Upon diverging highways we all depart
Our trajectories and lives awaiting
For this brief weekend we overlapped
In a dance of ocean foam and bonfire splash
We laughed at how it used to be
Years made simple by younger eyes
Now grown we peer over walls
Brick and mortar politic and parenting
God reinforcing the ramparts
Forested Tillamook highway passing below
We already long for the next reunion
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Look Down Fair Moon”)
Waterlogged horizon sags over the waves
Droplets crowd parked windshields
Merging and running in irregular lines
The mass of the clouds ambles north
Gray trees across the bay turn green
A hummingbird hums in the overcast
-T. Weeks
(“O Tan-Faced Prairie-Boy”)
There’s a watery ball of iron and silicon
Hugging the knees of an auspicious sun
Every time it goes around we count
Why do we count? I don’t know
If we lose count it’s okay, we start over
One time something happened on the ball
When it was a little more than halfway around
A little more than halfway must be important
-T. Weeks
(A response to “World Take Good Notice”)
Driving to Happy Valley
East of the city
That’s what the signs say
And the gps
There’s a Starbucks there
And an Office Depot
Houses with roofs
At least one cemetery
And a hospital
All in Happy Valley
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Race of Veterans”)
Hiding there beneath the pixels
Swims an answer
Dark and brooding
Swaying in locomotion
I cast and come up empty
But was that a nibble?
It’s there, I know it is
It’s been down there for years
Once upon a time a friend almost caught it
But then it got away
Or so he says
My line sinks into the deepness
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Not Youth Pertains to Me”)
The sun is setting in this room full of pillows
Couches and blankets marshaled askew
The TV is silent
While the dishwasher sloshes out its melody
Static like starfish this room pretends a form
Creeping on tiny tendrils slower than sight
On days and weeks and years
A room frozen in motion
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Ethiopia Saluting the Colors”)
Fancy dreams and silly words
Dance around fickle motivation
I could I should I will… some day
After one more hollow round
Of this stupid game on my phone
-T. Weeks
(A response to “The Artilleryman’s Vision”)
Sitting on the countertop, cool quartz below me
Sharing space with old dishes and pickled beats
Silent house echoing the burn of the jet flying overhead
No voices no feet
The house is empty but only because I am in it
-T. Weeks
(A response to “I Saw Old General at Bay”)
Humming asphalt yields to a growling trail
Daisies and tall grass crowding the narrow way
Convalescent pines lean to peak in the windows
Of our small truck bouncing and banking
We look out, miles into the thickness of the woods,
Recording light and sounds with eyes only
Services long fallen silent, checked at the door,
Tallying likes with each smile we share
-T. Weeks
(“Over the Carnage Rose Prophetic a Voice”)
Still riding in my painted coffin
Trundling along an unseen rode
Focused on walls painted bright
Clean lines and right angles
Directions for happiness guaranteed
Meanwhile I roll
Feeling the bumps and hearing the wind
Something big lives outside this box
It’s not like the pictures inside
Outside is unsure and mysterious
I’m curious but dare not peek
No lock keeps me here
Only the familiar comfort
Painted on the inside of this coffin
As I move safely towards my grave
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Dirge for Two Veterans”)
Life Immense 