Hiding Place

Hiding Place


After the beatings your darkness was

my protection. My source of comfort

after the sexual assaults. Hanging clothes

were a curtain against the evil.

Blankets on the floor held me close

and secure. As a child you were my favorite

friend. My hiding place.




Tim Foster




I stroll down the path, the

dark green forest envelopes me.

Cool, leafy trees shade me

from the burning rays of the sun.

All is serene, not an insect or

animal intrudes on my space.

I am lost in my thoughts, like an

automaton place one foot in front of another.

Out of nowhere I come upon a break in the trees

where sunlight penetrates my eyes.

I blink and my dream state is broken

like a dry twig in a strong wind.

Insects of all shapes and sizes flit and

buzz in the warm sunlight.

I follow the path through the opening

my senses aware of my surroundings.

I push through the cloud of insects and

re-enter the tree covered path.

Quickly my mind returns to the idle musings

I had before entering the opening.

I return to that automatous state.



What Is Love

What Is Love?





















It is too bad the world chases after the NOT rather than the IS.




A bull elk, large rack

on his head, stands

alone in the bayou.


The hunter, in his beet red jacket,

stands in his carport on the hill

above the bayou.


He chews on a cinnamon stick,

its peppery flavor calms

the tremor in his hands.


He lifts the rifle to take aim

But knocks the tin bucket

That hangs by his elbow to the ground.


The lone lightbulb stored there

falls to the cement floor with a crash.

The elk lives to walk another day.


Night View

Night View


Stars like jewels decorate the sky,

pinpoints of light billions of miles away.

I sit by the fire with a lone lamp,

dimmed, so my eyes can watch the

astronomical wonder above me.

A small mesquite fire to warm my bones

in the chill night air.

A new moon to not block my vision

of such magnificence.

Perhaps I can see mighty Leo or Ursa Major with her cub,

or Canis Major at Orion’s heel.

Perhaps a meteor will suddenly streak

overhead in a blaze of glory.

Maybe gentle Aquarius will empty his jar

and wet the dry desert with his water.

A supermassive black hole is out there somewhere,

spewing ionized plasma jets into the depths of space.

The great fabric of space and time lie above me

calling me to come to them.

Some day I will.

The Ultimate Statistic

The Ultimate Statistic


Everyone will die

of this there is no doubt.

People spout stats about

COVID, car accidents and such.


I do know one sure fact

everyone will die.

Twenty per cent of this

forty per cent of that.


I can state as a matter of fact

that one hundred per cent of

everyone will die

at some time in their lives.


No matter if one runs triathalons

or eats no meat, or doesn/t smoke.

Our bodies are not immortal

everyone will die.


Over The Edge

Over The Edge


What do I see when I look over the

edge of a flat earth?


Twenty Projects Prompt

Clouds are like balls of cotton

but are actually made of linen.

Ollie really likes to look at the clouds

and he will fly among them some day.

Mike, the border collie, told Ollie

y’all goin’ to be swimin’ with the fish.

This would be a rad concept if

thaitin eitilt liom.

I can hear the wind rushing past me

while I taste the salty breeze.

Your rose hips perfume wafts

gently through the air.

Your red hope is to be with us when

we marry even though we do not love each other.

I see golden orbs when I hear your voice, and

taste angel food cake when I touch your skin.

As I see your hard hair, it makes me think

of clouds being like cotton balls.

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