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
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
sometimes.
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
Unanswered
The lamp near the bed is on
And the house is calm.
Solitude
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 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.
The Syzygy Poetry Journal Vol. 1 Issue No. 3 