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Thank you to those who support me via my Paypal account: rikwrybac@yahoo.com. The government doesn't read my poetry. You do. Out of over 370 poems here on this blog by me, I hope you find one or more you like.

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Friday, February 21, 2020

Medical Shine

Medical Shine

The days speed up
agreed to by my pillbox
full pockets of time
and time-released
joy and sorrow
it dispenses daily
as if some lead-footed driver
moonlighted as a dealer
modern moonshine
that rushes on the highways
which creates this new sport
for the masses at racetracks
Hopped-up vans 
with delivery drivers 
who toss secret packages
to the aged and infirm fans
as they round the track
at broken back speeds
full of those little rainbow
enticements to feel better
feel good or feel normal
delivered to the pharmacy
No need for hidden tanks
No worries for revenuers 
waiting in the dark 
No moonless shootouts
in the deep mountain hollows
shouting epithets 
from behind the trees 
I watch the cheering thousands 
from the stands
waiting for their meds
the tiny miracle cures
promised by great pharma
who live gloriously behind
legality guaranteed 
by government
cheated for the pleasure
of fat kittens of industry
their yachts swaying
in warm waters

Barry G. Wick




Friday, February 14, 2020

February Loss (for Kelly)

February Loss (for Kelly)


February loss hangs

in mid-air

It refuses to fly on

A frozen kestral

Which thinks of voles

Asleep in their grass beds

Deep beneath the frost

I yawn with them

In dark hours

To pass long nights

With little to calm my

Thoughts of this month

That took a friend

Who gave me

Ripples of memory

To long passed days

When his love held me

In his arms

Those endless nights

I want back

His life now flies

Frozen in my mind

As warm as ever


Barry G Wick

Friday, February 7, 2020

The Vacant Hills


The Vacant Hills

Too often dream hauls me back
in it's old yellow truck sold
to someone who will fix it
It sat outside the house until
rust became an issue or
the battery failed to spark

Somewhere beneath me are farms
from the distant past with corn
never to poke their giant stalks
toward the sun they love
The land rolls unlike the steep
rock-covered crags over us then

We shoot imaginary antelope
at the park fifty years ago
on a license of special qualities
after we crawled over a mound
that shielded us with high grass
only to Winchester it dead

Then there is the pine tree
when the bark gets pulled
with young hands on the way
to an old school over the hill
behind the rock through sand
that blows down in south winds

The rain could be seen coming
one range after another blocked
by sheets of drenching summer
lighting striking the west side
seen from the redwood deck
on on the home left behind

All this disappears and more
as people forced idyllic places
into hatred and discrimination
crating humanity inside law
written from their ancient books
that ends youthful dreams in fear


