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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.

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

3 comments:

leigh tuplin said...

Hi Tim. I really like the repetition of 'white tree' in this. It's a very effective set up for the lines that follow. I enjoyed alot, thanks.

~C said...

I enjoyed this poem, it has an enchanting quality about it, simply unique indeed.

The Junkyard Poet said...

Leigh - Thank you very much. I intended the "white tree" to be a symbol of the holy. We. as a society, seem to be getting away from the spiritual side of life.

Carla - Thanks so much. I wanted it to be "enchanting", so that was quite the compliment.