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Wednesday, May 31, 2017

The Word


A significant improvement
over the grunt and pointing
the word
in many languages
and alphabets
takes us to or from
mental telepathy
if from
then our descent into confusion
is deserved
if to
there is hope
that all the wars and disagreements
will be relieved
by something better

Automatically as if by design
someone confronted by these words
may wish to voice their own
since as many of us know
that to control the conversation
to control the flow of words
increases our esteem
with our tribesmen
since few wish to vocalize
thus leading others
in various directions
either mentally of physically
Those from that other
jungle neighborhood
will wag their butts
and raise their loincloths
in an affront to the speaker
since their arrows
have another stripe or feather
and likely forgodssake
another gODD
created by their old men
around a fire
or in some forgetful book
that only they think is wonderful

So there you have the problem
old men and women
leading younger
into belief systems
through words
and battles
that destroy the young
since the old
are jealous of youth
and had to develop
a system that would
punish the younger
and their hubris
typically pleading peace
bliss and happiness

Youth waving their
intensely hard cocks
or tight breasts and butts
no wrinkles sagging
their souls into despair

Words created by the old
designed to kill off
just enough of the young
to make them old
so they too
can create systems
to destroy the young
they bring into the world

And that
as they say
is the last word
no
don't respond through thought
you will disappoint me
as I am old
trying to keep
the ages pure and hatefilled
so don't fight me
go find some younger person
to send to the waste pile
of history
so that their friends
will grow old
as they attempt to develop
they're own words
that no one will contend

and please
do as your mother
taught you
change your loincloth
regularly
something smells


Barry G. Wick



Monday, May 22, 2017

Question and Response


Old Doc Munson
with his years
creased upon his face
had his women's clinic
in the morning shadow
of Hangman's Hill
on the first ring
of the black mountain
hills of Dakota
that splits Rapid City
Some praying protesters
might have wanted
to take him up that hill
Many women thanked him

As a poor young man
in the dirty thirties
Ben Munson
joined the CCC
the Civil Conservation Corps
to support himself
and his family

On his first day
he sought the main office
of the camp at Custer
Walking in
he saw a tall man
in uniform
his feet in boots
upon the desk
Ben had a question
that we don't know
to this day
I'm looking for the head man 
he said

From behind the desk
Lieutenant Frank James Soutar
barked
I'm the man with the big nuts
and so our family
has only one recorded
direct quote
of my grandfather
a man who spoke and wrote
seven languages
including Arabic
a talented engineer
who was said
to have read
every book
in the Rapid City Library

Such were the days
when the government
and its wealthy President
cared about its people
before gross profiteers
before television
before the Internet
before people's heads
were down
on their mobile phones
looking at an idiot's tweets
from the President's bedroom
in the White House
a time when my grandfather
was helping a young man
find his way
into the profession of medicine
to help women
out of the trouble
some men caused


Barry G. Wick







Friday, May 12, 2017

History in Retrograde

Those who fail to study history might do it again.”--William Pocorny Stareclough, 14th century British Philosopher

((General Washington's Press Secretary enters the tent.))

Good afternoon.
Yes, General Washington
will be going to Mount Vernon
again this weekend with his entourage.
We know this because
the slaves are already
clipping the grass while measuring
with rulers.
You know the future
father of our country
likes to hit boiled eggs
around the lawns with sticks.
Is he crazy? What an insulting question.
Next. There is no truth to the rumor
that Mary Washington is selling
Florida property to rich Brits.
We're not really at war with the Brits,
just call it an alternative peace.
We're all Brits until otherwise noted.
No, the Washingtons don't call
Mount Vernon “Mar-y-Languishes”
The colonial press pool will not be able
to go in the future president's wagon train
as there are many semaphore technicians
who have to be strung out
across the landscape
to keep The General in touch
with New York, Boston, and Philly.
Once in Mount Vernon
you'll each have two minutes
to file your stories.
I'm sorry to those from Chicago
and Phoenix,
you're not even cities, yet,
and well, we just don't have
a connection that far.
Yes, the future president
has promised to drain the swamp
but as you know
the Frenchie city designer
is falling behind with his drawings
for GeorgeTheThirdTown.
The General has ranted about that
in the dark of night to his cat, Tweets.
Next, Benjamin Franklin will meet the General
in Mount Vernon
to discuss his nutball idea
that one day lightning
will be used to send messages
on strings between cities.
There's your crazy person.
Oh, before he leaves,
The General is meeting
with the British ambassador
in the oval tent.
Only Brit press will be allowed in.
I guess they're discussing
something called
the Delaware Crossing Project
with the painters already
creating the picture
of the defeat
which you'll have copies
in your alternative history books
in about 200 years or so.
God Save The King.



