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Thursday, March 26, 2015

An Old Story

My Aunt used to tell me
stories I had told her
about where I was
before I was born

The older I get the more
I seem to know that place
exists beyond time and space
a separate place for all

There we cross the bridges
we could not cross
in the life just finished
looking towards the life ahead

In all its glory perhaps
just a simple room
with someone to talk
about the mistakes we've made

It all seems a dream
pictures flash across the brain
of what it was like
and what it will be again

The next won't be different
because the soul sees
through the haze of dream
to learn the higher phase

Oh great universe let me step
beyond this pain to the new
through the silver door
that reflects where I am

Barry G. Wick

The Bright Star

Whichever star is closest to you
whether a foot or a lightyear
becomes the brightest star
so it must be with people
if this be the case
then no person will go without
children will have enough food
the elderly will live in comfort
the word fear will be banished
no one will be without love
for at any given moment
we are close to someone
if it be an inch or a thousand miles
in this land is music
where people dance the day
flowers will never be cut
rain will last just long enough
clouds will cool the dirt
where no rock has ever been
to cut a foot or break the plow

Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

For My Seasons

The earth suspended in space
tilted as it is
creates the variations
in parts of the year seasons

People create their own
progressive visions
often more than four
certainly more than ten

the direct shine of babies
unashamed of its breath
as the teachers will claim
that sin is in the first

a first look at another person
to know their difference
from fingers to feet
with taught skin or wrinkled

a knowledge of love
the depth of its pain and pleasure
as wide as a night sky
or as a rock freshly cracked

the inside and the outside of space
what is mine and yours
as if it somehow didn't belong
to the whole of burning leaves

the hair in a comb
some of them with color
a first day betrothed
or gray as skin in final stillness

these are offered as some
of a trip around the sun
measured and never the same
as leaves turn to earth

So many to glory in
as music winds it way
up the spine through skin
scintillating in a bold breeze

Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

The Appointment

I have made an appointment
to talk with myself
at a palace full of mirrors

The secretary ushers me in
to sit in the chair
where Buddha sat on the floor

The mirrors are ahead of me
but to the far left
are windows looking out

I am given the instructions
that I will be late
to this meeting for which I hoped

When I finally arrive
I have been thinking
about everything in my life

I tell myself that I must believe
in strange musical notes
that keep playing behind me

I lay flowers at my feet
that suddenly walk
in a circle around me

Under other circumstances
I would walking out
because the interview exhausts me

Over my left shoulder the windows
open by themselves
when the flowers tickle my toes

My feet begin to move me
into the morning light
where the music is loudest

Hold me close I demand
as the garden beckons
in a concerto of perfumes

A bell rings loudly three times
when Buddha breaks the chair
to the horror of the secretary

I float near the open window
expecting nothing less
the meeting ends abruptly

The floor meets my singing feet
when the answer flows
that I am not hired for this position

The interview did not go well
as I walk through music
grabbing notes to lessen my fall

Barry G. Wick

Sunday, March 22, 2015

The Laughing Floor

You live on earth
in your comfort zone
because on earth
there is earth, air, fire and water
in one form or another
and every time you build
a floor
it laughs beneath you
eroded charcoal
in your drained lungs


Your tongue turns
into a hardened lingam stone
upon which some may pour milk
you can not swallow

Appreciate the time
when you no longer exist
It was yesterday
It is tomorrow

Now is the time to laugh
at how you build a floor
always in the hope
of its lasting
when it is already gone
at the first nail
of the joke it tells

Barry G. Wick 2015

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Inner Beauty

Page after page
of what photographers
believe is beauty
today's fearful face
is the tin can that waits
for the gun to go off
some epicanthic fold
a dimple on the chine
will attract the meat seekers
who will surround the subject
for a short twinkling
then off to another lad or lady
slide down the greased poll
of fame and beauty
as the symmetry begins
its inevitable sag
former beauty becomes
a beggar in the street
their eyebrows run away
clutching a nasal hand
that falls away
as next year's bullet
tears away the perfect abdomen
Narcissus clouds his mirror
with no face

Barry G. Wick