Patience in Black and WhiteA Poem by Thomas W CaseMy Books are on Amazon. Link below. I have a YouTube channel where I read from my books. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4sfxAFCf-II remember waiting, finding an ad in a magazine calling for poets of all styles, and me, young and ignorant, sifting through notebooks to find a clean white sheet. Sitting at the table, writing the poem in my best handwriting, shaking, needing a drink. Then finding the stamp and envelope, sealing the poem, but not before rereading it several times. Walking to the post office in autumnal rainy orange days, or in December, surrounded by white, waiting for the snail mail response. Pensive, someone from New York City wrote in red ink on my poem. And then, for just $45, we’ll put your poem in a book and send it to you. The money order, another stamp, walking to the post office again, waiting, waiting, for a thick vanity press book with my poem in tiny print on page 756, shallow fame. Funny now, looking back on it. That was such a long time ago. I’m grayer now, a little wiser. Now it’s instant"clicks, submissions online, tier one, tier two journals and magazines, analytics, numbers, feedback faster than the mailman ever dreamed. Ten, fifteen poems a week, published worldwide, seven books of my own. I used to write one poem every six months if I had some semblance of joy in my life. Now I write regardless of mood. Inspiration everywhere. I see it in my three cats’ eyes. Green, gold, killers. Centuries of instinct. I try to write with the same tenacity. Organization got better. No more chasing scraps of thought, no more misplacing notebooks. Headaches replaced with clarity. I’m blessed. I think of my dad, leaning back in that California living room. He loved his damn movies" On the Waterfront, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, A Streetcar Named Desire. Black-and-white flickering shadows dancing across the screen. I hated those old movies, the slow, gray, the dialogue, actors long dead, plots I didn’t understand. Now, nearly sixty, I see everything he loved. The patience, the tension, the subtle moves, the dialogue of antagonists and protagonists, the craft of plotting, the rise and fall, the themes, the poetic devices woven into every line. He taught me to see it all, to understand the architecture of a story, to know the weight of a single word, to fully grasp that furrowed brow, that wry smile. Poetry feels like that too, like those movies, painting the scenes with words, hoping the reader smells the broken heart, tastes the joy like candy. It doesn’t arrive instantly. It’s earned through patience and waiting, in the hunt for misplaced notebooks, or thankfully, for the computer screen to buzz to life. I sip coffee, smile at the shadows the cats chase, think of black-and-white frames, Brando, Bogart, fathers, patience, words etched in history, and how much life it takes to live, learn, and finally see.
© 2026 Thomas W CaseAuthor's Note
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6 Reviews Added on March 25, 2026 Last Updated on March 25, 2026 AuthorThomas W CaseClear Lake, IAAboutThomas W. Case was born in Oxnard. He has published 3 volumes of poetry. The Bullfrog Dreams of Flying, Artichokes, Avocados, and Van Gogh, and Seedy Town Blues. He has won several poetry contests. Hi.. more.. |


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