Month: April 2016

I love the number 100
And also 10.
Multiples of 4
And multiples of 9
Make me feel good
But nothing beats
A good palindrome.
131. Mmmmm.
A palindrome and a prime,
Now we’re talkin’.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “With Antecedents”)

Translucent paper, sham medium,
Neatly hiding the passionate opus.
Graceful arcs coyly sashay,
Rendering carved hateful angles,
The fraud methodically tracing
Each stop along this tour de force.

Tall tales and bedtime stories
Blockbusters and my own memories,
Tainted by hindsight, all a hoax.
For stories have ends,
And a line between, where I trace
A flimsy replica on a faux canvas.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Year of Meteors [1859-60]”)

Puzzles all around
In speech, hair, clothes
In air, soil, sun light
In sound, breath, beats
All around flashing
Begging, teasing, calling
For a playful open eye.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Myself and Mine”)

The predator stalks her prey
Gut burning, muscles weary tense
For her effort, enough for today

The grazer, standing ever searching
Day upon day under murderous sun
For his effort, enough for the hour

The worker, sitting constricting
Snared in task, indentured to praise
For the effort, enough for a poem.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “France [the 18th Year of these States”)

Against a wide western sky
Restless feral sage meanders
No roads, worn or otherwise,
Left by zealous trailblazers
Mark the sure route beyond.
Barren muscular bluffs rise
To shorten the horizon
Offering blithe discouragement,
Caution to the unorthodox
Of ambiguous fortunes ahead.
Lonely is the path of the pioneer
And lonelier yet the destination
For how shall you recognize
A place no one has ever seen?

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Pioneers! O Pioneers!”)

Clank clank
Apartments flicker by
Clank clank
A lonely fence vigilant
Clank clank
In a tunnel and out
Clank clank
A man, hands in pockets
Clank clank
Rocks, moss, embankment
Clank clank
Ceramic seagulls alight
Clank clank
Flittering flag in a cul-de-sac
Clank clank
Tree marshaled trail
Clank clank
Electric blue auto shop
Clank clank
Limp lobes gaugeless
Clank clank
Downtown arms open wide

-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XVII. BIRDS OF PASSAGE”)

Dry sand sifts
Finding the cracks
Between cupped fingers

Sand underwater
An apparition
Flowing heedless away

Damp sand
Piled molded
A vision, a castle, a medium

-T. Weeks

I see the object before me
The form, the menace, the color.
A familiar word surfaces.
I’ve seen many similar objects.

Cactus.

The object I see and the word
Tumble together
In gleeful juxtaposition.
Losing track, I ask myself,
Which is which?
Then I remember.
Silly me.
Metaphors can be tricky like that.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XVI: A Song of the Rolling Earth)