Life Immense

No wave tossed bells
Am I lost at sea?
No lighthouse warning
Have I lost the shore?
No rolling waves break
Is there no reef to run upon?
With no danger nigh
Which way ought I steer?

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Aboard at a Ship’s Helm”)

Wings spread, feet tucked
Slave and master of the breeze

Rise
Above trails, homes, lakes
Rise
Above trees, steeples, school yards
Rise
Above hills, cities, seas

Never to rise above the wind
I am the Man-of-War-Bird

-T. Weeks
(A response to “To the Man-of-War-Bird”)

Terrible news today
The View-Master clicks
A new image wheels into focus
In my face a new scene
Dramatic and beautiful
Stereoscopic and fleeting
The image makes me sad
I dread the next click

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Tears”)

Silence billows
Graceful plumes fill space
Tendrils render, inquisitive.
Excited, inspired, arrogant
I arrange my crude noises
Hoping to describe the quiet.
Silence evaporates.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life”)

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”)