I see a dark spot,
Deep varnished token
In an antique freckled desk.
Blinkless dry eyes burn,
Abberated focus heavy
On the inscrutable spot.
While a tactless clock
By the door, beyond the desk
Stages astigmatic campaigns
For my fickle awareness.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK VI: Salut au Monde!”)
Dear descendant,
You who will call me ancestor,
Who will look back and wonder
About my speech and clothing,
Who will marvel at my view,
Biases and silly superstitions.
I send you this message,
Bobbing bottle cresting years.
You are right. I know nothing.
Sincerely,
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Full of Life Now”)
Body, hands, face, legs
I feel them, they feel tired.
But what is feeling them?
Thoughts, emotions, dreams
I see them, they look bright
But what is seeing them?
If I am neither body,
Nor thoughts, nor feelings,
Then what is me?
-T. Weeks
(A response to “That Shadow My Likeness”)
Does shame wander here,
Kicking about the pickets,
Leaning heavy on the gate?
Does it wade among the weeds,
Feral garden, and cankered paint?
Some bohemian artist may see pride
In this masterpiece non grata.
I’ll look again tomorrow.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “O You Whom I Often and Silently Come”)
Transient stones left
Neatly for a moment
In the dancing shallows
Forgetful of the cascade
A waxing current rises
Stirring the sleeping pool
Silt billows in the tumble
Weary, the stream wanes
Clarity settles in anew
Everything is the same
Everything is different
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Among the Multitude”)
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,
11,12,13,14,15,16,17,
18,19,20,21,22,22,23…
Wait did I do 22?
Whatever. 21,22,23,24,
25,26,27,28,39,40…
How did I get to 40 so fast?
31,32,33,34,35,36,37,
38,39,40…
Thought I already did 40?
So I must be at 50.
Good job me. That wasn’t so bad.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Fast Anchor’d Eternal O Love!”)
I bought a pair of glasses
To look like the masters.
Must be the wrong kind,
I still can’t see like them.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To a Western Boy”)
Bombs away, let it drop,
Misguided enthusiasm
Falling from 10000 feet
Always finds its mark,
While manicured targets
Sleepily look on, pristine.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Sometimes with One I Love”)
Sitting above the tree line
Astride the troposphere
Lungs empty, head clear
Axis of the peripheral horizon
Freed from all, disconnected
Sitting below ancient pines
Cocooned in death and life
Senses alert, aware of struggle
Frail mammal pondering
Biosphere tenant, connected
Sitting at my equilateral desk
Under perennial glowing tubes
Filtering emails, grooming sand
Steward of profitable nonsense
Here I am now, everywhere
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To the East and to the West”)
Superlatives are the worst
But hyperbole kills me.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “What Think You I Take My Pen in Hand?”)
Life Immense 