Flowing
She officiates
Priestess of balance
Even breaths
Vinyasa
-T. Weeks
Month: January 2016
Spacetime
Bodies massive locked
In tandem dervish arcs,
Drifting in a cosmic tide,
United on the fabric time.
More massive orbs yet,
Sitting deeply in their well
Distort the membrane,
Drawing the dancers in.
Orbit upon orbit twirling,
Dimples in the cloth
Merge in a vast funnel,
The sloped rim calling.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “I Am He That Aches with Love”)
n=1
The subconscious mind,
Though non-discrete,
Is like a quantum world:
Intuited by metaphor,
Changed by observation,
Aglow in forbidden transitions.
-T. Weeks
TBD
Yonder sits old man me
Boiling pistons poised aflame,
Bald tires on rheumatic axels.
Grayed ozymandian appetites
Leveling snide taunts anew
At my ever-bowing ragged brow.
From whence shall joy spring,
If not lusty youthful ventures?
TBD.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “O Hymen! O Hymenee!”)
Helvetia
Steepled hills ever green,
Sown into a lounging heathered haze,
Eddy about a dew soaked valley,
Innocent of their frosted emerald seduction.
This place neither knows nor cares
About beauty or my languid praise.
It neither resents the dozing fog
Nor pines for summers fair.
I am born from the same earth
Shall I worry more?
-T. Weeks
(A response to “We Two, How Long We Were Fool’d”)
Eden
Lucifer sits, coat in hand,
Fumbling rusty aphorisms.
He chews a thumbnail
Too far down, ambivalent.
The captives, emancipated,
Shade their unadjusted eyes,
Ashamed of enlightenment
Homesick for their garden.
-T. Weeks
(Inspired by “Ages and Ages Returning at Intervals”)
Tho I Carry a Compass
Tho I carry a compass,
Spindle gesturing in vain,
Unless I know where I am
North is just a name.
Since oceans may live
Between me and where I am,
I guess at where I’m going
Based on where I’ve been.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Out of the Rolling Ocean the Crowd”)
Appraisal
The hapless savant paints,
Not for postmortem praise,
But for redemption by effigy
In that one hour to madness.
Behold, the masterpiece.
Reckless strokes blistering,
Scabs across a defiant dream,
Rendered through a pinhole.
Is it the tortured backstory,
Woven at the auction house,
Or the travailing phantom
That hums lovely to your ledger?
-T. Weeks
(A response to “One Hour to Madness and Joy”)
Rise
Ridges of solid fuel
In concentric canyons,
Maximizing the surface.
Catalysts and inhibitors
Saddling the reaction,
A spectacular calamity.
Blossoming exotherm
Hurling spent mass,
Sidereal expatriate.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Spontaneous Me”)
Children Playing
Wondering youth
Gather curiosities,
Guided on their journey
By turbulent constellations.
Seeing pockets overflowed,
I, nomad and stowaway,
Search tics and bearings
For their coda unknown.
-T. Weeks
(Inspired by “A Woman Waits for Me”)
Life Immense 