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Monday, December 5, 2016

Generation

I read my parents' letters
in the light of an oil lamp
that flutters in the evening breeze.
The words cast shadows unexpectedly
over the years back to my mid-teens
when everything I spoke
hurt them as deeply
as my own child
now breaks my illusions.

When just the breath is heard
raking across the tightening walls
of my chest,
all things separate from me
and become the paper-thin seascape
of it:
only the one needed hug
or hand held in this growth
of final silences.

Perhaps the shaken sense I have
of the letters in each word
is not advancing age,
but the apprehension
in their own thoughts
wandering through a mined land
I once planted for them.


Barry G. Wick
written possibly in the late 1980s
unknown date

(It's)

All clean inside this silence
without audiences creating noises.
The sweep of the landscape
changes with color.
No simple movement, this,
no eyes, no mouth,
no vibration of the threat
or repositioning of the tongue.
This will never light the way
for some young student.
It will become itself
in a drawer with dust
or ashes.


Barry G. Wick
written in May of 1991
recently found in some very old papers

Saturday, November 19, 2016

The Stage (for Vice-President-Elect Pence)


Watching an actor
on the boards
for the hoards
is a challenge
to brains that are tame
More often than not
the words and the movement
send a shot of improvement
to someone who's not part
of the plot
If going to the theater
is just to sit back
for nothing to happen inside
it's a waste of space
that playwrights confide
someone in the audience
is slack
Next time the lights
fill a stage with delight
go deeper
than smiles and bone
Let actors and words
sink into your skull
to spark some thought
in a neuron



Barry G. Wick

Thursday, November 17, 2016

Simulation


I am a computer simulation
written by a student
of programming
in a civilization
that sends bots
to check on our progress
They appear as UFOs
As a simulation
I have to examine
the life given to me
inside a machine
as it relates
to the student
who created me
I failed in math
and had no interest
in numbers
I failed in business
I failed as a pianist
I failed in so many
ways that I'm certain
the student who wrote me
failed the course
And yet I keep running
to keep failing
in the corners of the computer
that hasn't been cleared
of the projects
of the last class
I've even failed as a poet
In my next incarnation
I shall choose
a student who is smarter
at least enough
to get a passing grade
Will someone please
drag me to the trash


Barry G. Wick



Wednesday, November 16, 2016

The Doors of Nevermore



We know where she was born
We know where she died
beyond that
we're not able to write
an obituary for the newspaper
and what does it matter anyway
that we don't know what she did
what flowers she liked
her favorite walks
with whom she loved
She had no children
No one came to visit
when she went to the nursing home
Her life is a blank
since all her papers were burned
by those who cleaned
the room where she lived
Does anyone remember
Does anyone care
So now a simple grave
on the South Dakota prairie
in a simple wooden box
in the flowered dress she wore
rolling in the wheel chair
through the doors
of nevermore.



Barry G. Wick

Sunday, October 16, 2016

(Less than)140

I try the bed
in gray sheets
hucksters swimming
with what will ease
my life
anyone have sleep
for $19.95 plus shipping


Barry G. Wick


A short break.

I shall not be writing for a while.  This will be a short break.  The next phase will be a new blog.  I think of this blog with it's over 245 poems to be a single book...the audience having made selections of the poems by their approval or never, a disapproval.  Some of these poems have as many as 5 pluses.  It suggests that the people are editors of my work.  Some things they like--some they don't.
The next phase...a country not yet visited.