Your help?

There are now over 200 poems here. Free to all. My work. More are on the way. If you wish to help me survive...please send a donation through Paypal, the Internet's easiest way to send money. You will need to have an account with Paypal in order to send money to me. I cannot accept donations any other way. I currently have had 1 sponsor, benefactor, or patron as a poet. Thank you for even thinking about helping me. My account at Paypal is the same as my email: rikwrybac(at)yahoo.com

Follow by Email

Thursday, May 19, 2016

The Librarian's Sternutation


Among the dusty stacks
the silence was entertained
by a stifled sneeze
that shook the evidence
of writers' obsessions.
Terrified, the young librarian
quickly rose from her search
to race to the front desk
where the Managing Librarian
kept a proper desk
thoroughly clean
except for one project.
An apology meant a demerit
in a neatly kept notebook
that would one day
be a part of the same library.
Instead, the young librarian
queried the presence of the dust
to a face whose mouth descended
below the depth's of Nemo's submarine
and wider than Jonah's whale.
The dust protects every living book
was a perplexing answer.
If we really cared about these books
responded the young librarian
we would remove the oxygen
from this room every night
sealing the library
in a cloud of nitrogen
so these words would never age.
One never lectured the Managing Librarian.
Well,
words only age as the best writers create
replacements
for new thesauri
and readers to find.
Outwitted, the young librarian
returned to the stacks
red-faced and fully aware
why the Managing Librarian
had achieved that position.
It would be years
before the young librarian
would rise to that exalted position
having spent a life in search
of new words
as the dust created a scale
as if the books were pangolins.

The cyberwarriors might never
timesuck the stacks of books preferring
to head away hangry for cakeage
wishing permadeath
for the new Managing Librarian.
At the least, this Managing Librarian
would be ready to downvote
any attack from a young librarian
who adorbs themselves so much
as to humblebrag in defense of cleanliness.
In this new Managing Librarian's time
t'ain't no dumbphone here
especially with an aptronym
like Mr. Manual Booker.


Barry G. Wick










Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Silence Costs


Golden silence. Really?
If people want to live
off the grid
the land will cost some bucks.
Cabins with all the trimmings
don't come cheap.
If there's a far beach,
life there might be fun.
Fish better be a number one
treat every morning, noon, and night.
It'll cost a hunk
to travel there.
Neighbors might complain
if all that's worn is a
leaf umbrella.
When the neighbor
complains a jeep
that's noisy
needs a new muffler,
it's gonna cost to give him
silence as a driver heavy-foots it
passed his trailer.
Twenty minutes at the muffler shop
is an easy bill and a half
except for retirees.
The old one had a hole
for five years.
The new muffler
spoke in low tones
that was almost a whisper,
Silence costs gold, cheapskate.”



Barry G. Wick





Thursday, May 12, 2016

Midnight in Iowa: for our military men and women overseas


I'm thinking of him
halfway around the world
a new friend
who is where he is
in a job that is what it is

I'm headed for bed
and I don't know
when he works
or when he sleeps
not that it matters

Men like him are there
doing jobs we don't
we pretend we don't
remember them
on days that we do

Bonsoir good knight 
on rough paths
on ground not ours
who dreams of sleep
in peaceful Iowa



Barry G. Wick  (((It turns out the original person to whom this poem was dedicated is not a real person and an attempted scam was tried on me...it was also a case of stolen valor and photos of a highly decorated Army soldier who wasn't real in so far as the person behind the pictures wasn't real.  He'd stolen the pictures and was pretending to be a decorated military man.  Ah, even in the age of the Internet, even the hard cases, like me, can be briefly taken in.  But I'm leaving the poem to stand for our military people overseas...who are in danger every day.  I honor them as they are as real as it gets.)))

May 2016

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Strawberries (after William Carlos Williams)

I have eaten
the strawberries
that were
in the refrigerator

There is no one
for whom
I should save them
or to whom
I may apologize
for my gobbling them
greedily with sugar

They were delicious
with sugar
that I should not have

I am alive this day
and don't care about
yesterday or tomorrow



Barry G. Wick
May 2016


Monday, May 9, 2016

First Conversation of the Day

Me: I just had a completely weird night of dreams. Can you help me?
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Certainly, just a moment. You don't mind if I smoke a cigar, do you?
Me: No, go ahead..
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: You know, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Now, go ahead.
Me: Why do I have toxic people in my dreams?
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Since all of the people in your dreams are really you, that means that some part of you is a toxic personality.
Me: How do I stop that part of me?
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Stop drinking Kool Aid. It was that weird blue color this morning?
Me: Yes.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Well, there you are. And since you don't mix it with real sugar you are giving yourself a double dose of toxic chemicals that remain in your body for a very long time.
Me: But I like Kool Aid.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: So how many times have you heard it?
Me: What's that?
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Don't drink the Kool Aid.
Me: But they are referring to the Reverend Jim Jones poisoning of over 900 people. He put cyanide in the Kool Aid.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: And you know what's in Kool Aid now?
Me: Just one packet of whatever flavor I grab and about a cup of sucralose sweetener in water. Though I mostly like the cherry flavor.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: These things will give you toxic characters in your dreams.
Me: It was only one night.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: So how much Kool Aid do you drink?
Me: A gallon or more a day.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Oh my. One glass after school would be enough.
Me: I'm 40 years or more passed school. Since I'm not far from the end anyway, what can it hurt?
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Well, you are having a conversation with you.
Me: You've got a point there.


Barry G. Wick

May 2016

you can't be here


you can't be here
     dear running through a forest
     beneath pudding stone
     the needled floor
     softening dreams
and why not
because I only want
to touch you
     above the pine
     ripped by lightning
     blackened
that would be impossible
because I won't allow
you to do that
     rock broken in half inch sheets
     strewn about its base
     madness for vampires
as these eyes
fill with sleep
nothing is fulfilled
     the cliff towers
     over a shallow cave
     partly blocked and dark
thinking about you
minutes melt
I am wasting my time




Barry G. Wick

Friday, May 6, 2016

May I May You?

Be warned
to stand back

When thrown
the month of May
tossed around like a dirty ball
could hit
causing damage
that changes life

There are flowers
new and bursting in color
petals are flying in every direction
hand grenades
beneath breeze tossed bows

Grass unseen in winter
now needs the violence
of a mower
a few good yanks
to start or fail

There is love
that hides to suddenly
send its hot steam
that cooks all the sanity
from a winter-fed brain

While the search goes on
be leery of hidden corners
where new eyes hide around
viciously blinking
their lonely code
as a bump sends books
upon the ground
to grant the players
a hesitant touch
of crimson-faced dreams
in darkened rooms
with torn sheets ablaze

Dramatic as all this is
cunning patience
proofs its dough
in pump-swelled chests
where bravery meets
it's frozen match
in arid glares
displaying full knowledge
of the lusty game
begun with traps
behind the needs availed
in wilted blossoms
with chocolate coats
on red fruit coils

One tug on the rigging
to start the fall of May
as it spills its marvels

everyone plays with marvels

May I May you?



Barry G. Wick