Category: Poems

Writing a book is on my bucket list
But I just don’t have the time
Seems I’ve spent it elsewhere
Plots and premises stand in line
Blocked by perfection
Dulled by inaction

-T. Weeks
(A response to “The Unexpress’d”)

Robin Williams died sick and alone
Two hours of clips and interviews
Milled to precision to form an automaton
On loop to make kids laugh and buy pizza
Giggles and tears running on the hour every hour
The muse of disrupted expectation
Doomed to repeat himself forever

-T. Weeks
(A response to “L. of G.’s Purport“)

Two months away
Two days back
All seen and done
Rectangles in albums

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Mirages”)

Vigilant Grizzly King
Atop his glacial throne
Narrows his eyes
He watches his valleys
His ridges and hills
Berries freckling his trails
Elk stooping at his rivers
Marmots and chipmunks
Busking scraps from his hikers
Migratory RV’s stampede his roads
Leave food and stink on everything
This is his valley
All that is in it is his
All who enter are his
Nothing leaves unless he wills it
Bow before your king

-T. Weeks
(A response to
“The Rounded Catalogue Divine Complete”)

Where is the common place
Have I ever been there
Or have I never left

-T. Weeks
(A response to “The Commonplace“)

It’s the first night back in the house
After the flood
We sift boxes and greet rooms
And reintroduced waiting breezes
Just before the credits roll on this episode
The washing machine begins to spin
Like a desperate villainous lunge at our backs
Water drips from a light
Tapping out a promise on the kitchen floor
Disaster is always waiting in our walls
Working it’s way towards a sequel
Or maybe a trilogy

-T. Weeks
(A response to “A Persian Lesson“)

Just leave me alone you giant bully
You engine of life
What right do you have
Poking and prodding the sleeping helpless
So painfully early in the morning
What resentment do you carry
What offense could we have thrown so far
Turn your fury elsewhere
For just another fifteen minutes

-T. Weeks
(A response to “A Voice from Death“)

At the edge of a small bay
Framed by stacks of black lava rock
A hundred people watch the water
Others stand in the water
Beads strung across the mouth of the bay
Splooshing and whapping they advance
Shrinking the bay with each step
Sliding over and around obstacles
They keep the line unbroken and noisy
The bay folds in on itself
Fish have nowhere to go but towards shore
Onlookers follow along
We all bunch up
Fish and humans
From the shore we can see a great school
Nervous yellow tangs looking for escape
The master of the ceremony steps forward
Releases a low note from the conch
Silence is returned by the crowd
He volleys back an ancient chant
We hold hands and sing
Words we don’t understand
Strangers and interlopers and appropriators
The rite doesn’t care who we are
It casts its spell anyway
Opening our eyes to this bay and its bounty

T. Weeks
(A response to “Osceola”)

Everything changed when the house flooded
And washed away the topsoil
All routines and havens washed away
Nothing left but us and skeletons of past usses

These remains over here are particularly interesting
They tell the story of stabby-poky
A playful mood most active at dusk
Feeding on water fights, tickling, and headlocks

Long ago stabby-poky was hunted to extinction
Because it was too scary
But there’s viable material here
Maybe we can get all Jurassic Park on it

-T. Weeks
(A response to “A Twilight Song“)

Predawn-mumbles spread into the hallway
Yawns and zippers and clips and buckles
This trip has been on the calendar all year
Now it’s here and no one is excited to be awake
In an hour we’ll be standing in a line
In two hours we’ll be sitting on a plane
In eight hours we’ll be in a new airport
Stale sweat from vinyl seats dried to our backs
Hurrying into a foreign scape
To collect fading memories
In twenty years we’ll dust them off
And pass them around the dinner table
For the hundredth time with the same punchlines
And the same unanswered calls to go back together

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Sounds of the Winter“)