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, May 18, 2011

"maybe he wasn't even there..."

but i think
he was…

wooden man
in the kudzu

left to rot
in the rain


him standing
like that

choking what
would be breath

i admire

his dexterity…

his absurd serenity…

his inability
to cry…

tears kissing
my lips…

the rain…

falling like shrapnel…

the wounded
not yet conscious

to the roots

loosening their grip

on the soil…

Friday, May 13, 2011

"a call to arms"

in the quiet, still heat…

in the sobering darkness…

let’s get stupid drunk
on each other’s flesh.

let’s wallow naked
in midnight grass
drenched in moonlight
and breath.

let’s carve poetry
across the sky
with our tongues
cursing the puritans
and their damned
dry, shriveled genitalia.

let’s coyote fuck
under the stars,
washed in the wine
if immaculacy.

let’s drink this night dry-
its heat –
its quiet –
and pour ourselves
into morning,
refreshed against
horizon’s holocaust,

flesh against flesh…

soul against soul…

and savor what we have
before sobriety
marches once again.

"i'm a man!"

pissing in the shower
makes me feel like
a man.
i don’t hunt –
i don’t football –
i don’t transmission –
but relieving myself
while cleansing
is barbaric…


as long as i have
my rose scented body wash
to cover the stink.


i am no mere
regarding the exploration
of the landscape
that is your body.
i am a barbarian,
primitive and savage,
taking what i want
with no regard for others;
with no questions answered
nor asked;
with no crack nor crevice
leaving it steaming
in the moonlight
with the fires of conquest.

"street view"

no air was moving.

i caught a glimpse
of white cotton
as she adjusted
her shorts.


rain dropped
somberly across the pavement.

i imagined her
fingering the hem
of those panties,
pulling them aside,
allowing me a quick glimpse
of the pink delicate,
and no more.

that’d be enough.

(of course i’m
a dirty old man.
the crows have been
singing that for years,
you’ve simply never allowed
yourself to listen.)

about the time
my last beer arrived,
her boyfriend drove up
and pulled her, laughing,
across his lap.

a Buddha smile
crept onto my lips
as i watched them
speed away
in the rain,
the image of soft cotton
breathing new life
into the decrepit soul
of this pen.       

"oh how sweet"

being a poet
from the south
i feel obligated to
write about
and its aromatic
and i would, too,
if it didn’t attract
the damned spiders
that web my car
each night,
trapping me
in a heebie-jeebie dance
every morning
as the sun
strains against the trees,
wanting desperately
to kiss the moon
between her delicate
white thighs.

"dear freddy"

remember that eye you lost
in grade school?
i know where it is.
i saw it just the other day
when i dropped my daughter
off at her classroom.
it’s under a bell jar
in the trophy case
behind three gold for spelling
and a silver for juggling.
old man meeks
saw me looking
as he pushed
his mop bucket
up the hall.
i’m not certain,
but i think
he recognized me.
i’m going back tonight
with my dog
and a jug of rum.
between the three of us
we should be able
to save your eye.
if meeks is lurking about,
and i have it in hand,
i’ll swallow it
for safe keeping.
you’ve waited for thirty years,
what’s two more days, right?
see you soon.

"a stitch in time"

i gave elsie,
the girl who stands
on the corner
with the voodoo dolls,
six dollars and a quarter
to stab my wife
in the back.
her chiropractor recommended
but she doesn’t trust
the chinese
and their stinky tofu,
so i thought this
the next best thing.
i’m not yet sure if it’s working,
but it’s only been
three days.
i’ll give it a few more.
i have to convince her
to clip her nails again
and deny knowledge
of the holes
in her favorite pair
of socks.
i swear,
the things i go through
to insure the comfort
of the ones i love.


i’ve tried to hone
my edge
but can’t.
i’m not one of those
with razor-tongued,
i’m more han shan
than hip-hop.
my place is inebriated
with the moon,
spinning tales of
confusion through
the trees,
not balanced
before a mike
sending vitriol
through the grandstands,
pouring salt
into the coffee.
i’m just a drunken
of a poet
happy when a line
lies right
on the page,
and i’m ok
with that.