

Sometimes,
it all seems like a
furry dream.
Check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2roycihKc0

My new book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems is on Amazon.com.
Beneath these
satin sheets,
my memory
flutters like
little birds on
indigo nights.

Folded wings
rest in my
mind's eye.
Fingers itch with
visions,
Delta of Venus,
orchids in bloom,
wet with the
sticky dew.

I grip my
virility
and begin
a slow
waltz...
It feels so
good.
Check out my you tube channel, where I read my poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QM7lwC25XYo
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