My photo
Withering Cedars, Georgia, United States
My name is Tim Morris. I currently dwell in Northwest Georgia on my estate, Withering Cedars, nestled at the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, with my lovely wife and two beautiful daughters, where I teach high school American literature. I have been writing poetry for the majority of my life. I write about what I see around me. When asked, I describe my style as "realist romantic surrealism". The environment, sex, jazz, religion, politics, family, etc., are the subjects on which I tend to focus. When I am not writing, I play the banjo, didgeridoo, or drums or wander aimlessly shooting odd objects with my camera.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

"night #6"

crickets wring their song
through night's heat
squeezing crooked harmonies
around desperate trees.

aside from that
the air is still...
and hot...
and weak...
ripping at the 
that was staggered breath.

crawls through my veins... --
the stars quite simply
too close...

"alone and..."

in the stillness
there interposed
a fly
on the wall
opposite my bed;
a wall empty
and white
screaming of
and i imagine
broken & bent
in his eyes
a multitude
in that void
in the vacant
that is that fly
with exhaustion
wanting nothing more
than sleep...



broken & twisted,
light hangs
from naked fingers
like promises
from a politician.

the storm
has shuffled on
leaving the sun
a little breath
before my rum
chases him
through the trees.

i don't like him,
the sun;

he's too damn happy...

crow haiku

your shadow is swift,
falling drunkard through thunder,
a mere grazing touch.

*     *     *

walking through the grass,
awkward obsidian clown,
worms laugh at your gait.

*     *     *

black simplicity,
strutting murder in the air,
and then the silence...

*     *     *

voices carry death
and dip below horizon...
ice creaks in sweet rum.

*     *     *

in the noon day sun
your iridescent feathers -
oil on virgin snow.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

"maybe he wasn't even there..."

but i think
he was…

wooden man
in the kudzu

left to rot
in the rain


him standing
like that

choking what
would be breath

i admire

his dexterity…

his absurd serenity…

his inability
to cry…

tears kissing
my lips…

the rain…

falling like shrapnel…

the wounded
not yet conscious

to the roots

loosening their grip

on the soil…

Friday, May 13, 2011

"a call to arms"

in the quiet, still heat…

in the sobering darkness…

let’s get stupid drunk
on each other’s flesh.

let’s wallow naked
in midnight grass
drenched in moonlight
and breath.

let’s carve poetry
across the sky
with our tongues
cursing the puritans
and their damned
dry, shriveled genitalia.

let’s coyote fuck
under the stars,
washed in the wine
if immaculacy.

let’s drink this night dry-
its heat –
its quiet –
and pour ourselves
into morning,
refreshed against
horizon’s holocaust,

flesh against flesh…

soul against soul…

and savor what we have
before sobriety
marches once again.

"i'm a man!"

pissing in the shower
makes me feel like
a man.
i don’t hunt –
i don’t football –
i don’t transmission –
but relieving myself
while cleansing
is barbaric…


as long as i have
my rose scented body wash
to cover the stink.


i am no mere
regarding the exploration
of the landscape
that is your body.
i am a barbarian,
primitive and savage,
taking what i want
with no regard for others;
with no questions answered
nor asked;
with no crack nor crevice
leaving it steaming
in the moonlight
with the fires of conquest.

"street view"

no air was moving.

i caught a glimpse
of white cotton
as she adjusted
her shorts.


rain dropped
somberly across the pavement.

i imagined her
fingering the hem
of those panties,
pulling them aside,
allowing me a quick glimpse
of the pink delicate,
and no more.

that’d be enough.

(of course i’m
a dirty old man.
the crows have been
singing that for years,
you’ve simply never allowed
yourself to listen.)

about the time
my last beer arrived,
her boyfriend drove up
and pulled her, laughing,
across his lap.

a Buddha smile
crept onto my lips
as i watched them
speed away
in the rain,
the image of soft cotton
breathing new life
into the decrepit soul
of this pen.