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Thursday, April 17, 2014

Cereal Murder


Good morning bowl, good morning spoon,
good morning milk, I sing your tune.
Upon the box of oaties sweet,
law in black words quite small, but neat.
From snakes of York law words with charm
protecting them if they do harm.
So now, I'll eat my breakfast, dear,
as I feel sure the poison's near.
Protect me, someone, from all that's bad
in my red bowl: this food I had.


Barry G. Wick

Monday, March 31, 2014

Writer and Editor Russell Jaffe runs the Strange Cage poetry reading bacchanal in Iowa City near-by where I now live in Coralville.   He edits an on-line poetry magazine he calls "USA"...and he's published one of my newest poems.  Here's the link:

http://www.russelljaffeusa.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/THE-BIG-TUNA1.pdf

Monday, December 23, 2013

Seven Rules from Thick Air




If you have to protect yourself
then you have created the enemy

If you have to love yourself
then you turned away all who could love you

If you have to feed yourself
then you have taken food from others

If you have to go somewhere
then you have never invited enough people to visit you

If you feel surrounded by uneducated people
then you have never told them what you know

If you have no one to touch
it is because you have refused to be touched

If you cry when you are lonely
it is because you never dried the tears of lonely others



Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick all rights reserved


Monday, December 2, 2013

The Communal Campfire


The night surrounds us
and we are not alone
A mother feeds a child
A father worries over debt
Someone has pain
in their back
in their legs
in the emptiness of their soul
The enemy is just over the rise
Workers fulfill their duties
or ignore them
 
This darkness
might as well be a cave
water drips
bats fly
insects crawl through slime
 
The fire just started my refrigerator
burns inside four bulbs
and sends me across the worlds
to where you are
I wish you'd finish
decorating my loincloth
I'm feeling a bit chilly
sitting on this folding rock
listening to Vivaldi
 
Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

The Windows


I'm likely to move
and don't care at this point
what the world shows
on these two
dirty cave wall transparencies
 
Here the branches
of the crabapple
and the spruce
to the south of the house
with the sun behind them
an octagonal squirrel
cast shadows
through which
I can see better
to the outside.
Yes, the shadows
help me see
though a window
mottled by grime
 
What will layers of shadow
do for you
my love
help me see inside of you
Does your soul wave
it's language at me
the leaves the branches the sun
Paste me up outside
and look at my darkness
I rain
even on sunny days

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

The Legend of Sallie Brown and Ben


Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.
The seats were hard, the engine chugged,
Ben made a strange companion.
He was her dog and by her side
he stayed throughout the trip,
but when she died, he'd ride each day
and n'er let out a yip.

 
Now Sallie was a real bright gal, she worked for Lawyer Mizer

a listening each day to client problems Sallie grew the wiser

She learned about the crimes and such, mistakes that people made

so she lived what seemed a nun's life and never really strayed.

Her garden bloomed next to the creek, the water pure and clear

her wee small house with surrounding deck and garden ever dear.


Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.
The seats were hard, the engine chugged,
Ben made a strange companion.
He was her dog and by her side
he stayed throughout the trip,
but when she died, he'd ride each day
and n'er let out a yip.


Each day at noon just down the block in the old Black Hills Cafe

Sittin' alone at a corner table, Sallie lunched this way

a piece of bread, a bowl of soup and tea to wash it down

then back to work above the bank, this was Sallie Brown.

Not a minute too late and always prompt Sallie at the typer,

Puttin' lawyer's words in rows so neat upon the cotton paper.


Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.
The seats were hard, the engine chugged,
Ben made a strange companion.
He was her dog and by her side
he stayed throughout the trip,
but when she died, he'd ride each day
and n'er let out a yip.

 
The years went by, each day seemed long but Sallie n'er complained

and one day after work, her foot stepped wrong, her ankle badly sprained

upon the curb at 7th and main she sat there cryin' lightly

when all at once a milk white pup to her side plopped down quite spritely.

