edicated to chlöe
Poetry by Thomas W. Morris
Copyright 2017 by Thomas W. Morris
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever, without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or educational studies. For use in collections or personal projects, contact the author via the website provided below.
Book cover designed by Gerhard Gellinger, Nürnberg.
Thomas W. Morris
. . .
Connecting with words
No Longer Earthworms
Earth to Stars
When Autumn Comes
Floating through void
An Owl & Four Trees
I push myself through the pigeon hole
A long lost deception
Am I thinking in the dark am I
Alone on my bed
The path of white figures
The Wizard’s Tale
Veteran of War
Sounds of Insanity
The lights of France turn dim
The tip of the arrow
If the devil is evil
I walk these cold streets
A Gardener’s Animosity
I inside I
Drunk at Ease
The Thoughts of Dennis Green
The Art House
Avalanche of Glass
Man or Wasp
Patterns of Strange
The Water Dragon
The cheek of angels
I married a Zebra
Cluster of dust
Under a tree of maple
Materialistic Rough Hands
Lions and Cages
The colours of Christmas warm me
The Lighthouse Beams
Larry had a lamb
You are not broken
Ben’s Pet Snail
The Headless Eagle
Alice’s Cookie Jar
Sam the tastiest clam
Words in the sand
A Rubber Mask
I see it in my phyla
I imagine us on rooftops
She is a bonsai
Her care was a rental
The Genie Lamp
About the author
. . .
There will be moments in life when you feel like a fish in a small bowl of water. Wanting to explore what life has to offer, but being confined by a glass dome. This is my experience of that feeling, my first three years of writing poetry, and the expression of personal emotions and creative energy.
If you asked me a few years back what I would be doing with my time, writing poetry would never have been on the list. For the first three years of writing poetry, I was quite embarrassed by it. It sounds silly to be embarrassed by something productive, but the area where I was raised as a child did not have much culture surrounding the arts. If I was writing poetry in school, there is no doubt that I would have been bullied. This meant that I was keeping my poetic experience and my real life separate, always posting under my pen name – T. W. Morris. Eventually I got a grip and came to terms with myself. During the development of my website, I decided that I need to be free with myself, and express what I have created. Being held back by opinions of others is quite ridiculous; everyone will have likes and dislikes, and are free to express those opinions.
That is why I call this title ‘Fishbowl’ as it is how I have felt for the past few years, a fish wanting to explore the ocean but instead feeling trapped. Hopefully this title marks the start of my adventure outside personal confinement.
I have ordered the book into genres of poetry, but the first chapter will be my very first works. It may be unusual to begin a poetry book with my most amateur work. However my intentions are not to make an elite, gilded book of master literature. This is more about personal expression.
‘Connecting with words’ contains my first ever poems.
‘Floating through void’ contains personal poetry that I have written in moments of feeling disconnected from the world, outcast and alone.
‘Black Clouds’ contains poetry of turmoil and distress, referring to mental illness, substance abuse and other inflictions.
‘Patters of strange’ contains surrealist and often weird poetry.
‘The lighthouse beams’ contains uplifting, fun, happy and children’s poetry.
‘Heart Shaped’ contains romance poetry, both positive and negative in nature.
If you are a writer wishing to collaborate, a student or charity wanting to use my work, or if you need a poem written for any reason, you can contact me and I will try to help out. The entire process of this book has been done alone, including formatting and editing, I apologize for any unnoticed mistakes.
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Connecting with words
. . .
Prior to writing my first poem ‘Ann’ in November 2013, I had little to no experience writing poetry. Of course I had a brief education with poetry in school, but the poetry we had to study was so uninteresting and dull that I lacked focus. I don’t even remember the name of the poets we studied. There’s no doubt that Shakespeare was on the list, and a great writer he is. However I think poetry has moved on a lot from Old English works, and schools should start to modernize their classes.
Once my interest in poetry developed, I had to learn about the subject on my own accord. After publishing my first few poems, I went on to make a collection called ‘The Journey’ which would contain several types of poetry as I went on to experiment with the art form.
My journey ended with the conclusion that you don’t need to know much at all to create a great poem, it doesn’t need to follow a pattern or be about a specific subject. As long as your poem flows without unintentional obstruction, it can be good. As literature, poetry is very controversial. For that reason, rather than trying to fulfil the emotional needs of readers, I write it for myself. Anyone who boards the train as I travel is a very welcomed companion.
This section of poetry contains some of my very first pieces. Despite wanting to go back, I never rewrite a poem once it is published. They mean more to me in pure form.
The birth of a burden
The bitter breeze coated her soul,
Their encounter wasn't protected, she should have known.
Looking down at the future with a bitter perspective,
She wants it to blow over but the subject isn't reflective.
The path has darkened, she is not feeling whole.
How would she maintain the upcoming toll?
Days pass as she becomes weaker,
The forthcoming events could barely be bleaker.
Would she be able to sell with a stomach so colossal?
She cried out to the Lord but didn't believe in an apostle.
It's too late for angles they are locked in the basement,
The key has been swallowed along with the replacement.
The time arrived for a new life to emerge,
Her body shook as her heart started to surge.
The monstrous discomfort forced her back to arch and wrists to curl,
Her focus elapsed as the room began to swirl.
Breathing became stable when a moment of tranquillity arose,
"It's a girl" said the nurse, covering the child in clothes.
She wanted to hold her but was simply too worn,
Ann, a burden was born.
A corpse flower blossomed
The garden's current consisted of consultations,
Leaves started fading despite many applications,
Soils become solid leaving unknown expectations.
Although shadows faced the statute of limitations,
Sunlight still shined upon nature's beautiful creations.
Storms enflamed the atmosphere as the lone flower looked up into the sky,
Petals struggled sprouting due to the low water supply.
The other flowers have blossomed but this one can't even cry,
The clouds up above all appear to be dry.
The garden was then moved behind a beauty salon,
Little Ann was confused, where are these people from?
Little Ann asked the lady, "Where is my mom?"
The lady gently replied, "The gardener has gone."
Life in a turtle shell
Dear diary, who am I kidding?
Who needs a diary when these voices kicking,
I'm fifteen tomorrow,
Fishbowl by Thomas W. Morris / History & Fiction have rating 3.3 out of 5 / Based on20 votes