Unfulfilled

It is said that

we are all the characters

in our shimmering dreams

I've often wondered

if there are connections

with other sleepers

long threads of gold

spun between those

in beds on couches on buses

worlds apart

because I can't explain

why I always awake

disappointed

in humanity

not getting the job

or the break I've always wanted

so I could feel successful

not dissatisfied with results

after walking

through an unfriendly city

where pigeons eat a drunk's vomit

on a gray sidewalk

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

The New Spring

“I have never considered a difference of opinion in

politics, in religion, in philosophy, as a cause for

withdrawing from a friendship.”  ---Thomas Jefferson


My old friend is no longer my friend.
It was going to happen.
It's happened before with others.
I have been in winter with my country
and the people around me
since I was frozen just out of the womb.

You cannot support the north winds of hate,
those who freeze me
from my human rights
and expect to get my warmth,
my inner sun.
I've read enough about
my homosexuality
to know others haven't.
They prefer to maintain
their ignorance of my reality,
my being,
while they hold on to a few lines
from a two thousand year old tome
that has wrapped the tombs
of millions who were denied and died.

The new books know something new.
The Sunlight of the Universe
has made revelations
to us, to me:
that I am what I am.

To keep me from my flowers,
from the budding of my branches,
is to follow an evil season
to maintain an ignorance
that light, the Power's Light,
has difficulty penetrating.

I shall be the last generation
to hold the hatred inside of me.
It breaks up even now
like old ice melts in the spring
in shaded areas
when after days of warmth
a few sheltered shapes
end their cold, impenetrable dominance.

My friendship is not for sale
with a smile or a memory
of what we were as children.
This is now.   This is me.
I am forever changed.

What I have wanted and needed
was denied to me even when
I thought I had found it.

I gave my love
and found the cold,
this world built around those I loved
and around me.

The walls melt.
The dams of ice now belong to the few
who remain stuck in their frozen beliefs.
I am thawed in a new spring,
the kind that never ends.



Copyright (c) 2013 by Barry G. Wick  All rights reserved

In Your Own Skin

((This poem spoken by the author))

Whose skin were you going to wear?

The prophet is no longer available.

There have been plenty of them

and most have grown much bigger

than the flesh they wore in life.

Poet has been over done

since so many made the ultimate

statement by jumping ship

or outliving their youth

when they were passionate.

Parent was given up some time back

when the word queer attached itself

to a torn psyche full of guilt

now past history of torn rainbows

but still it's what was learned.

Protestant seems to fit

without all the religious baggage

carried on a long train

full of previous nailers who now yell

something disrespectful in a crowded tomb.

So, now to run out of “P” words

means a start where the alphabet

separates itself from grunts

and gestures with means unknown

though some were wrinkled when worn.

To look at these hands that pound

out a simple language

with gaps that search

a forgetful noggin for the “right” dictation,

the scars belong here to no other.

So what is found is owned:

a cloth of memory that surrounds

all that has pretended and accepted

this year of simple messages,

this skin that passes its owner's test.

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

The Speed Of Life

[My great-grandmother, Gertrude Bertelsen Gunderson, wife of South Dakota Governor Carl Gunderson, was a well-known poet in South Dakota, founding the state's poetry journal “Pasque Petals”...still in existence. She wrote poetry for another time and every once in a while I feel her presence so much that words come to me like prairie lightning in an older style. This poem is an example of that.]

The Speed Of Life

I moved so fast I could not see

the best the world had offered me.

Now, windows give me outside views

Not one thing seen will come in twos.

Each part of what I see unique.

My gaze, my interest at its peak.

You think pine needles just the same,

But each is different I can claim.

When I can leave I hear all sounded;

The creek across the rocks all rounded.

And sometimes smells to me exclaim:

I am alive, I have a name.

So turn your car to greener land,

Remove the key, on grass now stand.

Take all inside, leave nothing out,

You'll find yourself, what you're about.

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

The Voice

Somewhere between

the unheard beep

of a bat

and the low rumble

of the elephant's roll call

the human voice

plays through the silence

of dictionaries

or sitting at desks

in the habitats

of darkness

dreams tossing words

through oblivion

Across the sea by cable

or the alleys of the old

the voices betray

everything we are

though strange

to the rest of our companions

we walk with

yet the dog may know

the meaning through repetition

the chimp by sign and ear

But what does the crow

across the creek

think of this yell

to leave my sleep undisturbed

by the racket so many create

Whatever they say to each other

I'm damn mad

and by their continued bird rants

I'm diminished

to the level of stupid humanity

who can't even fly

without some idiot's contraption

strapped to my back

as it sputters and spews

a smell the ass of a crow

could never fart

So off they fly

in a laugh

at me who thinks

all the world is mine

as I stand on a balcony

to squeak at crows

as the resplendent unseen letters

of this unknown language

explode from my mouth

upon their bothered conversation

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

Another Storm Brings Dorothy

On this day

with its yellow brick sun

as it hides between

the puffy munchkin clouds

and behind the dark emerald hills

Suddenly

the white flyers

crystalline witches

on holly broom sticks

in a swarm that clothes the air

in this chill accompanied

by swirls and sudden shifts

of these lifeless crones

as they attack the old

on sidewalks and doorsteps

Upset trees wave their arms

in warning

Evil billions pile their magic

on the edges of sinless water

afraid of its goodness

though many are doused

as if melted by a pail

of trout-tossed water

The stored spring melt

flows in toto

passed the stones that scream

in this monkey-tail canyon

through torches of light

between winter and spring

This house falls

on its faceless occupants

who wear home bound slippers

their feet curling back

under striped blankets

with courage to keep

hearts warm

and brains from boredom

a snowy day

in the Black Hills

yo-ee-oh

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

Dawn Over Rapid Creek

The sun not yet into this canyon

somewhere towards the east

that circles about Big Bend

behind the run-up to Norris Peak

No sense the air moves

along the ice sheets

that cover the edges

Two days of melt

the large breaks sent

into the dark tumbles

of a creek still in dreams

where fish yearn

for the flies of spring

The ponderosa pines stretch to attention

as they salute a sky in its last yawn

They have been awake all night

fearful of the porcupine and pine beetle

day will let them sleep

The night lights popped on

for deer that pass this house

perhaps cats both large and small

some after mice

or ones that chase the deer

Floaters in these eyes

suggest the ghosts of this canyon

pass through this glass lined room

that head for shadows

as the day ahead

never needs their haunt

and their memory

of the Crouch Line that once

chugged along this watery lane

to Johnson Siding

for an engine's thirst

on to Pactola for Bernice Moosecamp's

scrambles bacon and corn fritters

Perhaps the sun will make its hike

through these deep canyons

to have breakfast at her hotel

now drown beneath deep water

five miles up behind the great dam wall

then later in the afternoon

to the old store in Silver City

for a Nehi Grape pulled

from the cold water of a deep cooler

This sun remembers

what was always

the best

a long memory this sun

to be followed day after day

as it breaks the ice

as it greets every resident

along the gentle curves

of an old friend's hand

a hand that shapes this canyon

this tireless sculpture

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G Wick