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Thursday, February 19, 2015

The Resurrection of General Custer

It's the middle of a long winter
The townspeople gather around the grave
The government keeps it green on top
below it's frozen granite
as if to say somethings are best left alone
Men begin to dig
Their shovels strike bone
Ol' George is looking bad today
The women call “time”
The potato salad won't wait in this heat
The scribes look amazed
Flash powder warms the meal

Up he comes full of arrows
split from groin to brain
quickly the women tell men
to stand aside
pliers and thread are utilized

Fur coats are needed next winter
the women say
and a new red sports car for shopping
The men dream of fishing poles

Soon George begins to sputter
The women have triumphed
Men begin to mutter
realizing they must tell him
what has happened

beer has been spilled
The Indians are angry

General George calls for the Captain
The men tell George
Captain Yates fell at Little Big Horn
A Custer epiphany
Any captain will do says George

Soon a Captain drives George
and the spirit of businessmen
with deep pockets
that keep getting deeper
towards the reservation
to soothe the savages
It's a rough meeting once again
Captain Hooky Jack rushes George away

Returning to the graveside
George is once again
full of arrows
this time invisible
they have been cemented
into the bones
Little notes tied to each arrow
provide a list of grievances
that again will go unheeded

Motels will be empty
bars will serve fewer beverages
fast food goes unsold
and still refuses to rot in the dumpsters
The women of Hay Camp
no longer dream of fur coats
The men can live with their black SUVs
one more year

George decides the grave is boring
and opens a store
in a fancy building
The sign reads
Arrows 25 cents

The inventory grows daily
in this greedy town
where jail provides a warm bed
houses can be cold
and children are abused

Barry G. Wick

Sunday, February 8, 2015

loopy droopy

A loopy droopy takes the bus,
he goes around right by us,
and when he wakes he feels much better,
but when did he buy this Irish Setter?
Must be the drug, he thinks,
that made him buy
this doggy pal with a rusty eye.
So off to the bus he goes, red dog in tow,
bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to go.
Oh, what's his name our droopy asks,
this dog, this pal, his name me tasks.
I should know, I bought this dog,
and now he follows me like tied to a log.
Oh pooch thy well-worn name escapes me so,
you look not like the well-worn Fido.
AND as he muttered this old time name,
the doggie's ears went up like flame.
And so our loopy droopy homeward found,
a loving friend, a reddish hound,
And Fido truly was his name,
and only loopy droopy was to blame.

Barry G. Wick   September 2013

a friend was talking about taking too much cough medicine on Facebook...and I just wrote this in the next space...just off the top of my head...a dumb little poem about a guy and a dog.   he actually only  noticed this poem 5 months later and "liked" it on FB....and I had to read it to figure out if I was actually responsible for it.  guess I was 'cause it came back to me suddenly...yeah, I forget I write stuff and toss it away or put in a file.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

The Facebook List

Since numbers never lie, I see one number less
of friends on Facebook now, my friend page makes me stress.
You dropped me as your friend, so now it's not so fun.
We were on Facebook then, but now you've had to run.
I don't know why you left, or who in life you are,
You, a friend so distant, and now you're really far.
It seems unimportant on why you're missed  today,
I went to check and see which friend escaped my play.
And since I keep no list of who jumps ship on me,
I'll have to wonder why this memory persists.
I knew you once it seems and now you think me nuts
or maybe thought occurred to you that now I am a putz.
I'd friend you in a minute and ask you what I did
to piss you off so bad and why you now are hid.
Oh, I think, okay to leave, we knew each other long,
since you said I was friend, I chose another song.
I wish you well enough to say your flame goes on
inside this well-worn heart, your day again will dawn.
So bye for now, dear friend, you're gone from daily eyes,
I maybe saw your posts, or who you did despise.
So fair you well, old friend, I, too, must go away,
I won't be weird or mad, if you come back one day.

Barry G. Wick
(I write rhyming poetry that can easily be tossed away...on passing issues of the day...and don't care how far it spreads.  It's not my intimate, important work that is usually not rhyming.  So if you wish to share it, just please attach my name to the bottom so someday people might find my serious work.)

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:

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