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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.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

"one-eleven-eleven"

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
love.

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
dance.

4 comments:

jonnia said...

A blacksmith in a boat?!?! Oh, but blades made this way would sing beautifully, wouldn't they? Lovely romp of a snow-bound daydream!

The Junkyard Poet said...

Thank you my dear! Not sure where this one came from, but there it is! Thanks, as always, for reading!

leigh tuplin said...

Again, great visuals - especially the ending of each stanza, and the last stanza in particular is so good.

The Junkyard Poet said...

thanks again! i'm a big hayden carruth fan and for reason he popped into my head as i was writing this.