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Friday, February 27, 2015

Moustapha's Dead

Here at the end of desert
there is nothing but the sand
clearing its throat
of the air in the city.
A fan tail of dust
becomes the next storm
of wounds named by their depth.

His childhood pillow
a dented can empty of food
he never ate in his threads,
so few they cannot be called clothing,
growing from the peace of his mother
and the drowned man he knew
to be his sweat-drenched father,
unable to lift him after a day
of cement sacks or mud blocks
from wherever a dinar would descend
from the garden of heaven
Allah promises for the righteous

Then Allah's righteous
came to this outside world
as they trail 
the dust-turned bones
of martyrs
This is the day the liars
will profit from their lies.

This is Moustapha
grown to man
who prays for the world of peace
many times each day,
so that He will rule the world
and call Moustapha His true son.

So judgment rolls across the sand
sad in its history
looking for unbelievers
where Moustapha sleeps,
for sleep is a sign of power.
Here is Moustapha's bed
as a drain turns the desert red
for next to it
is Moustapha's head.



Barry G. Wick 2015

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
by rich...white...men


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.