Ringing that silent bell
Alone in the corner
For the joy of ringing the bell
Watching the room
Slosh with chatter
While the band tosses chords
Into the captured crowd
No one may ever hear it
But when quiet condenses on the walls
And pools below the stage
While the band exhales
We may finally see the song
Was led by the whimsy of that bell
All along
Still ringing in the room
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To Him That Was Crucified”)
I’d like to thank the poor families
The families without
That know how to choose
Choose between meals and gasoline
Choose between a school and a factory
Choose between humiliation and starvation
Choose the church that laps up their tithes
The non-profit that avoids paying taxes
That sends the money back to the US
As a donation to a university full not-poor kids
To subsidize their tuition
To reduce the financial burden on their families
The families that applaud from the suburbs
Pink-faced and clapping for the church
And its sacred wealth
So thank you poor families
Without you I would be a little less rich
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Out from Behind This Mask [To Confront a Portrait]”)
Pacing round the block
Not ready to go home
After picking up the mail
Enjoying the last licks
Of a day winding down
Drinking the embered horizon
There is no prison here
These hands and feet
These eyes and ears
This nose and mouth
These joints and organs
I’m a rocket ship
Hurdling through space
Dragging this rocky earth
In my turbulent wake
-T. Weeks
@life_immense
(A response to “The Singer in the Prison”)
Once there was a boy
The boy wanted good things to happen to him
Somewhere he heard that if he did good things
He would get good things
He also heard that if he did bad things
He would get bad things
Of course karma couldn’t deliver on either promise
And the boy knew that
But he still tried to do mostly good things
Someone asked him why he did good things
Even though good wasn’t coming his way
The boy shrugged and sat down to think
But he got a little distracted
By the hungry gurgles of his empty stomach
So he smiled at the questioners
Apologized for not knowing how to answer
And offered them a sandwich
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Song of Prudence”)
Hithering past the ordeal
Generations and generations shuffle
Modest steps hesitate at the threshold
Nervous about a path unfeelable
There they went and there they go
Leaving a snapshot and a backward glance
Hail Mary for a spot on the wall
Where things go to be remembered
And where is it that they go?
Out like a flame when the wood is spent?
Outside like travelers embarking?
Out of sight to giggle in the shadows?
They are here bowing with the reverent grass
Blooming with surprise on the magnolia
Riding with the summertime dragonfly
Scurrying between weak-kneed stanzas
-T. Weeks
@life_immense
(A response to “Unnamed Land”)
Splash and sink into the dark
Fall through a cool bubbled rush
Rise through a breaking surface
Pull in air to replace stale CO2
Flail limbs just below the surf
Invade the skies of the coraled world
Dip below and paddle ashore
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To a Foil’d European Revolutionaire”)
I am who I am because of who I was
Not in spite of it
I’ll be who I’ll be because of who I am
Not in spite of it
I see what I see because of them
Not in spite of them
-T. Weeks
(A response to “This Compost”)
I thought he was going to die
I thought the man was going to do it
As a mercy to his son to avoid some worse end
I thought I might not bear it
But I stumbled along despite the certain crisis
Or maybe because of it
Chasing the doomed pair along that cindered road
Hollow triumphs fueling my anxiety
Crashing like waves in a receding tide
That leave dead things on the beach for us to collect
And wonder at
But where the man lay cold and dead
Hollow eyes blind to the fearful trip come to its end
The boy lived a child of that road
-T. Weeks
(A response to “The City Dead-House” and The Road by Cormack McCarthy)
It’s 100 degrees outside and humid
Sitting in an air conditioned lobby is flimsy relief
I know the hot wet breath of the concrete city
Is waiting for me beyond the doors
Waiting to blow in my face and rob my breath
Leaving the table I wander further into the building
Picking my way through a plexiglass forest
Lions lunge after a wildebeest
A reclining otter and stern orangutan match my gaze
I scale across the branches of this grand family tree
My closest cousins stare back through blank black marble eyes
Heavy brows and wide smiles betray snickers
They’re laughing at us from the other side of the punchline
Not that we think we’re the first
Their laughing because we think we’re at the top of something
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Old Ireland”)
Way up here from this balcony I see more buildings
Rows of brick and granite monuments
Talisman of permanence and importance
Gifting validity to the lines of beautiful people below
On their way to that new Raman place
Viscous humidity draws sweat on their foreheads
Beyond them sits the center of the universe
With its manicured lawn and whitewashed facade
But when I try to take a picture
It is just a small white building in a dark city night
-T. Weeks
(A response to “There Was a Child Went Forth”)
Life Immense 