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, January 30, 2011

Photos from around the yard

Some iron work surrounding our bird feeder

Believe it or not, this is a spider (two?) in water at the bottom of the tube that holds our porch umbrella.

"You talkin' to me?"

Sunday, January 23, 2011

"drug of choice"

my daddy
never took a drink
in his life
but was,
constantly drunk.
and like any addict
worth his ilk,
drug his children along
on his hazy, besotted ride.

the whispered hallelujahs,
the ghostly images
hiding in the stained glass
(of course no one
ever saw them
but me),
the inebriated hymns
sprayed with slurred speech
all haunt me
to this day.

no matter the substance,
is still abuse.

camp meetings
were the worst.
one-hundred fifty
punch-drunk believers
drinking scripture
in the middle
of nowhere --
the devil lurking
among the crickets
just passed the tent flaps --
were enough
to scare any fifth-grader
into the arms
of a sweaty lush
dying to plunge him
beneath an icy lake.

to my surprise,
i survived
(finding rehab
in the bottle,
the word,
and the moon)...
but i still watch
my daddy,
and hundreds of thousands
just like him
drive aimlessly
in circles,
and appreciate 
what he tried to do
for me,
but his
just wasn't
my drug
of choice.

Friday, January 21, 2011

"Coping With Winter From Dusk 'til Dawn"

i caught a sliver
of dusk
trying to escape
between branches
of oak and elm,
wrapped it around
my finger,
and slid it into 
a bottle of wine.

it burned at first,
but as evening
waxed into night,
and the contents
of my jug waned,
the luscious juice
ran like honey
across my tongue --
sedative and soporific
in the blue-gray clumsiness
of a three-day
georgia snow.

there's little more
to do on days like this
than drink, screw,
and chase the sunset 
across the hills
with hatchet
or lead pipe
while james carter
scorches the brain bone
with precipitous turns
of ambrosial blessedness.

in the end,
when my bottle
lays empty on the carpet
and my woman lies naked
across the bed,
i'll remember
that sliver of dusk...
the heat it induced...
the ecstasy it injected
through my veins...
and sleep soundly,
confident that dawn
will eventually attempt
another escape
between branches
of oak and elm.

More Photos

Holding Hands - A Sculpture

Weeping Buddha

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Photo Expedition in Acworth, GA

Old Bell Clanger

Cool Old Shack

Old Window - Color

Old Window - Sepia

Friday, January 14, 2011

"down the road"

*for Suzanne

i had forgotten
how lovely
you look
in my hat;
your hair
a maniacal
auburn nest
grasping for air.

sitting on the sofa,
watching you,
snow burying our lawn,
i remember that time,
long ago,
when i played stieglitz
to your o’keeffe,
shooting you
in an abandoned ruin
off some street,
downtown mobile.

you wandered among
fallen bricks,
naked from the waist up;
your impish tits
not yet evolved
into the motherly breasts
on which i now
lay my head.

(one of those portraits,
you with hands on hips,
head held high
in a silent, defiant
showdown with god,
still hangs on the wall
above my chest-of-drawers.)

we drove to your place,
walked into the orchard,
and made love in the grass –
the scent of apple blossoms
sweet on the wind.

sometime soon,
you, i, and that hat
can take a road trip
to some forgotten urban ruins,
or an abandoned orchard,
camera in hand,
and give me something else
to remember
another sixteen years
down the road.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011


bunkered and secluded
in rare georgia snow,
nerves frozen,
on edge,
i long to be
a singapore blacksmith
slinging steel
on the bow of a
cherry-wood junk
moored in the moonlight's
drunken smile.

i would feed my fire
with whiskey and wine
as sweet chinese harlots
dance naked
on the beach.

i would hone my blades
with poetry;
sharpen their edges
with the divine,
and at sunrise
weigh anchor,
hoist the sails,
and attack the horizon
with violent, insatiable

but alas,
i sit at my window
like squinty-eyed carruth,
with a half-empty bottle
and coltrane,
watching the sun
jump from the ice
in a taunting, stunning

"immediate thoughts at the window"


pure and uninhibited,
drifts elegantly
from branch to ground.
as i watch
from window
cool air
grazes nakedness,
dancing on thighs,
working toward
bouncing among daffodils
locked away
in consciousness,
awaiting coming sun
that breathes breath
across billowing horizon...


now dressed,
intensity has faded,
purity buried
behind a facade
of cruel buildings
and automobiles.
temptation to undress
and lie naked
on the floor,
cool air kissing
my perfection,
is strong,
but i will wait
until tonight
when the breath
of another can join me
beneath lilting hand
of a winter moon.

Monday, January 10, 2011

It's snowing in Georgia!!

Here's my oldest, Abigail.

This is Sophie.

Withering Cedars under siege.

Our ever-vigilant gargoyle.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

"a quiet, insignificant gesture"

in the rain,
the rain,
yes, again, the rain,
i drove,
in gray, tremulous rain,
to find plum wine
with which to warm
my belly and my soul,
and in the rain,
headlights dancing
on the bumper before me,
a smudge monkey
peered from the dust,
its long arms reaching
for the curb...
and freedom...
but only for an instant,
before it sank again,
covered by the intensity
and animosity
of the rain.

my wine awaits.

i have no time
to mourn.

"digging the mine"

morning star
gather in my shadow
push me toward farthest heaven
angel with gin-soaked wings

for my wife who made a comment a few weeks ago that I "used to write her poetry all the time."

Monday, January 3, 2011


holy sage smudged breasts
blessed beneath old shadow trees...


"revelation of the pelican"

dive, dive -
insignificant words
dive below
the surface; 
chasing a mud-skipper -
an albatross.

dancing on the street
are all one needs
from time to time
to shake the dust
from the cobwebs
and tighten the toes
for dancing.

dive, dive
no more today.
skim the fat
from the surface
and chew on life
for a while.


"on seeing a vagabond crossing hwy 92"

interstate prophet,
your staff
is crooked and lean.

release the witness
you hold in your hand
from her bottle
and sail
among the cars
on wings won
among bones
in shadows of the cross.

your message,
scattered along the curb,
tangled and broken,
won't get far
without your breath.

pick it up
and swallow.

your words, too pure
to fall,
must hang from the trees
and the door posts -
mud, damnation,
and all.