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Monday, August 31, 2015

Upon the Rising of His Prince

Awakened from a nap
the slow gradient of thought
pitches forward from dreams
to view the court

from six now to five counted
swimming peasants
of this variety
not easily seen after
only three days of this monarchy
spotted on the bottom
a bit of orange fin
now still
slightly hidden by a tube
of rising bubbles

while others float and frolic
without innertubes or
pop-top cans of Meade

one minute leads to three
just on the edge of the dais
with visions of nets and garbage cans
whirling about this throne
of aches and haze
for the King

oh brilliant light of creation
shines and up (it) RISES!
from three minutes
of a nap just the same
as (its) liege lord

now six counted

upon the news
His Majesty rises
from his afternoon retreat
with no attendant in sight
to move the week's leavings
from the castle
to the bin at the edge
of the drawbridge
thence to the curb

for Tuesday be not
Solent Green day
'tis not made of fish

whence on the morrow, good friend,
the roughshod vassal shall dismount
from his hungry white and monstrous stead
with gaping arse
which consumeth the remnants
of the weekly celebrations
sans one courtly guppie
crowned a Prince most valiant
for 'tis lived to joust
in armored contests
of fishy (manliness?)

oh dear gODD

Barry G. Wick

Saturday, July 18, 2015

The Fish: The Magnificent Three Dozen

These purchased fish never had a chance:
sold as “feeder” fish they would have been
lunch for a turtle or something larger
than themselves in someone else's tank,
hiding from the lumbering monster
that would devour them with toothy mouth.

Three dozen came home on a small budget
from a filthy tank filled with the dead
sucked into the screen at the back
of an overcrowded pick-up racing through
a watery canyon of hell they never thought
they'd be a part of from the day of frydom.

In these first days of glorious frenzy in clear space
beyond their wildest dream should they have a dream
of something clean they swim in fifty-five gallons
of new, un-peed haven as it came from the well,
which sat for a week disgorging its chlorinated murder
before these little hearts burst racing glass to glass.

As it comes to all who trek across the filtered gravel,
death, dismembering, eaten, picked-at, broke-bellied,
they float lifeless beyond their mouth-chewed horrors.
What began as the Magnificent Three Dozen
has fallen into a single digit family pecking
black gravel in search of fallen, netted heroes.

Expectations of those beyond this page may demand
the poet make some comparison via metaphor
to their slippery lives as readers, blistering to and fro
in furious pursuit of bits of falling flake
that rain from a lighted sky as they dash to pluck
the tiny planks of life-giving sustenance from air:

To hell with that.

Barry G. Wick


Now that you've been lulled to sleep by piles of puppies and the antics of cats, please remember that people are being murdered on the streets and in jails by your employees who are supposed to serve and protect; that you've been poisoned by corporations for profit, irradiated since childhood by government nuclear tests mostly under the direction of corporations for profit; that you've been forced to pay for wars over the control of oil for super market bags and gas for your automobile; that soldiers aren't defending the Constitution when they're killing at the behest of corporations in another country for the control of precursors for plastic bottles; that you've been lied to by politicians over and over who blame and shame some other group of people in order to get your vote so they can take graft and feel powerful; that somewhere children and adults need food that is being thrown into dumpsters at your local supermarket; that people who speak up about these problems are vilified and demonized by large media corporations; that somewhere, someone is making news that doesn't rate the attention of the News At Six news teams; that you are blind to the words of poets and soothsayers who speak truth to power; that you are lulled to sleep by piles of puppies and the antic of cats so you'll forget everything you've read here...and much more that needs your attention.

Thursday, June 25, 2015

Up in the night

The dark hours soon shed light
as day climbs up and down ladders in the sky
Each day this beaming coat thins
combed from the heavens
as white hairs fall from an evening chin
in the presence of mister yawn
like a sacred trumpet sounds
through a star drained sieve
applauded by fingers that only
scratch away the surface of dreams
yet to float in the effluent
of light from a poorly draped window
No--this dream that heads for bed
swaying in breezes of solemnity
as appreciation for this slender presence
soon to gather itself
at the foot of a soft alter
to strip some truths
from the body of time

Barry G. Wick

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Vladimir Putin: In Love with Songs

There are days when I miss the old words
the old songs from my youth
when we showed the West what
Russia could do in space
with our huge land
with the strength of our resolve

Even now I often start my day
with singing the old Soviet Anthem
and The Internationale
They're better than any old western anthem
and that horror The Star Spangled Banner
It's all about war and bombs bursting
and it can't be sung because of its range
If only I could get the West to hear the words
and hum the melodies I whistle on the way
to meetings with my subordinates
and a few ordinary citizens 

          Arise ye workers from your slumbers
            Arise ye prisoners of want
            For reason in revolt now thunders
           And at last ends the age of cant.
           Away with all your superstitions
           Servile masses arise, arise
           We’ll change henceforth the old tradition
           And spurn the dust to win the prize.

