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Monday, June 30, 2014


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


The Big Tuna


I'm rolling in an ocean tank
called Coralville
When the wind comes shooting across the roof
and I hear the metal ripple
sounding like a large tuna can opening
Oh it's a damn big tuna can about 80 feet in length

I'm the big tuna sitting inside
cut to pieces that fit
by the death of my mother whose eyes dried up
like an old lemon in the fridge
no more sting
no more sour
then it ripples one more time
her best friend floats belly up in the tank 7 days later
and then the lid finally reveals the meat inside
my best friend
slips across the great barrier reef
I feel like the goddam tuna of death
because I went swimming with them all before I left
I fishtailed into their worlds to make my report
only to be gutted
As each one was hooked with no release
the hooks pulled chunks of my life
away into this odd shaped can

The wind ripples across the top of my house
one more time
and I'm the tuna again
trying to reattach my fins
to get the hell out of here
the thoughts of things undone
incomplete friendships and projects
pulled into a new tank
where my pieces just don't make sense
because I'm still a tuna cut up in the can
thinking about how to swim away
from what I feel
only to find I have been skinned
no longer raw
cooked in the can
and no ocean in sight
swimming in some unnamed oil
an oil that washes up on a dark shore
that cooks as it kills
Welcome to the can it says
you chose the oil instead of the water

I'm just the fish in this sandwich
Maybe being the bread on the outside
could more appealing
as the teeth of the world sink into them first
which means I've forgotten
that even the bread gets eaten
so nothing makes it out of the can
or the sack
or the mayo jar
nothing makes it out alive
All we're left with is empty cans
crumbs and dirty dishes
for someone else to clean up



Copyright © 2014 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.


 published by USA online, Russell Jaffe, Editor







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.