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Saturday, March 23, 2013

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.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

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.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

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.