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, June 19, 2011

"night #6"

crickets wring their song
through night's heat
squeezing crooked harmonies
around desperate trees.

aside from that
the air is still...
and hot...
and weak...
ripping at the 
that was staggered breath.

crawls through my veins... --
the stars quite simply
too close...

"alone and..."

in the stillness
there interposed
a fly
on the wall
opposite my bed;
a wall empty
and white
screaming of
and i imagine
broken & bent
in his eyes
a multitude
in that void
in the vacant
that is that fly
with exhaustion
wanting nothing more
than sleep...



broken & twisted,
light hangs
from naked fingers
like promises
from a politician.

the storm
has shuffled on
leaving the sun
a little breath
before my rum
chases him
through the trees.

i don't like him,
the sun;

he's too damn happy...

crow haiku

your shadow is swift,
falling drunkard through thunder,
a mere grazing touch.

*     *     *

walking through the grass,
awkward obsidian clown,
worms laugh at your gait.

*     *     *

black simplicity,
strutting murder in the air,
and then the silence...

*     *     *

voices carry death
and dip below horizon...
ice creaks in sweet rum.

*     *     *

in the noon day sun
your iridescent feathers -
oil on virgin snow.