tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58095967289942098052024-03-11T19:51:50.183-07:00The Poetry of Barry G. Wick"South Dakota's poet in exile."-------Leon Morton GreenThe Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.comBlogger537125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-54632964765258891612024-03-11T19:51:00.001-07:002024-03-11T19:51:17.465-07:00Striped Sky<div>Striped Sky</div><div><br></div><div>Over Iowa now</div><div>High aircraft put long stripes</div><div>In a cloudless sky</div><div>Six or more at a time</div><div>I come to the porch today</div><div>Hoping it's the special day</div><div>I'll see polka dots</div><div><br></div><div>Is it too much to ask for them</div><div>To stitch me a blanket</div><div>Of clouds</div><div>To drape my home</div><div>In flowers</div><div>In colored needlepoint</div><div>For spring</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-6441198784350537452024-03-08T08:58:00.001-08:002024-03-08T09:02:42.478-08:00The Scars<div>The Scars</div><div><br></div><div>As an old man I have</div><div>Memories of life and adventure</div><div>In this new age of instant visions</div><div>I've seen a photo</div><div>Of a naked twenty-something</div><div>Peter Hujar running</div><div>In his photo from the Met</div><div>An unprompted artist</div><div>Like me</div><div>His beautiful body should not</div><div>Be my desire</div><div>Because I know the truth</div><div>With a capital T</div><div><br></div><div>As age, isolation, and failing health</div><div>Can't entice any friendship</div><div>Such a sudden image delivery</div><div>Only reminds me of the travails</div><div>Of my youth witnessed by the scars</div><div>Both outside my empained frame</div><div>And the ones unseen</div><div>That I carry to remind me</div><div>How I must live now without</div><div>A careless walk through </div><div>Mental jungles and those dangerous</div><div>Smooth lawns throwing and hitting</div><div>The balls of game and competition</div><div><br></div><div>Surely an old man could love</div><div>Though an older man </div><div>With his own scars of battle</div><div>Would be more appropriate</div><div>As I review my own marks</div><div>Upon my aching physique</div><div>And a soul whose thunder</div><div>Is rolling away hectare by hectare</div><div>In remembrance of storms</div><div>No longer sending me</div><div>To seek the shelter of known</div><div>And unknown gods and spirits</div><div><br></div><div>A young man will find his own</div><div>Scars</div><div>Many years in the future</div><div>If he's careful to value every gift</div><div>I will continue the last crawl</div><div>Only searching for a worthy end</div><div><br></div><div>Another image comes to mind</div><div>I think how lucky Whitman was</div><div>To have the help of Bill Duckett</div><div>Who posed for Thomas Eakins</div><div>In the same natural clothes</div><div>I have seen today</div><div>Old Walt was closer to a dream</div><div>Than I will ever be</div><div><br></div><div>I only have to sit granite still</div><div>As memory's attack begins</div><div>All the marks are gently reviewed</div><div>I am their victim and joyful subject</div><div>Filled with life that continues</div><div>To massage my scars</div><div>From a cloudy sky</div><div>To a bright blue morning</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-76651334876346163452024-03-07T13:20:00.000-08:002024-03-07T13:20:02.953-08:00Blind Clocks<div>Blind Clocks</div><div><br></div><div>Don't remember me</div><div>Take me off the books</div><div>There is nothing to believe in</div><div>Hold onto something in your world</div><div>I was not worthy or excited</div><div>About anything beyond my 30s</div><div>Our lips never melted together</div><div>As the heat of youth dissipated</div><div><br></div><div>Don't be sad</div><div>Nor shed a tear at my end</div><div>I was just another in a long line</div><div>Of forgettables</div><div>Stones sit above the graves</div><div>Until the weather wears them</div><div>No one will understand the writing</div><div>Of this dead language</div><div><br></div><div>What did I do for you</div><div>Ah I mourned you in my days</div><div>Your gifts were