Listen to your voice

 Listen to your voice

Those hangers hold my clothes, as I held pain,

yet dripping garments lighten as they dry

like storm-held anguish, now a gentle rain.

Six cotton angels summoning some wind;

soft signal hastening to stop the why

and listen to your voice, first time, again.

What sounds we heard, the rumbling of a train

and river-tears that darkened as we cried

like storm-held anguish, now a gentle rain.

Embedded in a pillow, heads had lain

so sweet asleep, then same awake; I try

to listen to your voice, first time, again.

I dreamed some bird--Egret, or leggy Crane

flew down to me, no sense of it, so why?

Abjure all storm-held anguish, feel the rain.

As day reveals us slowly, so the wane

of sleeplessness and pondering a sigh;

We rise to love and silencing all pain,

let go the storm-held anguish, feel the rain.

7.16.13  In celebration & memory of my son,

David Scott Weeks.

The Mourners & Other Poems for My Son

The Mourners

Headlong, we burrowed into grief,
coiling downward through hard fact
until we arrived in soft country,
laden with gracious worms
who greeted us warmly, true,
but with a tentative hold.

We told them we had expected
a lovely sea journey,
but they said, not this time, not yours.

So upward again, spiraling mightily
through layers of packed sand,
and when that was done,

Breaking the surface with command,
we sought raw light, raw air,
and slept as one.  

6.14.13

How it's going

You asked. Well,
it's different every day,
yet with that one
sullen note playing
in the background.
Not at all a constant hell.

I rise through disbelief to task.

6.16.13

Shadows

We minimize ourselves
in search of other,
and I can't say this
very clearly...
We hang in shadows
with the loss,
and I'm the mother,
journeying alone, it seems,
but not--
arriving there between,
in time, the river
and together.

6.19.13

Nothing important (Senryu)

I would miss seeing
these simple things--that fine spray
on morning green--all.

6.23.13

 Somnolence (Sonnet)

Just let me sleep, but not a sleep of death:
I want to know, to know, but not to ask;
Don't seek! Just grasp acceptance of last breath,
And hold that dual peace--so why a task?

Some spirit rides in tandem, yet I feel
Un-sexed by death, existing on a plane
So close to you, but no one’s at the wheel,
And moving forward, yes, against the grain!

Back to stripping self, and what I meant:
Not prurient, that sex, but feeling bare,
Say newly barren, childless, so I can’t
Just name or label this, I did it—there!

A token rush to June and wedding joy?
I’ll take that path with ragweed--found my ploy.

6.22.13

Morning--Gray and White

Too soon for color,
though I might fake it, you know.
But watching those wings!

6.20.1

June

It’s 67, clear at 4 a.m.,
A misty cloud is partnering the moon,
I woke to verities, that “who I am,”
Then fed my cats and birds—and called it—June.

6.26.13

Where was I?

Where was I?—what page?—you left us cold!
No word and nothing indicating this!
I felt those pregnant silences unfold
And saw “the child,” “why the child?” Kiss.

Can’t remember where I put that cream
Or why you didn’t answer when I called!
Your birthday near, but inwardly, my dream
Foretelling your departure; nothing solved.

Continuing this thread, I’m dusting books;
No time before with chaos swirling ‘round.
The space to finish up, yet no one looks:
You want my eyes and heart, but not a sound.

That long grass trembles in a gentle rain.
My surfaces are clean, beneath the pain.

Poetry: Kay D. Weeks 

Shall We Gather at the River?  By Denee Barr

Day & Night at Green Lake (Haiku Series)

 

Down at that green lake,

two geese sent a soft greeting,

but we missed intent.

 

When did you first know

we would continue as friends?

Did my smile tell you?

 

“What’s in it for me?” 

“Nothing, really—and for you?”

Silence, each…you smiled.

Looking up, then down,

I sensed possibilities-- 
Cloud-and-sky-dizzy! 

*****

Grass-dotted blankets

with bold lovers embracing.

Oh look! A striped cat!

That star you pulled down

blossomed into pink flowers!

Let's dance until dawn.

Kay Weeks

Poetry/Photos

All of these photos were taken at Lake Centennial

in Columbia, Maryland --A public, community lake

that draws people in to walk, picnic, talk, boat, and

watch birds most of the year. I have been there in the snow. 

