Timothy Wilkie is a legend in the Hudson Valley because of his stories, art, poetry, music and radio work. From his work as a writer for the Open Door Radio Show to his beloved radio portrayal of The Ragman, he is very productive. He has two grown sons, Justin and Blake, and lives in Kingston, New York.



As the taxi pulled away, I said, “I'll see you tomorrow.”
Just over the dawn we came, our loyalties torn and our wounds still fresh, and the return home long overdue.  
The stars had been our road away and the stars were all that remained.
I knew exactly the cost,
What I had gained and what I had lost.

It had been a hundred years since I had left my home.
I remembered learning in ancient times how men went to war.
Only to return years later.
Time for me had barely made a mark.
But a century had passed for those who waited.
Everyone I had known and loved were gone.
Thus were the spoils of war.

The space between my breaths slowed down.
It was like stepping through static.
Everything popped and sizzled,
And at dawn my vision dimmed.
The trees slowly dressed in shades of green,
As ashes floated away from a fading sun.

To sing of the Gods and fly like the angels even briefly, filled my heart with joy
For so long it had only been filled with longing and sorrow.
Sadness and pain were bought, regret was often borrowed.
It was a bittersweet mix of happiness and misery that I felt as the images took shape.
It was like I had been born again to love and let go.
It was 100 years in a single day.
Whereas for me it had been only one long and lonely night.

Peter Pan,
Gone to Never, Never Land.
A kiss and rolling of his eyes.
Einstein and Rosen and their bridges.
Whispered softly in my ear.
Home a song in the heart.
And far too soon it disappears.


Nothing else.
Be my hero.
A shadow, a storm,
I need you at dawn.
Lighter than air,
Dancing on thought.
Never knowing who,
Or what havoc you’ve wrought.
Falling in mid-air,
Drowning in the sea.
Dying inside,
Return to me.


The night brought changes to the garden of eternal dreams.
It was chilly.
Being alone was a must.
Where dreams were dashed and hope only dust.
Desolation was my only reward.
My heart raced,
As a small figure appeared in a halo of light.
The darkness revealed and daybreak concealed.
As she showed her face,
Mentally she chose a collection of words.
To those of us trapped they seemed absurd.
I can’t erase the bad times.
Nor embrace the good.
Only just an arrangement of meaningless words.
I make them rise,
I make them fall,
Foolishly you try to make sense of it all.
They’re only words.