Ghosts in the Corners

Here is a link to my YouTube channel, where I do poetry readings. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dY2euFFCXLI

I’m almost sixty now,
breathing in the sweet green
fairway of life.
Once the streets were home,
booze and alleys my best friends,
dingy rooms, torn carpet,
typewriter clanking away.
I prayed each key
would drive the lines home,
hammer the words
through my madness,
half afraid to look away,
to flinch,
to hit the wrong letter
and start over
again
and again.

Paper plates, scraps
of loose-leaf, lined, unlined,
stained with blood
and whiskey, all prep,
all diligence for this,
the smooth grind
of the quiet room,
pink and violet dawn
breaking
through the blinds,
ten to fifteen poems a week,
published books, read
and reviewed,
sometimes loved
by a drunk in Tennessee,
or hated
by a hotel manager
in Idaho.

The black edge of this Tuesday night
peers into the window.
My three cats doze,
knead the soft flannel quilt.
Green and golden eyes
like lanterns
study shadows,
and chase invisible friends.

Bookshelves loaded with history,
novels, gritty books of poetry,
and the lonely biographies.
The books watch me,
cheer me on,
silent witnesses to years
of psych wards, jail cells, detox.

And still I pounded out the lines,
tasting fear like a pomegranate,
spitting out the seeds,
choking on verbs
like walnuts.

I remember being five,
understanding plot and tragedy,
writing a note to my mom
on a piece of blue construction paper:
Dear Mom, I have left home.
All my love, Thomas,
a child alive with pathos.

The internet hums
like a world I never imagined.
Messages from strangers,
lonely and tired.
Conversations across oceans,
lightning-fast responses
that would have taken months
back in the stamp-and-letter days,
when fifty bucks
bought a page
in a vanity press,
poem buried
on page six twenty-seven.

Words have been faithful,
kept me alive through the horrid days
and brutal nights.
My friend, my lover,
they held me when nightmares walked
around the room
and sat beside me on the couch,
sipping cheap, warm beer.
The words kept me honest,
gave me breath.

The antique maple desk welcomes me.
Fingers dance over the glossy keys.
Heart and mind carved in ink
and sobriety.
Ghosts of broken typewriters,
paper plates, spilled booze,
and crumpled mistakes
lurk in the corners of my brain,
laughing at every line
I write today.

Sometimes I chuckle
at the absurdity
of this cosmic waltz.

Sometimes I talk to the ghosts,
comfort them,
tell them it was all worth it,
that I understand
they’re lonely.
I tell them to lie down,
they can finally rest.

Author's Note

If you’d like to hear more of my work, I recently posted a long-form poetry reading on my YouTube channel — one or two poems from each of my four books, read in a relaxed, uninterrupted session.

You can watch it here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dY2euFFCXLI

Thank you for reading and supporting independent poetry.

— Thomas W. Case

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Thomas, if nothing else, this one could be called a hymn to persistence. Although there is much grittiness, the overall tone, and especially the ending, is positive and encouraging. It would be great if anyone who is down and struggling could have access to this offering.

[Thomas W Case]

I appreciate it.

[Coyote Poetry]

I talk to ghost too. They do not answer back. Life can feel like a rat maze. Hello from Michigan and thank you for sharing the amazing poetry.
Coyote

[Thomas W Case]

Thank you, my friend.

[red93]

Fabulous Work Thomas, Bukowski would be proud of you, not to mention Ken Kesey. Exceptional✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

[Thomas W Case]

Thank you, my friend.

[The Unknown Sith]

This is good! A very interesting read.

[Thomas W Case]

Thanks. Much appreciated.

[Soren]

It is the that den that poets call home full of crumbs of discarded poems, annoying flies that distract and a dank dark hole from which poetry is born. Memories full of cobwebs and dust it speaks from the past but shadows the present. I can smell its must. Nicely done

[Thomas W Case]

Thank you.

[Soren]

You are most welcome Thomas

[Michael Sun Bear]

Damn Thomas, this speaks so strongly to me, there are so many points of overlap with my own history, my own existence. Your line about “ psych wards, jail cells, detox” triggered very strong memories. Sometimes I feel like just going on a long bender then going to an ER and asking to be sent to detox/suicide watch psych ward. If you get sent to the wrong place it’s absolute hell, but sent to the right place, once through the worst of detox I had way more fun than on the outside, for several days had the best of friends, I always ultimately felt I could serve others, had something to give that was unappreciated elsewhere. It’s really nice to know there are others here who have struggled with addiction. Lost much. Bless you for your honest, vulnerable writing.

[Thomas W Case]

Thank you.

[SYNN]

Hauntingly beautiful. It's like something has clicked.
Dear Mom I have left home. All my love, Thomas.
From there to the end I wanted to cry.
Where did all that come from?
You are so inspiring and frustrating.
You're awesome.

[SYNN]

Gosh, I left FB all day and I missed reading you Wow! You have really opened the floodgates! This is beautiful Thomas!

[Thomas W Case]

Thanks, my friend.

[Ken Simm.]

This is firstly Americana at its finest. Then personal history developed so well then an incredible story of past poets and poetry. It works so well on all levels I can see and taste.

[Thomas W Case]

Thanks, Ken. I appreciate it.