Biography of Tim Carlson
Observing the rape of history.
Tim Carlson Poems
Ode To My Mother
She bore a platinum baby, of one she could be proud. Her mossy earthen womb, a misty dew-grey shroud.
This I know, this I dread, But this I'll know, when I'm dead,
Sodden the messenger, stings the pack, fangs in as quick as the arrow from his bow curves red,
Straddle love, anesthetise love. For it's never ending furies tie up almost all
Where I live grows a tree, It has seen eons, and is infinite, But the moss has grown, And the borish brown of age
To A Friend
The bridge opens to you my friend. The journey is long, bathed in light, you are now pefect. Dont look back now, dont even shed a tear,
‘You’d never think I’d end up here, At any point in my life, ’ Clutching now her walking stick, A bent and broken wife.
We all feel alone some days, fretted with anger and emptiness. What am I but this thing? a victim of consequence.
I love her, but would not do this. Please preserve that sanctity she breathes. Like light through a prism,
Even her thorns have roses. Swept into the purity of her smile. Dreaming, dreaming for her world. She recites her books aloud, she is infinite.
Her shadow licks, the wall and straddles the dark.
I feel about this small, a thimbel shaped growth, unshaped and common. Who are they? not me,
Lieing lips, Burning hearts, For she does not know.
Even her thorns have roses.
Swept into the purity of her smile.
Dreaming, dreaming for her world.
She recites her books aloud, she is infinite.
Her hair, it veils her soft skin,
you have seen her before, but cast no judgement.
She is common but sacred.
Hiding among days, among weeks,