so simple</div><div>As I was falling in love</div><div>But we missed each other</div><div>In this psychotic life</div><div>Passing through a few years</div><div>When our faces were closer</div><div><br></div><div>We didn't see each other</div><div>As the swirl around us took</div><div>Our attentions away from</div><div>The important things </div><div>We needed them less so</div><div>Losing moments that surrounded</div><div>Clocks ticked our seconds away</div><div>Their blind faces became ours</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-35090915549092647062024-03-01T09:22:00.001-08:002024-03-01T09:22:22.601-08:00Bugs<div>Bugs</div><div><br></div><div>Here we crawl</div><div>On our small world</div><div>Angry at each other</div><div>Eating our young</div><div>In war and uncaring ways</div><div>Should the universe</div><div>Reexamine its creation</div><div>There's no doubt</div><div>It's enormous mind would</div><div>Find a way to correct</div><div>These false directions</div><div>It will work in its own time</div><div>Or not</div><div>Best to ignore this mess</div><div>There are more important</div><div>Worlds to create</div><div>Where mistakes learned</div><div>Won't interfere</div><div>Time to clean my antennae</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-56189964043316886102024-02-25T06:01:00.001-08:002024-02-25T06:01:22.943-08:00Winter Sun<div>Winter Sun</div><div><br></div><div>Winter sun surprises me</div><div>In Iowa this year</div><div>February is not a time</div><div>To sun on the porch</div><div>Thoughts of summer</div><div>Come back to my world</div><div>Surprise is just days away</div><div>When we return to snow</div><div>Cold wind will blow</div><div>A natural confusion expected</div><div>Dear me</div><div>How long will it be</div><div>For another warm day</div><div><br></div><div>BGW</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-36979675500725852002024-02-18T04:50:00.001-08:002024-02-18T04:50:25.100-08:00Mind-cuffs<div>Mind-cuffs</div><div><br></div><div>From birth you learn</div><div>How to control others</div><div>As they control you</div><div>With rules of everything</div><div><br></div><div>Who knows how many</div><div>Rules you taught others</div><div><br></div><div>Some will be free</div><div>To ride a bicycle nude</div><div>Some will be uneasy</div><div>Just thinking about that</div><div><br></div><div>Religion is a controller</div><div>With its black book</div><div><br></div><div>Nature can slap hard</div><div>With poison plants</div><div>Kicking and biting</div><div>Crushing in all forms</div><div><br></div><div>A thrown rock that hits</div><div>Is a lifetime remembered</div><div><br></div><div>The joy of music</div><div>Will swallow your mind</div><div>Or be a door to godd</div><div>Vibration is all around</div><div><br></div><div>Every atom shakes us</div><div>Or twirls it's cosmic baton</div><div><br></div><div>We spend our lives</div><div>In search of keys</div><div>To unlock answers </div><div>That never will be known</div><div><br></div><div>The mind-cuffs grow </div><div>In units of heavy time</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-26498476271083996722024-02-08T10:30:00.001-08:002024-02-08T10:30:27.737-08:00Black Malo: unrequited love<div>Black Malo: unrequited love</div><div><br></div><div>Between lives and beach</div><div>He wears a black Malo</div><div>With front flap to knees</div><div>A second in the back</div><div>With strap of cloth folds</div><div>Connecting to the knot</div><div>Which runs loose between </div><div>The loaves of his buttocks</div><div>As he draws in a breath</div><div>Scented by thoughts of me</div><div>In drape of fundoshi flowers</div><div>With his arms as they wave</div><div>In red light at sunset</div><div>From his lonely dance</div><div>As play steps aside</div><div>When dream's leaves</div><div>Are my rough fingers that</div><div>Sail around his brown skin</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-50891670583247808012024-01-31T14:30:00.001-08:002024-01-31T14:30:30.846-08:00From the Closed Door<div>From the Closed Door</div><div><br></div><div>Nothing moves as fast</div><div>As the winter sun</div><div>Shadows on the