Barry G. Wick


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Nothing to See Here


For an atheist
I sure pray more than necessary
It doesn't appear to be
hedging my bets
It is just that all this space
seems to be something worth
chatting with
from time to time
I've already had the best answers
from the Universe
because it seems
that the creation's message
has been around
for us to discover
We don't seem to be heeding
that message
Science discoveries are wonderful
but the basic human messages
don't seem to be getting through
so I suspect
that we're gonna go down
the extinction trail
like other populations
of this or that animal or being
Hey Universe
just leave the bunnies
they're so cute


Barry G. Wick



Tuesday, May 9, 2017

On the Porch


A light breeze on a Monday evening
that sees the first fireflies
neighbor raccoons and rabbits
cross freshly mowed grass
that's mostly weeds of all kinds
as flashes from storms
to the northwest try to keep up
with Lester Young on saxophone
and those he played with
springing beats on the night
Buddy Rich on drums
Nat Cole on piano
even in the thirties
of the 20th century
Oh, he was before my awareness
though his time extends into this era
because of all the recordings
with the greatest cats of forty years
in a blessing beyond the ability
of all religious texts to comfort
with these rolling lines of sax notes
that suspend the night
with applause that I want to join
only to change my mind since
it's past ten in the night
past times when
Billie Holiday and Lester Young
Prez and Lady Day
played in '57 on CBS
died within months of each other
her broken heart
they're rotting livers
when I was seven in '59
in my house not interested in jazz
with parents who probably
could not remember their names
I'm on a porch keeping them alive



Barry G. Wick




Monday, May 8, 2017

The Revolt of the Unwritten Poems


In the darkest memories
where everything seems just vision
in the time before before birth
when everything is explained
to any soul that would become a being
where the simplest instructions
of breathing or sensations
are taught in unstructured classes
where choices are made
for parents and siblings
where basic mistakes
are explained in depth
only to be wiped away
by the complexities of birth itself
now many years later
a protest begins
deep in a confused and tortured mind

here
the unwritten poems
march down the rugged paths
of expectional creation
only to be tossed away
when washing the dishes
or sitting in the doctor's office
reading a year old magazine
that leans in an odd direction
of travel to places
that are too expensive
for a common poet to attain

These poems have been sitting
in the dark of a mental fog
more poisonous than any
from Sherlock's London
or Beijing just yesterday
They plot their revolt
complete with Eisensteinian stairways
upon which a mutha-writer screams
for his baby rolling down stairs
in its black and white pram
while throngs of angry poems
are shot by royalist soldiers
whose fingers refuse to touch
a keyboard or pick up a pen

There were no instructions
on how to deal with these poems
and so they sit in the darkness
building their anarchistic bombs
that are set to explode
as the first thoughts of day
push aside the dreams of sleep
There is no inner police force
equipped to investigate
these piles of uncreated angers
that may only have one bang-up image
or an ill-formed title
that now hangs in the air
for it to breathe the horrors
much like those perfumed garbage bags
from the local crapateria
that stink a kitchen
where poets do their dishes
and destroy the beginnings of poems
unable to make their Tarkovskian births

It should be noted
that references to Russian film directors
is only provided to confuse the reader
and are not based
upon any real understanding by this poet
They are an attempt to make him appear
educated and wise in the ways
of poetic imagery
In other words, careful, this poet
might be a poseur
who can't write his way
out of a trite and smelly plastic bag

Sshhhhh, they turn the corner
holding their blank signs
ready for David Lean's Zhivago
to witness the sabers slashing
unformed poems
who only seek bread
and something
else now forgotten like justice
peace
love
and stuff from the crapateria


Barry G. Wick