           So comrades, come rally
           And the last fight let us face
           The Internationale unites the human race.

I remember all that leather and polish
as we knocked on the doors of the fallen
those who failed to get the message
who turned against our Mother
The State! The State!
We cry for you Mother
so fun to see our enemies faces explode
on the floor and their knelt in their shame

           United forever in friendship and labor,
           Our mighty republics will ever endure.
           The Great Soviet Union will live through the ages.
           The dream of a people their fortress secure.

          Long live our Soviet motherland,
          Built by the people's mighty hand.
          Long live our people, united and free.
          Strong in our friendship tried by fire.
          Long may our crimson flag inspire,
          Shining in glory for all men to see.

Oh yes
my anthems soar for me as I think of my people
and their hopes and desires
Screw Marx and Lenin
I love my limousines and all the goodies
I get to own
but the songs
the songs of my youth and spirit
they are all about the power of people
the will of people to mold
their unified futures
together in search of a perfect world
where all get a small share
and I get most of it

Barry G. Wick

Monday, June 15, 2015

For the Longest Time

For the longest time nothing hurt
This is not talking about the kid life
with scraped knees or even the broken arm
or leg or stitches from some bigger than normal
cut on a finger slammed in a car door
or the knife you took out to play with
that suddenly became a knife
when it had been a toy before the gush

For the longest time crossing the street
was done with the light
never the jaywalking that others did
sure getting away with something like that
was possible in a short moment
when the brain says oh why not
and sure everything was pretty much
by the book as far as parents were concerned

The pain in this conversation isn't the kind
of pain that lasts a few days from a pulled
muscle playing footfall or the bruise
from falling on the playground
where you cried in front of your buddies
and never would do that again
as long as you lived until you found out
you were gonna live long and things wear

Now here comes the day when the morning
sun is way passed it's prime
when the afternoon is closing in
and you're sixty something waking up
when everything feels like a hammer
was used by all the black-eyed characters
in those dreams that stick beyond eyes open
the kind of dreams where walking doesn't hurt

The knee first or maybe the back and for some
it's a joint in the finger that goes raging
like a rabid dog howling foam
every direction just waiting to get shot
maybe its the cramps in a calf or stiffness
in that first knee and then the notice
everything is screaming at from toes to hair
when eyebrows drop down with a wince

These are the years beyond the time
when there was no pain that old people
talked about and others didn't hear their words
until those words slammed into an elbow
like a car door opened just as the bike
is ridden into it full speed ahead
the day beginning when every thought
drags these bear attacks just to the toilet then the sink

It all gets slow like the dark piece of cloth
paused in thought as a bug on the carpet
stared at it for ten minutes just to make sure
no legs are moving no fingers moving
when the big toe on the left foot
starts throbbing to no radio song that just stepped
on a knitting needle which jumped up
through the ceiling in the basement

Old men say old age isn't for sissies
but maybe all this happens to a sissy
not in the too prissy kind kind where things were
softer in every moment of that softer or juicy
peaches kind of life when everything tasted sweet
now it's here and what has got to be done
has to be done or it going to look pretty grim
around the edges here or smell of urine

When the kitchen is in front of the pains
even standing can be just awful on the hips
dishes don't do themselves and first meds
gotta be downed before anything remotely
caloric slips passed the tongue into the genuine
pit of a painful stomach that hurts beyond
the first fart of the day when it seemed relief
but didn't last long enough kind of pain

So maybe expectations of these horrors
would end huh and while being dragged
though these events wasn't a first choice
in reading it sorta got some attention
that something worthy would end this
parade of dog teeth sinking into live bone
oh please do walk away painless because
nobody wants this ever ever for the longest time

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, June 4, 2015

Fashion Show Gossip in this Kitchen

Look at her beg for the moment
while she twirls around elegantly
Eyes follow this babe
from heel to hump
flat for the fryer and handle

Certainly salted
under pressure for an answer
though the entire performance
had wandered away
in the middle of this gaze

Why is this question posed
in regard to this ground rump
in pink armor
over the spell of a minute
when pleasantries bash loneliness

A hamburger on the stove
is worth more description
than raw memory
as it wisps away
as the phantom of hunger

Fans and camera clicks
in a cycle of burners
up and down to sear the flesh
of one or more cattle
that stomp beneath a spatula

This performance wins the day
from many others who
didn't have the chance
an aloof steer in a brown gown
prancing for the bulls

Here buns on the catwalk
cross a room in review
in and out of nostrils
also the subject of titters
beneath a dark pan covered

Barry G. Wick