porch</div><div>Race </div><div>Playing a game of hide</div><div>Of which there is no seek</div><div>Until night wonders</div><div>Where they've gone</div><div>Suddenly lonely</div><div>And late for a feast</div><div>The line of darkness</div><div>Eats the screws by ones</div><div>So tasty for gobbling shade</div><div>A seatless chair in and out</div><div>Ruined by wet snow</div><div>Where no one sits to explain</div><div>Why they won't fix it</div><div>Maybe in spring it thinks</div><div>“Maybe I'll be useful in spring”</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-91847956207989749412024-01-30T01:51:00.001-08:002024-01-30T01:51:26.278-08:00Just Missing<div>Just Missing</div><div><br></div><div>The trees sway</div><div>As my life slips ungracefully</div><div>Through the needles</div><div>To places where leaves</div><div>Caress me </div><div>I am a breeze away from you</div><div>Yet my lips cannot touch</div><div>Their desire</div><div>Or say anything to join</div><div>Your flight </div><div>Only now the rush of wind</div><div>Gets me close </div><div>Then carry me far away from</div><div>The fields of waving love</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-8915466282679932472024-01-29T06:17:00.001-08:002024-01-29T06:17:54.331-08:00Disconnected<div>Disconnected</div><div><br></div><div>There's a bill to pay</div><div>Every day</div><div>In order to live</div><div>On some days</div><div>It's electricity</div><div>With dollars that came</div><div>From somewhere</div><div>Other days it's silence</div><div>Which are paid for</div><div>With mental games</div><div>Jerking the past</div><div>Forwards and backwards</div><div>Then there are friends</div><div>Who are rented with smiles</div><div>A cup of coffee</div><div>And open ears</div><div>There comes a day</div><div>When all these are disconnected</div><div>The lights are on</div><div>But nothing makes sense</div><div>And we turn them off </div><div>There are no smiles</div><div>It's all silence</div><div>Full of chaos</div><div>Yet no door knocks</div><div>Coffee alone</div><div>Sitting in the dark</div><div>Nothing from the past</div><div>Is worth remembering</div><div>It is the time</div><div>When all the sins</div><div>Come due</div><div>There are no angels</div><div>There is no Jesus</div><div>Hiding in the wallet</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-60054487540002505782024-01-21T21:05:00.000-08:002024-01-21T21:05:04.914-08:00Why End Life in Fear<div>Why End Life in Fear</div><div><br></div><div>Why end life in fear</div><div>Of nothing</div><div>Or what is next you'll miss</div><div>Stand your ground in loneliness</div><div>Or surrounded by family</div><div>There is an opportunity</div><div>For gratitude</div><div>To thank all who helped</div><div>Get you to the same</div><div>Experience they faced</div><div>It's possible to look</div><div>At an empty ceiling</div><div>And whisper to the power</div><div>Of the universe</div><div>Of which you saw so little</div><div>Your final thoughts</div><div>Of gratitude</div><div>To repair all the sour feelings</div><div>That crossed your mind</div><div>To repair your confusions</div><div>To repair the anger</div><div>Thought in foolishness</div><div>Bless your body</div><div>Bless your brain</div><div>As they die</div><div>Pretend they were fish</div><div>Swimming upstream</div><div>Failing to see what </div><div>Was behind them</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-511294414527158112024-01-20T09:26:00.001-08:002024-01-20T09:27:58.142-08:00Pointless<div>Pointless</div><div><br></div><div>Michelangelo revealed</div><div>Adam getting the spark of life</div><div>From God in the cloudy heavens.</div><div>It wasn't life.</div><div>Adam was hoping for meaning.</div><div>“What's the point?” asks Adam.</div><div>“Here is the garden</div><div>Full of animals, birds, bugs.</div><div>There's fruit of every kind.</div><div>I got me a woman.</div><div>Yeah, you were mad when</div><div>Me and her bit the apple,</div><div>But I've come back to you</div><div>For that special spark.”</div><div><br></div><div>Now, notice the gap</div><div>Between Adam's finger</div><div>And his Supreme being buddy</div><div>(Or lover)</div><div>From whom or who</div><div>Which is it?