A worn and worried path,
Twin ends nearly the same,
Strobing Vegas anticipation.
Both scenes excited in fear.
Twixt the lights, the dark,
Where travelers go to stop.
Champion visions waning
Extinguished in confidence.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “The Ship Starting”)
Prehistoric river flows no more.
Its rolling rapids have departed
In disrupted periodicity skyward.
The canyon and the valley,
Majestic carcass of the cascade,
Carve the horizon, shrine for eons.
Elsewhere portentous clouds pile,
A hungry stone cutting tempest.
-T. Weeks
(Inspired by “Savantism”)
To write with such delicate sway,
Raining arhythmically on the roof,
Percussing methodic invitations
To come out, to splash, to explore.
A bounty I place on the imperturbe,
Folding metaphors to reveal it, almost.
Maybe you will find in these words
The treasure I sought in writing them.
T. Weeks
(A response to “Me Imperturbe”)
I know why you gave your gift to the Cantatrice,
And not to the movie hero slapstick serious.
A tide of fiery distress reignites a cindered soul
And that is why, oh Poet, I give a gift to you.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To a Certain Cantatrice”)
Like noontide supernovae,
So expire feral visions.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “On Journeys Through the States”)
Freedom?
What’s that?
The fevered lyric?
A hero’s verse?
Stained cotton?
And a firework?
Freedom is
The margin to try.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To the States”)
Behold! The Beginner.
Sacristan of Wonder.
Progeny of defeat.
The infant suckling of
the nurse log of fact.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Beginners”)
What is this attraction I feel?
This harness that binds me earthbound?
Gravity!
Identified…
Problem solved…
Yet my mastery is an illusion,
A legerdemain conjured by a name.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Beginning My Studies”)
Listen oh great poet,
Your vision was correct.
I found your biography
But I did not find you.
So where is your shrine,
The temple of your eidolon?
I’ve found it in the leaves
Of poetry that you cast.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “When I Read the Book”)
This far down the strata seem empty,
No large fossils, no remnants of culture,
Just layers of sedimentary affirmations,
Masses of single-cell precursors,
Ancestors of enlightened life.
Tell me geologists, you biologists
Does simple mean insignificant?
Do you discard these most basic layers?
Do you shame a mountain for its minerals?
Or abash the primate for the eukaryote?
Many impetuous actions have I taken
Many banal prose have I regurgitated
Many fatuous myths have I held dear
Each an organelle of a higher function
Exposed by the unforeseen tectonic event.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “For Him I Sing”)
Life Immense 