The madness the crazy
Seizes and releases
Grabs and hides
Shallow darkness obscuring
Intentions unintended
Pulls observations
Disparate
Forces them together
Unholy union
Unorthodox unconventional
Something new
Shocking
Creation ultimo
Ab initio
Never ex nihilo
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Transpositions”)
Tie dye sparkly technicolor dreamscape
Many-armed crucified zen smile prophet
Primitive mystical mixing on a color wheel
Limning from a pinhole all that is and me
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XXVIII: The Sleepers”)
Lumbering halting starting stopping starting
Turning realigning examining evaluating
Extrapolating interpolating modeling
Computing iterating requesting
Waiting receiving interpreting
Warning alerting reacting
Downloading loading
Decompressing
Reinitializing
Adjusting
Ready
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XXV: Proud Music of the Storm”)
Puffing chests standing straight
Everything fuzz and cataracts
At the helm of a ship in need of steering
The Quixotes turn about
Searching for familiar troops
Buzzing lines expectant
Seeing giants everywhere
Massive arms waving
The bold Quixotes point the charge
Bugling affirmations
Our greatest threat mocks us
We must not cower before this enemy
We must not shun the fight
Charge charge for our salvation
Satisfied with their bold leadership
They congratulate each other
And feel their way home
Unable to see if the giants fell
Or how the troops faired
Or if there were any troops
-T. Weeks
(A response to “The Prairie States”)
Every wall a mural
Bright and brooding
Frameless and flowing
Into and onto the next
Rendered in relief
Forming and fading
Eluding and evolving
Sight ephemeral
-T. Weeks
(A response to “My Picture-Gallery”)
There’s a little man up there
Barely visible among the pillows
Stuffed in that granite chair
Tossing reverent shadows
Across a smothered land
Monolithic enduring symmetric
The chair sows admiration
Sometimes love oftentimes fear
Harvesting in relentless strokes
The little man peaks over the edge
Everyone approaches the chair
None can scale the giant legs
All marvel at the tenant
Atop his glorious perch
Praise to the lonely little man
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Italian Music in Dakota”)
These little pretzel nuggets don’t taste very good
Dry and salty on the outside and on the inside
No tootsie roll surprise no reason to keep eating
Five, six, seven… there’s no reason to keep eating
No payoff no reward no satisfaction no acclaim
Just salty lips and a dry mouth and a few minutes
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… what’s on next?
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Wandering at Morn”)
My children lay
Silent in their beds
Sure of their world
Sure of me
Along their own path
They have started
And must travel alone
But maybe
For these few steps
I can walk beside them
Presenting the joys
Of a flower and a bird
A breeze and hardy company
Warmth and wisdom
My only gift
From the cold
-T. Weeks
(A response to “An Old Man’s Thought of School”)
Somewhere in the dark and cold
Moves a ship silent and blind
Gliding ghostily beyond the Ort
Dormant sensor stand useless
Tokens of purpose ever at attention
Among these defunct appendages
A golden disc carries a message
Pictures of atoms and stars
Memories of its creators long dead
A message in a bottle
Tossed into the sea infinite
It’s only message, “We were”
T. Weeks
(A response to “The Ox-Tamer”)
Expectations rise
Clustering in constellations
Guides for an aimless walk
Some fade into the firmament
Others supernova
Even the dark hole they leave
Was created by them
Sometimes I forget
It’s all sky
-T. Weeks
(A response to “O Star of France [1870-71]”)
Life Immense 