</div><div>Anyway, that bearded guy.</div><div>Is he the one I see every morning</div><div>In the mirror?</div><div>Shit, I can't touch him.</div><div>“You, too?” asks Adam.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-49580031155527636972024-01-02T23:27:00.001-08:002024-01-03T02:09:11.672-08:00Little Anthems<div>Little Anthems</div><div><br></div><div>Sing the song of day</div><div>We have no where to go</div><div>Taste all the wine you may</div><div>The winds upon your face will blow</div><div><br></div><div>To alleyways or streets of gold</div><div>We take our trade it's true</div><div>There's nothing here that makes us old</div><div>We're just the young our crew</div><div>9</div><div>Guitar and drum the trumpets blare</div><div>You can't forget we're here</div><div>Our style is this: clothes or bare</div><div>It's what you always fear</div><div><br></div><div>Plan now to let us through</div><div>These streets belong to us</div><div>Accuse us of a life that's new</div><div>We're bound to make you blush</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-37656076941097812972023-12-27T09:10:00.001-08:002023-12-27T09:10:52.882-08:00Arbitrary<div>Arbitrary</div><div><br></div><div>There's celebration and remembrance</div><div>As this year comes to a close</div><div>It was my birthday this month</div><div>All measured in years</div><div>One revolution around the sun</div><div>Really a corkscrew as we go around</div><div>The Milky Way galaxy traveling </div><div>Through space</div><div>How far away was I when born</div><div>Billions of miles</div><div>A year ends every day</div><div>How far do I travel in a second</div><div>I am lost now</div><div>A foundling unfound</div><div>As a child I could go</div><div>To the end of the road</div><div>And back</div><div>I couldn't climb to the rock</div><div>Mother I'm on this rock</div><div>Spinning out of control</div><div>Stop pulling me back</div><div>Let me swim in this emptiness</div><div>On my own</div><div>Ah</div><div>Another tumble into sometime</div><div>Such strange feelings</div><div>The great clothes dryer of space</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-62628635889123126052023-12-16T13:11:00.001-08:002023-12-16T13:22:49.974-08:00For the Living<div>For the Living</div><div><br></div><div>How is a person to live</div><div>When there is injustice</div><div>When it seems the guilty</div><div>Slip by the best of law</div><div><br></div><div>When people are attacked</div><div>What is to be done</div><div>To defend those who</div><div>Suffer a fist or evil words</div><div><br></div><div>There is only one way</div><div>as roads are blocked to freedom</div><div>Be sudden cymbals crashed</div><div>As others sing quiet hymns</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div> </div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-81217000510263123002023-12-14T08:28:00.001-08:002023-12-14T08:28:30.260-08:00Mid-December<div>Mid-December</div><div><br></div><div>It comes every year</div><div>On an an age-old system </div><div>The months are a part</div><div>Of time measurement</div><div>The strange clock ticks</div><div>Weather changes as earth</div><div>Rotates and revolves</div><div><br></div><div>It's not yet heavy winter</div><div>This year of rain and sun</div><div>Just one small snow didn't last</div><div>This home has traveled</div><div>On two feet and dreaming</div><div>Since it gained life and vision</div><div>There may be no tomorrow</div><div>That thought grows into next</div><div>Or almost a list of possibilities</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-84888570472303173262023-12-09T11:24:00.001-08:002023-12-09T11:25:22.995-08:00Doorway<div>Doorway</div><div><br></div><div>A cold and windy day</div><div>Outside and inside my life</div><div>Despite my gratitude</div><div>For all that life brings to me</div><div><br></div><div>Over the roof next door</div><div>Branches move in a tree</div><div>This rolling breeze strips</div><div>The remainder leaves to ground</div><div><br></div><div>Much like those tossed</div><div>Below the porch I stare</div><div>Across to the sea of grass</div><div>Of