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.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

"during a spring rain"

open window…
     april night…
frog song…
     simple serenade…
gentle rain…

     thunder roll…
cool breeze…
     naked skin…
stutter breath…
     pleasing pain…

singular essence…
     firm duality…
whispered incantations…
     silly laughter…
without restrain…

Monday, April 25, 2011

"a problem"

i caught a glimpse
of buddha
and the christ
sharing a bottle
of plum wine
at a corner table
in nick’s
on the corner of
5th and main.
they were laughing,
refilling each
other’s glasses
with the sweet honey
of truth.
some shook their heads
in disgust
at the spectacle,
but most
simply ignored them
letting the walls crumble
at our feet.

Sunday, April 24, 2011


thursday a.m.

fog a droning reflection
of reality

a lone dogwood

among the pines
diminutive and bright

in canopy
of shadow

buddha's tears
under bodhi tree

the christ's sweat
in gesthemane.

"epiphany, a.m., monday"

the precise clarity
and melodious orange
of a jazz sunrise
after spring storms
is the sweet analgesia
needed to compete
with the ugly sobriety
attributed to consciousness
and the responsibilities
that come with being
a productive member
of society.

that is why i prefer
the rain;
it, juxtaposed
with a fifth of rum,
do more for my soul
than trees dancing
on the horizon
or matching socks.

"all i have to offer"

i can't dance
or change the oil
in your car.

i'm no good
with numbers.

spiders frighten me.

what i do have
are words
and a keen ability
to use them
to erect scaffolding
to the moon;

to sew broken souls
into a blanket
of warmest gold;

to twist you
through a needle's eye,
leaving you dripping,
begging for more.

they're yours,
if you want them.

i'll even dress them up nice
with clean collars
and such,
but i refuse
to make them
wear a tie.

"with just a little effort"

the possibilities
for insanity
are boundless.

a dimly lit
after rum

a paint chip
floating on the surface
of your iced tea.

look into the mirror
and imagine jesus christ
walking across your eyelashes

or skeletons
picking their way
through your skin

or simply sit
on your sofa
some saturday afternoon

and think of pathways
to the asylum.

the silence
will squeeze your ears
'til they bleed

and the sound
of you own voice
muttering lines of poetry

will blind you
with the dazzling
light of incoherence.

the possibilities
for insanity
are boundless.

all you need
to do
is try.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

"it's funny how things work"

the painter
searches her canvas
for one drop,
it matters not
how minute,
of soul cleansing ecstasy.
she swirls her brush
in a palette
of hope,
jumping from blue
to black to green,
and spreads her
into fissures of a pre-pocked
the pain of revelation
searing her eyes,
her lips,
the tips of fingers
on her right hand.

a chinese flautist,
navigating a creek bed
six-thousand miles away,
wipes yellow acrylic
from the mouthpiece
before he begins to play.
confused, he looks
at his hand,
the tips of his fingers
tingling with electricity,
as he prepares his breath
for a song
penned in remembrance
of his sister,
a painter,
who passed one year ago

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

"the girl my wife would think a bitch" - sexual content

she could kill me
with those legs,
i thought
as i watched
a tight-ass blond
jog down the street
in nothing
but a sports bra
and a thong
dressed up as running shorts.

my mind reeled
at the idea
of asphyxiation
between those tanned,
salty bands of steel
dripping with girl juice
as i dip my tongue
into places
no other kind of workout
could touch.

an angry car horn
whipped me to consciousness...
the light was green
(i wondered how long) -

the girl my wife
would think a bitch
had turned right
and was now two more blocks
out of reach...

that's o.k. --
the pizza
on the seat next to mine
was beginning to get cold

haikus - sexual content

poems inspired after reading e.e. cummings' newest collection, erotic poems.

my flesh starved for yours --
total absorption - no breath --
i eat you alive...

your lips devour me
inch by meticulous inch...
eyes strong with intent...