Life Immense

Our plane dips down into the clouds
Gray sky-foam clumping at a shore
Tiny windows leave room for dull eyes
To clumsily stab at the mist
But they never make a dent

Then the currents shift
Clouds slide back into another sky
And we see

Dark hills and proud ridges
Glaciers twist like untamed sinews
White whisps gossip with the trees
And snicker about our butter-knife eyes
Our inadequacy to comprehend
This unfathomable impenetrable
Dark pulsing Lovecraftean ocean
From our cotton-poly dock

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Bravo, Paris Exposition“)

The cats whole body yawns
For the sixth time in an hour
Stretching it’s will
To get off the couch for a minute
And whimpers for its bowl to be filled
Does it even like this food
An irrelevant question
That full-claw effort to standup
Deserves a treat
At least it thinks so
Leave me alone cat
Your whining is interrupting my relaxation

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Long, Long Hence“)

On a still summer evening
Bullfrogs soak in a pond
Swelling the sky and trees
With their approving syncopation

There is no smoother pond
Croaks one to the others
There is no brighter moon
Croaks one to the others
There are no dearer companions
Croaks one to the others
There is no finer chorus
Croaks one to the others

And on they went
Strumming the chord of that still night

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Old Age’s Ship & Crafty Death’s“)

Across the field
Someone walks
Discarded leash hanging in one hand
Best friend bounding across the grass
Both lapping up the morning
They’ve taken this route a thousand times
At first tied together
To walk together
Now together
They enjoy the same park
And the same path
And a whole new walk

-T. Weeks
(A response to “An Ended Day“)

Fat bodies and starving souls
Drift empty-eyed from station to station
Nonplussed by the selection of pizza toppings
They’re hungry for something new
For something to change
Anything
They wait in line for their number to be called
Ready for the plate
Credit card in hand
There’s nothing to fill

T. Weeks
(A response to “The Pallid Wreath“)

Sheltering shelters within shelters
And so on into the secret parts
Lost for safekeeping
Shut in for housekeeping
Painted dangerous by mystery
So let’s throw them all open
Door after door together

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Apparitions”)

To the old man
I’ll someday be
Here’s my gift to you
A legacy

-T. Weeks
(A response to “MY 71st Year“)

Diaphragms bellow and preen
Phrases turn round and round
Muffled time shuffles toward the exits
Did the writer dig for these lines
Or did they exhume him
Their relevance and my ignorance
Spar through the third act
Then laugh then embrace

-T. Weeks
(A response to “On, on the Same, Ye Jocund Twain!“
After seeing Major Barbara at The Armory)

Swept in the current
We all feel it
Swimming for shore
Each our own

-T. Weeks
(In response to “Good-Bye My Fancy“)

The way I use this town
Depends on where I live
Stop lights and grocers
Hibernated in my blind spot
Until that rush and splash
Washed away sheet rock
And comfortable routine
Now disrupted and displaced
We stare out strange windows
Strangers in our own town

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Lingering Last Drops”)