this tiny lawn between</div><div><br></div><div>What ate the walnuts</div><div>Thrown to my porch</div><div>Raccoons or possums</div><div>They'll have more tonight</div><div><br></div><div>Then I can't let more go</div><div>Their Christmas gift seen</div><div>From a poor man edged</div><div>In his walker at the doorway</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-9032580564705519582023-12-08T22:48:00.001-08:002023-12-08T22:50:08.292-08:00Survivor<div>Survivor</div><div><br></div><div>The silence of my younger years</div><div>has become the silence</div><div>of my older times</div><div>The world around me growing up</div><div>hated me</div><div>The religious claimed they were</div><div>salt of the earth</div><div>Any farmer knows</div><div>if they spread salt on the earth</div><div>nothing grows</div><div>They spread salt on my life</div><div>Yet through that poison</div><div>I still grew</div><div>Then HIV then COVID</div><div>Still with all around me</div><div>I've shut down</div><div>What is missing</div><div>Is love</div><div><br></div><div>Life to me now</div><div>Is like picking </div><div>Tiny black lint</div><div>Out of a new white towel</div><div>Sisyphus weeps</div><div><br></div><div>If being homosexual is life</div><div>For you</div><div>Or transgendered</div><div>Anything different</div><div>South Dakota</div><div>Is a damn horrible place</div><div>Or anyplace where people</div><div>Believe in hate</div><div>Teach hate</div><div>Speak hate</div><div>See the world through </div><div>Their hate eyes</div><div>And if a part of the indigenous</div><div>Where your ancestors lived</div><div>Is where you are hated</div><div>Not all no but enough</div><div>Enough</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-72650230223539464582023-12-02T10:07:00.001-08:002023-12-02T10:07:22.970-08:00Purpose<div>Purpose</div><div><br></div><div>You say you're getting older</div><div>And your life is slipping by,</div><div>Remember what your parents saw</div><div>With each well seasoned eye.</div><div>Even when the eyes don't work</div><div>And blindness ends all color,</div><div>Bright sounds make this life worthwhile</div><div>To some will seem so dull.</div><div>You are here to share the earth</div><div>It's sounds it's sights it's feel.</div><div>To share the earth with parents past</div><div>For them we make it real.</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-31626629732592233122023-11-29T19:55:00.001-08:002023-11-29T21:36:01.641-08:00Fateful Event<div>Fateful Event</div><div><br></div><div>Dr. J. Robert O father of the bomb</div><div>Walks into your living room</div><div>With a box that displays a red button</div><div>“You can destroy all who hate” he says</div><div>“By pressing what's here my friend”</div><div>How long will you think how long</div><div>Is it simple or difficult for you</div><div>You're not at war though the world</div><div>Is full of hate when the moment</div><div>Becomes a check on you</div><div>“May I ask you questions Dr. O?”</div><div>“More?” He says “More questions?”</div><div>Is it warmer next to your gadget?</div><div><br></div><div>It's all he seems to do you think</div><div>So you have the warm covers</div><div>To which you turn again and again</div><div>They'll protect you from hate</div><div>No need to use the bomb</div><div>When hiding is more powerful</div><div>Then in the Bhagavad Gita</div><div>“I am become covers of warm beds</div><div>To return to time after time</div><div>The destroyer of cold toes and</div><div>Things that go bump in the night”</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-13604339956202202912023-11-27T12:07:00.001-08:002023-11-27T12:07:20.694-08:00Conspiracy<div>Conspiracy</div><div><br></div><div>Hark the Herald angels</div><div>Santa Claus is coming to town</div><div>Born in a manger</div><div>Signaled by a star in the east</div><div>Next to the new Wal-Mart</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-79623788899238969152023-11-25T09:09:00.001-08:002023-11-25T09:09:12.696-08:00Reflections<div>Reflections</div><div><br></div><div>Sometimes</div><div>A few billion photons</div><div>Will hit a polished surface</div><div>To reflect