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.

Thursday, December 30, 2010

"on watching my wife sew a scarf"

scraps of sari
a broken raga

on winter wind
tokens of longing

a simpler time
stitched together with

thread woven from
shattered tears and

rolling molten light
into beautiful scarf

patchwork of obsession
life in balance

ghost lantern illuminating
night's obtuse clouds

"chicken alredo" - an observation

slicing raw
chicken breast
is pornographic
blade ripping
through labia
in aggressive
down strokes
moist pink
juices flowing
slight arousal
quickened breath
flashbacks to
last night's
twisted shadows
blade ripping
through labia
in aggressive
down strokes
moist pink
juices flowing
across glistening
moonlit flesh
perhaps tonight
white wine
will win
another taste

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

9 new haiku

little falling leaf,
strobing crimson in noon's light,
your strength, it invokes.

amber sunlight jumps
from tree to tree, leaf to me,
sweet music indeed.

beyond the treeline,
highways sing a dirty song.
a coyote howls!

sweet grandmother elm,
your tenderness with children,

mountain splitting light
between frog pond and hawk nest...
there, sorrow is lost.

i drink junkyard wine
from a dirty, dented can...
mother's milk indeed!

talk is cheap and stained.
silence your tongue and rise up.
dance with idiot joy!

sunlight creeps, retreats.
shadows dominate heaven
until the moon reigns.

the tick of a clock.
subtle vibrations of breath.
rivers flow and flow.

"the last apostle"

on his knees and crying
was how i found him.

his feet little more than bloody nubs;
his hands broken below the wrists;
his beard ripped and matted
with charcoal and dung;
his eyes - two ravens
with murderous intent.

the last apostle -

forced to wander the back roads
of obscurity,

he babbled of bribery and deceit -
of lies propagated for 2000 years -
of carpenter’s nails left to rust in the rain -

the last apostle -

broken and battered in the dust
of a north georgia mountain -

looking more like one of eliot’s hollow men
caught forever in the trenches
of a gunpowder afternoon.

the last apostle -

whom i now keep chained to a dumpster
in my backyard,
charging $3 a head for a look-see,
$5 if you want him to sing
"when the saints go marching in."

i’m doing quite well,
if you must know.

next week we do letterman,
and then a brief stint on the surreal life.

the last apostle
should have kept his dirty little mouth closed.

Monday, December 27, 2010

"onward into obscurity"

white tree grows
from root of my being

white tree
like needles dug deep
in my thorny vein

white tree
at whose base i kneel
and show allegiance
to the moon

white tree
whose bark tumbles forth
as rats grinning with greed

white tree
the placid and dull

don’t know you
too weak and afraid

turn a blind eye

wash your breath
from their tortured flesh

unrepentant to the grave

white tree
you tickle the stars
with your kisses
you echo the music
of the sun

white tree
forced from the mud
you stumble toward heaven
and the billowing heartache
of obscurity

Sunday, December 26, 2010

"simple salvation"

holstered in a pocketof november wind,
that noiseless patient spider
has embraced its isolation,
floating on its filament
toward the osculation
of an afternoon sun.

and now, perhaps,
from this promontory
on which i stand,
on this simple ball of dust,
i too will find an escape
from the vulgarity
of sober existence.

drunk on the wine of confusion,
i'll stumble headlong
through the grass
and into the waiting arms
of some tragedy
so i can enjoy my abrupt
appearance on this tiny stage
in silence,
laughing, behind my tears,
at the absurdity
of it all.

(Inspired by Walt Whitman's "A Noiseless Patient Spider") 

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

"living" - an experiment with poetry, music and photography

“curb-side buddha” - a true story. well...sort of.

“curb-side buddha”

old naked man
sitting quietly

among fallen leaves
beside the road,

i like your purple

worn with confidence
and pride,

tilted ever so slightly
to the left,

its shadow
a minute blemish

on your buddha belly
glowing mighty

and white
in this october sky.

you are pu-tai
of the winding road

and i’ll pour a glass
for you this evening

as i drink with the moon
and sing the coyote’s song.



ramona had been crying again.
her eyes were nothing more
than burnt matchsticks.
she was a narcoleptic
behind the wheel of consciousness,
running into ditch after ditch
of one tragic philosophy
or another.
convinced time was folding
in upon itself,
she drained a quart of gin
and three boxes of granola bars
before crossing to my door
intent on bedding me
before the implosion.
luckily i was able to convince her
the blackout was due
to a thunderstorm
and that her clock was not
plotting to destroy the world.
satisfied, she drug her feet home
and back into bed
next to her husband,
a saintly, patient man
who spends the majority of his
free time
knitting masks for the local
s&m club
and is content to let ramona
play out her psychotic fantasies
in the confines of the building,
knowing those of us
with whom she regularly speaks
are well-armed
with tasers and open minds.

“i wish i could feel differently”

“i wish i could feel differently”

i awoke this morning
as i do every morning,
sat up on the edge of the bed,
as i do every morning,
and pondered the lack of humanity
in mankind.

i saw a movie once
in which a character stated
humans are a virus
on the planet earth.
i agree.
but he missed one crucial detail;
a virus isn’t malicious.
a virus just does what it does.
but the cruelty of man…
the apathy of man…
the insensitivity of man…

i awoke this morning
as i do every morning,
sat up on the edge of the bed,
as i do every morning,
and wondered if today will,
indeed be the day…
will today be the day
Jehovah, Krishna, Allah,
(insert your favorite deity here)
finally says
that’s it; i’ve had enough!
it’s time to let the pandas
have their shot!

i awoke this morning
as i do every morning,
sat up on the edge of the bed,
as i do every morning,
and thought about the soulless husks
walking the halls of our schools,
and wept.
i thought about the soulless husks
standing in the pulpits,
and wept.
i thought about the soulless husks
skipping around capitol hill,
and wept.

i wish i could feel differently,
just for a while.
i wish i could awaken to daylight
and eat my breakfast
with a smile.
but i’m afraid i’ll simply wake in the morning,
as i do every morning,
sit up on the edge of the bed,
as i do every morning,
stare into the darkness and
listen for the coyote’s howl,
listen for my wife’s breath,
listen for the train’s distant roar,
listen for something to push my feet
toward the door.



she drinks cider
while she paints;
apple cider from vermont
(i didn’t know they had apples
in vermont).

with each sip
her strokes grow looser;
the colors flowing across
the canvas
like a plague.

and i,
i drink rum
as i put pencil to paper,
dragging graphite
across the lines like
a cancer across skin.

we never peek
at each other’s work
until our tools
rest on the table.

but later,
we’ll be naked
and not hesitant to examine
the intricacies of each other’s soul
while the crickets
serenade the moon
with their beautiful,
beautiful songs.