Month: April 2016

Begin end begin end begin end
So goes the dance
Stop start stop start stop start
So goes the urge
Forth back forth back forth back
So goes the tide
Loop upon loop we ride.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “On the Beach at Night Alone”)

What does conflict mean
There below the brine
Where the lidless predator
And the coordinated prey
Twirl into the tranquil abyss,
Bubble thrashed curtains drawing
On cloudy listing carnage,
Where hunt and kill and death
Bring life and bounty and balance?
Down there ’tis plankton blooming
That feeds the sea.
Up here we only eat while
The swift blossom of sweet paranoia
Keeps the grazers grazing.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “The World below the Brine”)

Stainless steel doors part wide
Square room, steel walls, steel floor
Featureless box almost
One cryptic panel begging exploration
Push a button unsure
Steel doors slide shut precisely
Farewell to this world
Electromagnetic action stirs stale air
Rumbles flesh and alloy
Dimensional travel turns in my gut
Everything stops
Steel doors peel open triumphant
Unfamiliar world tumbles into view
Nearly the same, nearly different
So this is the third floor?

-T. Weeks
(A response to “On the Beach at Night”)

No wave tossed bells
Am I lost at sea?
No lighthouse warning
Have I lost the shore?
No rolling waves break
Is there no reef to run upon?
With no danger nigh
Which way ought I steer?

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Aboard at a Ship’s Helm”)

Wings spread, feet tucked
Slave and master of the breeze

Rise
Above trails, homes, lakes
Rise
Above trees, steeples, school yards
Rise
Above hills, cities, seas

Never to rise above the wind
I am the Man-of-War-Bird

-T. Weeks
(A response to “To the Man-of-War-Bird”)

Terrible news today
The View-Master clicks
A new image wheels into focus
In my face a new scene
Dramatic and beautiful
Stereoscopic and fleeting
The image makes me sad
I dread the next click

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Tears”)

Silence billows
Graceful plumes fill space
Tendrils render, inquisitive.
Excited, inspired, arrogant
I arrange my crude noises
Hoping to describe the quiet.
Silence evaporates.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life”)

death… death… death…
Does the sea whisper death?
I suppose each crashing wave mumbles something.
death… death… death…
Bubbling and hissing sullen bravos in the sand,
Rhythmic applause for the Darwinian cycle,
death… death… death…
Of life bursting,
Each generation fertilized in the compost of the last.
death… death… death…

-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XIX. SEA-DRIFT”)

I stayed up too late
It’s morning and I’m tired
We have plans to go for a hike today
Doing nothing sounds more exciting
But staying home all day is a bad idea
The kids fight when they get bored

Committed, we battle our way into the car
Shouting orders and threatening
We hope the effort is worth the struggle
Tense and quiet we drive an hour
Arriving at the trailhead expectantly
The bathrooms are dingy and smell like urine

The forest is heavy with moss
Condensation gathers on thick mountain clovers
Decaying logs patiently nurse saplings
Winding through stoic pines
The trail goes up
Our legs burn between heavy wet breaths

Switchback after switchback rises
Meeting each false horizon with fresh realism
Revealing interrupted views of the path above
Fatigue and hunger erode the frustration
The morning evaporates as we count mile markers
Searching for the summit

Silently we eat apples and granola bars
While we study the ocean on the horizon
The view from the summit is spectacular but it’s cold
We don’t stay long
On the way down we laugh
Counting each time we slip on the loose rocks

-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XVIII: A Broadway Pageant”)