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”)
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!”)
Outrage becomes a commodity
When information is dirt cheap
Understanding is always scarce
-T. Weeks
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
Life Immense 