So she waited a while and no one came a lookin' for the pup

he looked so cute, big paws and such, Sallie just picked him up.



Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.
The seats were hard, the engine chugged,
Ben made a strange companion.
He was her dog and by her side
he stayed throughout the trip,
but when she died, he'd ride each day
and n'er let out a yip.



Over to the station where the Crouch line came, Sallie with her pup in tow.

They waited and waited for the engine to come while her heart began to glow.

“This little dog,” she thought, “has found me just in time,”

“I was lonely and lost, my days were the same, and me just in my prime.

“So, little pup, it's just you and me, I think I'll call you Ben.”

And up to the canyon the little train chugged where home was up till then.
 

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.
The seats were hard, the engine chugged,
Ben made a strange companion.
He was her dog and by her side
he stayed throughout the trip,
but when she died, he'd ride each day
and n'er let out a yip.



Raising rabbits, chickens, ducks and such, Ben and Sallie ate like kings,

She worked all day with him beside to supplement life with other things.

The lawyer paid a little more than most in that Black Hills day

his clients were the cream of this distant town and all would fully pay.

One day, a sculptor came to visit about a mountain large

Sallie 'ud chat with the wife 'bout dogs drinkin' tea from cups so large.


Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.
The seats were hard, the engine chugged,
Ben made a strange companion.
He was her dog and by her side
he stayed throughout the trip,
but when she died, he'd ride each day
and n'er let out a yip.
 
 
For 50 years her fingers flew across the typewriter keys

the sadness came when her beloved dogs would pass next to her knees.

All tolled there were 8 white dogs each with the name of Ben

out there in the garden with rows so straight seven buried now and then

Then one day some years beyond a neighbor called to check

upon old Sallie age 92 her body dead a-layin' upon the deck.


Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.
The seats were hard, the engine chugged,
Ben made a strange companion.
He was her dog and by her side
he stayed throughout the trip,
but when she died, he'd ride each day
and n'er let out a yip.



Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

Know a musician looking for words?  This is an odd poem for me to write...but it might fit some musician's tune.

 

Monday, November 4, 2013

We Go

(for Erin Wagman and all who knew and loved her)


When there is no more room
in our mother's womb
we go to meet our fathers
because it makes no sense
to stay in comfort
when we feel adventure
pull us forward

When we feel the pull of the world
it is often at the hand
that helps us cross the street
for the first time
It may be only a finger we hold
and when we reach the other side
we let go for a second
until the familiar voice
says to come
take my hand
come with me

The older we get
the less the hand is there for us
we've learned to walk to school
to see our friends
the other adventurers
with whom we grow
and get to know
their smiles
their happy voices
their worlds beyond
the houses where
comfort kept us safe

Soon adventures become challenges
some we conquer
and some we cannot
some have no end
These put clouds in our minds
the fogs at the edge of thought
at the edge of reason
across the street
wider than any street
we dodge monsters in traffic
where we never seem
to find the next curb up
or any hand to hold

This is where some of us
find ourselves
reach for broken hands
only to let go of all of them
We reach for anything
that will give us support
or reach for something
that often might be
cunning, baffling, and powerful
that won't let go
when we want to go

then
we just go
we just go
where we have not been before
to seek a respite
from the journey
to no side of the street
when we no longer want
our feet on the ground
any hands that help
and an end to the darkness

we go
where we cannot
feel the tears on our face
where we no longer
want to voice our pain
where we imagine
a comfort that surpasses
everything
we cannot understand

We go
even when we know
that all we leave behind
is the empty space
where others loved us

here and now...
we
go
into each others'
empty spaces
where you left us
with tears and doubt
where we try to fill each other
with a higher power
we cannot understand
and hope you've found

on the corner
across the street
is the playground
filled with stars
from where you once
came to us
and now return

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick
ownership and publication rights
granted to the Wagman and Vickers families
in perpetuity.