3.6.13

hocoblogs@@@

Lost & Found (with Trudy Babchak)

I found myself awhile ago
between crisp pages
of that book, still unread,
and when I saw your note
--the one inscribing the gift--
it took me back to a time
I thought I could forget,
(we never met again)
but now it seems I did not,
because there they were--
dry ink as if wet--
silent, sweet, and flowing
without artifice or intent,
and good as Nature's gold.

 

What you said to me then

suddenly became now,
and I heard you saying,
"Yes, I am here,"
then felt a gentle pull,
like astonished regret,
then a decisive tug
and I knew who you were
and who I am, your arms
fully extended, reaching,
and then closing,
and I accepting all,
as if you were never gone.

On 2.28.13

Poem: Kay Weeks

Painting: Trudy Babchak.

London and the day-long tour...

 The British Museum!

I saw this runner after a cab ride to Tate Modern.

Montague Hotel chandeliers.

Another street view out a cab window. What fun!

This man  seems overpowered by the shadow.

Tate Modern...with view of the bookstore.

Stonehenge, Windsor Castle, and Bath....by Coach.  Review published by Viator.

Cold at Stonehenge. So many people--very quiet.

This coach tour was perfect in every way.  Of course, Stonehenge had to be the highlight for me...that sense of time and the wind whistling out there in an empty field...the crows. I did not use the audio, but preferred to let the stones speak to me. Our guide had given us ample information about their history and meaning.

Great interpretation of archeological remains.

Bath was wonderful as well, with its Roman influence: I wanted to stay and savor it a little longer.

One view of the enormous castle, with mossy stone.

I have visited Edinburgh so know the dual role of a castle as military fortification and a residential palace, and its additive nature over time. The exterior was more compelling for me.

The view from the rampart was stunning on a cold and misty day...most people wearing black. This young woman was talking on her cell phone, providing--in my view--a fascinating intersection of past and present.

It was hard to believe he was real--so still.

This short feature is dedicated to my friend, April Baer, who gave me the initial idea for this trip to London; found the cozy and elegant Hotel; and helped make arrangements for a Classic Single. I will never forget the experience in London and beyond...and Room 304 in the Montague Hotel. Thanks, April!

Now, I want to thank Wendy Webb, who led me on a 4-mile walk into significant portions of London! And Caroline and David Gill for meeting us at the British Museum. Unforgettable!


Kay Weeks: Content & Photos
On February 26, 2013

The new language of love

I woke to burning words;
And all bird-song had ceased.
Then, somewhere inside, I felt stirrings
Of a need much deeper than decrease,
(That last sentence may sound odd)
But a kind of soft and loving
Goading to open my door
To cold and take some forty steps
Into my sullen woods—so I did.
 

And, to my astonishment,
It didn’t take long
To find my impenetrable heart
Lodged in the body
Of one quietly standing,
Watching, eye-embracing…

 

No need to say!
She was both calm and alert—
This certain deer I deemed
Right then and there, divine.
I turned, then slowly back to house,
and closed the door.

Inside, I opened
to a kind of warm peace,
Nourished by seemingly nothing,
But now accepting silence
As the new language of love
—and mine.

 
Kay Weeks, 2.5.13 and shared on 2.9.2013

The Gray-Bird Gift

I pulled that small gray bird

out of the sky, my dear,

and gave it to you with unmitigated joy.

It stayed calm in your open hand,

then began a kind of skittish rhythm:

A quick-step-dance, grounded in fear. 

I had never seen a bird fear-dancing,

But, when younger,

I recall feeling a little this way

when cornered for a kiss,

but eventually gave in.

Those birds!   
Always so skittery   
on the wind for seed!

Anyway, back to the story:

Just after the bird regarded

your face, looking upward,

and then at me while I was looking at you,

it seemed to say:

Why did you take my wings,

my joy, and give them away?

That’s not your choice!

We looked at each other,

I mean the one with the bird

in hand, and then both of us at the bird,

both delighted at that rare surety of voice!

Not a sound, a word—we knew.

Free! And so…

You let the small gray bird go,

and, to my complete surprise,

leaned forward—still planted firmly

on the ground to proffer a hug,

that some might even call

a brief embrace— then quickly walked,

Then faster, ran down that path,

it almost seemed, flew away from me...

1.7.2013 

Poem and Photos:  Kay Weeks