Creature Of Rooms


i go to sleep in one room

and awake in another.

the windows are open

And the sun is out.

a warm breeze drifts through

the house.

but it grows dark too soon

For my comfort.

i dream of holy places

Where there are no rooms.

i go to the window often.

night and summer cry out for me.

it’s voice is water open beneath stars.



Running away has always been a big thing

In my life

Especially when it comes to running away from myself

It’s hard for some to understand


All I know is that you got to break free from everything and everyone

leaving not knowing why.

Through hills and spruce trees.

Feeling your feet traveling across dry land

Collecting dry twigs, sunburned leaves and

shaggy bark.

The best part is being gone for three or four

Days at a time,

to rip open your shirt to catch the wind on

Your chest.

To climb a high tree & watch the pale California twilight

Then to sit all night and hear

Sounds of owls and crickets and trains.

The next best part is

When you return home

And nobody knew you had gone.

Saturday Night


“Time is the father of truth, its mother is our mind.”

— Giordano Bruno


The lamp near the bed is on

and the house is calm

There are lemon and orange and pomegranate

Trees outside

Immense flowers shaped like trumpets

Blow jazz through the window

It’s Saturday night

I am reading in bed

The phone rings and is left


The lamp near the bed is on

And the house is calm.



I am alone.

Miles away from anyone that I knew or cared for.

Nothing but nature to keep me company.

I am alone with the sun as it lays itself

to sleep at night behind the sandy shoreline.

I am alone when it fades into two bands

of orange clouds stretching a cross the olive

sky like hawk wings.

I am alone on an outgoing boat floating out

in a funnel of white sphere in the blue dusk.

The sea was rushing, vibrating my boat,

A tiny moon hung suspended with a rich glow.

I am where I want to be.

A big wind blows in from the Channel Islands

Across the Pacific Ocean range

The night swallows me whole

Slashes of broken light lead me to home.


I never quite saw her

she was always in pieces. fragments and shards

the curl of her eyelids

the life of her ankle

One night, the moon was making patches on the carpet

She was talking to me, or at me

I couldn’t hear her

I only saw the light shimmering absolutely brilliance.

She was talking

I was watching the light and before I knew it

She was gone.

I didn’t hear her leave.

Tim Tipton

Tim Tipton was first seduced by the craft of poetry when he read the “Panther” by Rainer Marie Rilke.. Tim is a graduate of California State University of Northridge where he received a Bachelor of Science in Sociology.


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