These pages ribboned in prose were once a man
Sifting jigsawed existence for the boundaries
Finding hardly a one he collected the bright pieces
Laid them together and sketched in the spaces
We make small talk in broken couplets and casual stanzas
Examining together the pieces we have
An old piece gets set in a new place
It’s an accident and a discovery and together we laugh
-T. Weeks
(A response to “This Dust Was Once the Man”)
Idle instruments lounge in deep recline
Where musicians left them moments ago
The last riff still humming through our feet
Resolute vessels of cheap summer fare
Styrofoam plates lie scattered on flattened grass
Under cold fries or smeared tzatziki
Screens flash on only to check the time
But little red circles intercept the attention
Reminders that someone else is still working
Cool shaded breezes carry away stale heat
Emails get checked again just in case
The band rests but we don’t
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Hush’d Be the Camps To-Day [May 4, 1865]”)
Hoaried daytime moon
Holds its post
Just a few hours beyond its watch
Crows line the extinguished lamppost
Seats below filling one at a time
At the stirring café
Stretching dappled green limbs
Trees inhale deeply
Into a gentle blue sunrise
The crows the moon and shadows
Stay to watch
Their fresh triumph animate
-T. Weeks
(A response to “O Captain! My Captain!”)
Restless shapes hover
Colored haze dips
Rises and returns
I pretend a meaning
In the obscure pantomime
The mystery
Beyond the fogged glass
-T. Weeks
(A response to “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”)
Mute acknowledgement
As I lay on the couch
Family chitter and video games
Lapping against collage cushions
A long day at work melting
Into the evening tide
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To the Leaven’d Soil They Trod”)
On the calendar I see meetings
Tomorrow looks just like today
Yesterday looks the same too
As do they all
Soft-edged rectangles stacked
Annotated and color coded
Geometric slight of hand
Holding my attention
While the future slips quietly on stage
And… POOF!
It’s in the past.
T. Weeks
(A response to “Turn O Libertad”)
I tried a new keyboard
Kind of liked it
Not sure why
It isn’t much better
Maybe new is enough
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Spirit Whose Work Is Done [Washington City, 1865]”
Upstairs is warm
It makes me panic
Like being tied up
In a sleeping bag
The backyard is cool
Like the first breath
After being trapped
In a sleeping bag
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Adieu to a Soldier”)
Urn of ashes marooned
In a room full of sympathy
Solemn cake eaten in whispers
Hidden near the veggie platter
Behind involuntary chuckles
We are each of us unprepared
To mourn the unknown mother
So we chat on and on
Ignoring the waiting urn
Each of us a heartbroken widower
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Lo, Victress on the Peaks”)
Sanding away the seams
Where curiosity germinates
Blunting thought and drive
Paces dull discomfort
A spot in the vision
Always just ahead
Of where the eye is tracking
Incurable distraction
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To a Certain Civilian”)
Life Immense 