Flash

Flash

This feeling

Is gray smoke

Just enough to notice

A faint odor of something burnt

The way my lover left me

Invisible flame extinguished

Just waiting for the pain

To last this many years

Barry G. Wick

Alone

There is nothing you can give yourself

That is superior to time alone

To appreciate the universal gift

Of life.

Barry G. Wick

I Am A Monk

I Am A Monk

(for my children who are confounded by their father)

“Be still with me....you know where I am...keep breathing...”--Imogen Heap

I am a monk

without chanting sutras,

without simple robes,

or affectatious langot.

There is no exact word

to describe the faith

I practice. Some are close.

Ranjung sangay?

The self-enlightened?

Pratyekabuddha?

The path of self-enlightenment?

I would be a poor choice

for such great words.

My study wat

is an old trailer⁰

where I cannot kneel,

where there are no devotees

to help with my simple needs.

There are no attachments

or so I think

as I examine everything within

or attempt to suspend the world.

Unlike a real monk

I cannot walk my city with a bowl;

I need and sometimes carry money.

In this obsessed society

it is not begging to accept money

since cooked rice and vegetables

rarely come or survive in the mail.

Those who give to me

practice their faith in generosity

and reveal truth in charity.

For the few who serve me

I give what I simply can:

a poem,

a caring ear,

a kind word,

my time,

confused attempts at love,

a smile.

I wasn't always on this path.

It would be impossible

to explain my life to others:

the silence of selflessness,

the study of what's inside,

the walk inside a cage.

I fail every day to match ideals

of monks around the world.

I do aspire to a higher way;

to answers that complete me.

I claim no awareness or

enlightenment.

Normal clothing will cover me.

It's not important for others

to recognize me by my exterior.

Many will judge me

with or without robes

and the trappings of a religious.

As a teen,

I once told my mother

I wanted to live in a monastery;

the undiscovered truth I later found

was to get away from her.

Not being Catholic, Thai Buddhist,

our own Congregational Christianity,

some other religious group

with monasteries, I never

found pantheists who share

in communities. Some may exist.

My back on a lawn

in the starlit dark of night

is a way for me

to partially glimpse gODD.

I have achieved the basic

requirements of such a life

without the company of

other monks.

I contemplate and pray.

I read lessons that come

or are presented before me.

I learn from everything

what it is to live striving

for an ideal I'll never achieve.

My monk's name

was given to me by my parents

and those who came before me.

Out of respect for their paths,

right or wrong,

I now keep the name

in reverence for their sacrifices

that put me here,

unable to walk the road

or to visit those who need me

in my advanced years.

My service is simple

without desires for fame or wealth.

What I create is free.

What I take comes freely to me.

I spent much of my previous life

failing at everything I touched.

I was greedy, egotistic, glutinous,

foolish, caddish, and more.

I am accepting now

that I've found where I belong.

I am alone;

with or without

friends and family,

sitting with my experiences.

While I listen for a priest

ringing a bell,

here it becomes birdsong,

squirrel chatter,

wind rippling the metal roof,

the frozen noises

of the siding that complains,

falling icicles, thunder, rain,

voices in a dream or on radio,

music of every student,

even the professional ones.

All sounds come from gODD

in a vast spectrum of the visible

and invisible.

Sometimes a person becomes

what they once thought they

wanted to be and never expected.

I am a monk.

Barry G. Wick

The Poet's Strike

[Florida Governor Ron DeSantis has vetoed $32 million for the arts in Florida]

The Poet's Strike

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ABarry G. Wick

Traveler

Traveler

I know parts of this nation

On its roads and highways

In some shaded forests

The paths were not beaten

Except by me often alone

This desire to move there

Here and there any there

Is strongest when movement

Is no longer possible

When age’s match just smokes

Roads rattle me even on trips

To get groceries from a store

Just a short mile away

Then the urge to go farther

Belittles these baby steps

I think of South Dakota

Where I was born

Only to leave over issues

Cloudy and full of lightning

Prairie worms easily pass

Surprised as the flash

Strikes the far hills

Ì dream of riding that

Stalk of light and noise

In it's short and sudden life

Barry G. Wick

In the Dark

In the Dark

Coming and going, coming and going

The sound of engines and tires I'm Knowing

In the dark of the night as I lay on my right

They comfort me some out of dreams that are done

Pitched high or pitched low the traffic will go

America moves night and day don't ya know

Cross Iowa's land that's growing your food

As I lay on my bed in a fitful dream mood

Down in the dark these words make a mark

My fingers I tap with my hands on my lap

The sheets at my back this glow on the map

Unseen and unheard as I type my next word

Barry G. Wick

A Pattern for Silence

A Pattern for Silence

There is a pattern for silence

In the way I walk through

A hair stand of ponderosas that

Blocks the sounds of the world

At five thousand feet

Above sea level

Unimportant sea level

With the sound of the creek

Clacking boulders in the night

The sliding door open

To the lower lawn

A yawn fighting the shake

Of shoulders 

Barry G. Wick

The Three-sided Coin

The Three-sided Coin

Deep in my pocket

Lays a gilded dream

Two distinct faces

That fill an invisible third

It's no secret that I lived

In three places at once

Three dreams

The love of words

Came late to me

After music after boys

I could not openly caress

Three sides are now evolved

Into the one that forms

This creation

It is my hope to leave

The simple thoughts I have

After my years upon

This miracle of life

In awe of the heavens

I decided not to explain

Unknown Godd

There were many times

I prayed to all the affections 

Created by others far above

The simplicity of my being

I imagined answers

Came to me which

Escaped me

Beyond this moment

Lies the deepest black

Unfiltered and unnoticed

As it slipped into that day

Spending this Coin

I am with it

Shopping eternity

Barry G. Wick

The Doorbell Rings

The Doorbell Rings

If I had a doorbell

My eleven year old self

Would ring it while I was reading

A book by a Buddhist advisor

What do I do with the feeling

Of being interrupted

I'm expecting a visit

I discover the doorbell 

Doesn't work

Graciously inviting me

To knock hoping I'll

Come open the door

Or should I just turn

The metal know to find me

Opening I instantly recognize me

But I squint turning my head

Back and forth

Up and down

I've seen my face my whole life

But I've never seen my old face

From eyes at eleven years old

I'm fourth or fifth grade

Old me is seventy-some grade

There is instant fear

I tell him to go back only

To return tomorrow

Neither of me

Knows what to say

He/me walks down the ramp

Head lowered just a bit

I/him close the door

My eyes wide and stunned

The couch finds my back

My eyes find that book

Thus endeth the lesson 

Barry G. Wick

Somewhere Godd Sits

Somewhere Godd Sits

Somewhere Godd sits

On a clump of galaxies

As if they were flowers

In a meadow

He looks across the valley

to see another hillside

Where the photons sparkle

He's crumpled this area

Far too long 

This glow of bright petals

Could dim under his weight

In the distance He hears

A flute sing

Perhaps this player

Will write more of these notes

Than Mozart did

Godd is hope

For great composers

On all living planets

He creates the creators 

Turning hand-like powers

This way and that

Even He fails perfection

Every so often

So He leaves some music

For his varied populations to discover

That's His generosity

His Wife looks at the chasm of stars

Knowing She allows His ego

To think it all belongs to Him

He'd be surprised at who plays

This flautic melody 

She returns to Her garden

A bit cross she has to fluff

These stars again

On His favorite pillow

Now she hums a simple tune

This time He doesn't hear

Her soft music

He's creating planets again

Barry G.Wick