Timothy Green

Believe This kite, I bear and guide. Fine example of where I put my hope. Riding the skies, ruling the gale. Searching for someone to deliver good mail. Sailing the whirlwind, looking, finding, hiding. I light up as I see you. I believe your face is well worth looking for the thawing flowers. Oh, we talk for hours. Author Timothy Green's home is with his poems. They flow easily out of him, and he considers them to be precious and special, like he is himself. In My Sweet Aroma, he presents roughly two hundred poems gathered from one of his previous books, The Sail, the Face, along with seventy newly written verses.

Spiritually inspired, confidently and delicately placed poems based on the creative flow that is my father. My Saviour and healer brought me back from the edge. Now, I can affirm my status as a creative and officially pronounce my occupation. Not so just for me, but for my best friend, Jesus. Good works shine through and I am confident to add this to my growing personal list of achievements. To glorify my Father, my maker.

Each portion forming a reduced-size copy of the whole, a fractal is forever fragmented, both chaotic and ordered, endlessly complex. Timothy Green’s American Fractal sees this pattern emerge from the fabric of modern culture, as it navigates the personal, the political, and the metaphysical, in a lyric dreamscape in which an eerie chaos lurks just behind the façade of order—where “what looks like / a river...could be a log,” “…as if accident were / the fundamental attribute of life.” In separate poems, one man sells ad space on his forehead, while another examines the multitudes of his own voice on an audio cassette recorder. Each life is but another section of the fractal, the past and the future two mirrors that face each other to perpetuate the illusion of infinites. At turns evocative and sweetly ironic, Green straddles the line between accessibility and complexity, exploring “how the wind whispers our secrets,” how “that little tremor” of understanding “touches your sleeve, lets go.”

Who or what did 15-year-old Carolyn see watching her through her bedroom window? The Navajos claim it was a skinwalker. But is there such a thing?

Who or what did 15-year-old Carolyn see watching her through her bedroom window? The Navajos claim it was a skinwalker. But is there such a thing?