The predator stalks her prey
Gut burning, muscles weary tense
For her effort, enough for today
The grazer, standing ever searching
Day upon day under murderous sun
For his effort, enough for the hour
The worker, sitting constricting
Snared in task, indentured to praise
For the effort, enough for a poem.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “France [the 18th Year of these States”)
Against a wide western sky
Restless feral sage meanders
No roads, worn or otherwise,
Left by zealous trailblazers
Mark the sure route beyond.
Barren muscular bluffs rise
To shorten the horizon
Offering blithe discouragement,
Caution to the unorthodox
Of ambiguous fortunes ahead.
Lonely is the path of the pioneer
And lonelier yet the destination
For how shall you recognize
A place no one has ever seen?
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Pioneers! O Pioneers!”)
Outrage becomes a commodity
When information is dirt cheap
Understanding is always scarce
-T. Weeks
Clank clank
Apartments flicker by
Clank clank
A lonely fence vigilant
Clank clank
In a tunnel and out
Clank clank
A man, hands in pockets
Clank clank
Rocks, moss, embankment
Clank clank
Ceramic seagulls alight
Clank clank
Flittering flag in a cul-de-sac
Clank clank
Tree marshaled trail
Clank clank
Electric blue auto shop
Clank clank
Limp lobes gaugeless
Clank clank
Downtown arms open wide
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XVII. BIRDS OF PASSAGE”)
Dry sand sifts
Finding the cracks
Between cupped fingers
Sand underwater
An apparition
Flowing heedless away
Damp sand
Piled molded
A vision, a castle, a medium
-T. Weeks
I see the object before me
The form, the menace, the color.
A familiar word surfaces.
I’ve seen many similar objects.
Cactus.
The object I see and the word
Tumble together
In gleeful juxtaposition.
Losing track, I ask myself,
Which is which?
Then I remember.
Silly me.
Metaphors can be tricky like that.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XVI: A Song of the Rolling Earth)
I must be everywhere,
Mulled the boy,
When I arrive where I’m going
I always find myself there.
I must know everything,
He chuckled,
I’m not aware of anything
That I don’t know about.
It felt good to be so important.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XV: A Song for Occupations”)
Deep within the ant hill
In a burrowed branch of earth
A bustling knot of workers
Brush assuring antennae –
Behold our sophistication,
Structures skyward reaching
500 times our own height,
Sprawling highways snaking
across the earth we see,
Surely the queen of queens
Has deemed it so.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XIV: Song of the Redwood-Tree”)
Did I get the bird
Because his life was at stake
Or his calendar?
-T. Weeks
I see a large green sign ahead,
Lonely structure by a lonely highway,
Bold message in white reflective letters:
Coffin Road.
1 mile.
At my velocity less than a minute passes
Then the exit to Coffin Road passes.
I speed on towards Kennewick.
My company has grown.
Three new companions help the time pass.
Whose coffin? Whose road? Whose sign?
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XIII: Song of the Exposition)
Life Immense 