someplace</div><div>Where the movements attract</div><div>My eyes</div><div><br></div><div>It is the same with people</div><div>II see what they reflect</div><div>Good or bad</div><div>Some reflections</div><div>Become rainbows</div><div>I see them and smile</div><div>From my dark life</div><div>Knowing the universe</div><div>Loves the colors</div><div>As much as I do</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-50511825050978050962023-11-20T15:55:00.001-08:002023-11-22T04:09:09.000-08:00Nobody<div>Nobody</div><div><br></div><div>It's great to be nobody</div><div>Who lives alone</div><div>Who has no one</div><div>Who has no arguments</div><div>Except in the silence</div><div>With dark days and rain</div><div>Of no importance</div><div>It's a great time of life</div><div>To be alone with the mind</div><div>Except the days</div><div>With memories of a past</div><div>Full of mistakes and stupidity</div><div>Everyday</div><div><br></div><div>Then I see Wanbli soaring</div><div>By the window</div><div>As he searches his valley</div><div>Along the creek</div><div>I feel he is my lifeblood</div><div>Come to visit</div><div>To take away this nobody</div><div>Inside of me</div><div>To screech his greeting</div><div>Sitting on the fir</div><div>Next to the house</div><div>He is the king</div><div>And I am his servant</div><div>It's all there is</div><div>To have a great life</div><div>As I scout </div><div>the water’s edge</div><div>for big fish that jump</div><div>Into the talons</div><div>Of his majesty</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-22032888816885707742023-11-09T12:33:00.003-08:002023-11-10T01:31:46.363-08:00The Dreamer's Alien Abduction<div>The Dreamer's Alien Abduction</div><div><br></div><div>Upon his side a dreamer travels</div><div>Through unknown rooms and hills</div><div>He tells the truth to his partners</div><div>Even when he doubts his words</div><div><br></div><div>He wants confrontation from haze</div><div>That invisible creature of sleep</div><div>Cool air sits in light breezes</div><div>No sun shines on fellow dreamers</div><div><br></div><div>He learns the earth is a ranch</div><div>Where food takes self-care</div><div>Feeding itself others and plants</div><div>While waiting for the taking</div><div><br></div><div>So lost with laughs at odd words</div><div>Because there is no truth</div><div>Just the images of dreams</div><div>Odd and otherwise at night</div><div><br></div><div>Laugh if you must at this</div><div>But is it known deep down</div><div>What happens when others</div><div>Disappear in parks and nights</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5809596728994209805.post-40558879980240695512023-11-04T02:49:00.001-07:002023-11-04T02:49:59.623-07:00Creation of a Messiah<div>Creation of a Messiah</div><div><br></div><div>His Father is concerned</div><div>For his future as messiah</div><div>The heavy feet crush the sand </div><div>Of the desert to fine dust</div><div>Since a desert is a good messianic</div><div>Place to begin as a future godd</div><div>He is arrested for wearing</div><div>Steel sandals on bulging feet</div><div>The arresting officer keeps</div><div>His own feet and toes</div><div>Out of the way fearing</div><div>What he may do if angered</div><div>Not understanding his ability</div><div>To heal which will be a quality</div><div>Yet to be added to this first draft</div><div>A judge just asks him</div><div>To take off this heavy footgear</div><div>Donkeys run away wildeyed</div><div>Crowds of people having heard</div><div>Of his prospective powers are shocked</div><div>When in his presence</div><div>Seeing the rope around his robe</div><div>Stretched tight to restrain his bulk</div><div>His Father is convinced he may become</div><div>An example for fat priests</div><div>Giving sermons in over-designed edifices</div><div>He rises through the clouds</div><div>Suspended by a tall crane</div><div>It's his way of getting to heaven</div><div>Without any miracle crap</div><div>That has become so boring</div><div><br></div><div>Barry G. Wick</div><div><br></div>The Poetry of Barry G. Wickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17782966029990526254noreply@blogger.com0