Barry G. Wick








Thursday, January 16, 2020

Smartphone

Smartphone


Nearer my godd to thee

oh smartphone

I walk the halls

of your great palace

with my head bowed

bumping into your believers

falling at the curbs

as you help me

towards death of brain cells

the last of my intelligence

approaches

as playful cats

and flop-earred doggies

assail my eyes at the edge

of chemical traffic signs

inside my skull

their dim assault

prepares me for the next

instant message

about the bosses' latest

design of stupidity

in search of the almighty

dollars leave my bank

as the latest useless

geegaws pile up 

in dusty corners

may I truly be worthy

of the one use

I grace it with

now send me my underwear

so that under my pants

I can feel naughty

in deference to my misery

as I twist my ankle 

missing a step

failing to grab the bar

as I hold you in my hand

securing my pack in the other

oh small glowing godd

pretend with me

that I shall win the lottery

as I select the six numbers

you insert into my thoughts

from the seventy or so

designated to guarantee

I steer my yacht 

from this cubicle

this mental collapse

I so richly deserve

banging my knee 

into the bumper of a taxi

of which you dear Lord 

failed to notify me

as my worship of you

diminishes my field of view

may I forever sit with my dearest

as we search your bright horizons

with our coffee-trembling fingers

listening to your banalities

as we index punch you 

in the star-bright face

in the hope you'll deliver

another life-altering message

of self-worthlessness


Barry G. Wick





Tuesday, December 17, 2019

Tonight

Tonight


The old embrace

Their place

Slumped in soft chair

Or on the edge of a bed

The only reminders

Of what was once

The wrapped arms

They held

Or held them


The starting furnace

Footsteps in a hallway

A flushing toilet

None are the air

Rushing through trees

Bounding in youth

With joyous screams

Through grass


All the minutes

Must be now alone

As an old head

Strains to blot the past

Away

Like blue ink spilled

On a white plain

Changed forever

Where clouds and sky

Imagined for seconds

Bring joy and pain

In remembrance


Barry G. Wick


Sunday, December 1, 2019

To the Day

To the Day


Six years ago

began the last month

of my mother's life


I get up from bed

steaming with memory

of that time in our lives


My life begins now

as I go to the kitchen

thinking of pancakes

and coffee 

with cream and sugar

the way she liked it


Headed towards 68

I've become 5

walking

into the livingroom

of the old house

with it's green wool

beneath my feet


Mother reads the paper

on a loveseat

by the floor to ceiling

bay window

her cup sitting 

on the round

mahogany table


I pick up her cup

she turns a page


I turn a page

to begin my life

with coffee


Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, October 22, 2019

Monet's Dog

Monet's Dog

In rare film
now turned to video
Claude Monet paints
in his garden
at Giverny
When he leaves his canvas
we see a small dog
follow behind him
To that small dog
Monet was everything
Perhaps somewhere the name
of that little dog
is mentioned
though Monet's painting
of the little dog
is just called
"Head of the Dog"
It didn't matter
to the little dog
that Monet was Monet
It doesn't matter
to us the name
of the little dog
nor the name Monet
We just see what Monet saw
after his paintings
became more than his garden
became to him
The little dog just saw
the garden and Monet
who stood there doing something
while the little dog panted
in the heat of a summer day
Monet likely held that dog
on that quiet evening
comforted by the company
of a small dog
I want to be comforted
by a little dog
to have that little dog
be everything
that Monet's little dog
was to him
and his paintings and my poems
to mean more to my children
than they do now
to Monet
and to me

Barry G. Wick





Tuesday, September 24, 2019

Checker Bored


Checker Bored

Invisible chains hold the woman
behind the register
She is not the daughter
of the original owner
who owns a multi-million dollar yacht
who plans to add another to her fleet
This woman has children
maybe a husband
maybe
for whom she scans and bags
until her mind is numb
on the little money
this corporation pays
Each little thing she does for me
I thank her
I'll compliment the “corn rows”
or the hijab she wears
I'll smile as much as I can
knowing well few will thank her
for her aching feet
the simple paper cuts
the rough skin of her fingers
If she puts the bags I provide
full of the food and products
I will use every day
into the basket on the electric cart
I will thank her as many times
as I am able
smiling whether she see it
or not
If she lives with her family
are they also burdened
with people who care so little
with long hours of repetition
unfamiliar operations she learns
as she grows into this job
she might leave in days from now
because the boss is strange
because a customer complains
because someone showed no respect
because a man was condescending
because someone told her
to go back to the country
from where she came
escaping the guns bombs and murders
escaping the poverty of the neighborhood
in the state next door
A thousand reasons will cross her mind
until I don't see her again
until she finds a place in this world
where the owner
will take less and give a living
to her and those with whom she works
Thank you for your help today
Thank you for smiling just a little
Thank you for saying hello
to an old man
who will only talk to you today
returning alone to his quiet house


Barry G. Wick


Sunday, September 8, 2019

Poem

Poem


A Sunday at the typer

In a quick store

Watching shoppers come in

And go out

Thinking of where

I should go next

In a dream or with the wheels

This isn't the norm for me

Idle in public or indecisive

Even at home I'm active

Doing nothing

There is wind today

A chance of rain

I'll let the moving air

Direct me to a baptism

Sure of no belief at all

Aimless as this galaxy

Pointless as this universe

Controlled by god

With his explosive finger

Please don't pull it

It smells bad enough

As it is


Barry G. Wick


Friday, August 23, 2019

Narcissus

Cephissus and Liriope
Were really hot for each other
Liriope had a thing for river gods
Cephissus had a thing for nymphs
They did it on the shore
Of still waters

Liriope was knocked up
And had a kid they named
Narcissus

His parents thought he looked
Too hot for his clothes

So he took them off
To go sit by the still waters
Looking at his reflection
Until a fish splashed his face
He got bored with that

Asking his parents for an iPhone
Nope no way
We don't have Zeus pockets kid

Narcissus went out and found
A sugar daddy who fondled him
Bought him an iPhone
Whereupon he's been standing
In front of a mirror applying make-up
For 3,984
Of the last 4,000 years
Looking at himself
Posting selfies
Covered in layers of Max Factor
He applies with a trowel

Hey kid, you look mah-vel-ous
You really do
(I don't have the heart to point out
His wrinkles)

Barry G. Wick