The Return

The Return

Sometimes it's just a picture

An image of family

But this morning

It was the name of a city

That shook memories and images

Uncomfortable moments

From years ago

Not unlike my whole life

Unpleasant uncomfortable

Wrong actions stupid decisions

This is the evil of old age

When a trigger presents itself

On a gun filled with echoes

That sends bullets through

A past dislodging the unpleasant

Reasons that cannot be understood

Why doesn't end the answers

That leads to more questions

And more

And more

Barry G. Wick

Interstate Highway 80

Interstate Highway 80

Through the fourth floor windows

Waiting for the doctor’s nurse

To fetch me into the sanctum

I sit in a wheelchair in an empty

Bright room I look to the north

To see the east and west traffic

Of American commerce fulfilling

Orders of parts and purchases

The trucks and cars give me hope

That one day I might join

Travelers somewhere different

Somewhere new like my old days

To and from a university

To and from visits to friends

And family beyond the horizons 

Of which I have limited vision

Fishing and hunting museums 

And music something to feel

The dull has eclipsed my world

I dream of being beyond myself

The trucks and cars have expectant 

Drivers thinking and dreaming

While I gave blood and wait and wait

For my dreams to peal like bells

Barry G. Wick

Dear Molly

Dear Molly

May i please call you Molly

Since I do not know

Your real name

I'd enquire but I do not know

If your guards would

Provide it or the address

Of your cell

Thank you for your hard work

We have lived in marvelous times

Together

I came in contact with your project

Today when it could have

Easily escaped my notice

I know they don't pay you

Very much

Easily described as chicken feed

By those who have power

Over your cell and the ones

Next door with presumably

Your friends

I doubt you have much

To chat about

Romances though I wonder

And what happens

To your projects

Once they go into

The cruel system

Where you now find yourself 

Incarcerated

We both know that your

Judges were very hard

You had no lawyers

The automatic assumption was

You are guilty and must be

Punished to the fullest

You will not see the blue sky

You will not share a carefree life

That I would wish for you

So I provide this apology to you

Dear Molly

For my clumsy attempt

That resulted in this morning's 

Accident when my butterfingers

Dropped your egg

Barry G. Wick

in the Beginning

In the Beginning

In the beginning

Was the first lie

There was no beginning

It has always been

Was the word

The second lie

There was no word

Words came from man

And the word was with God

The third lie

No word was with God

There is nothing with God

And the word was God

The fourth lie

There is no God

Was is and is was

Barry G. Wick

Poem

Poem

True love is freedom

The systems create bonds

Difficult to be broken

One should not have to break

Unbreakable bonds to be free

When the field where I rest

Is tilled

I shall be freed from all bonds

Even to the weeds

That grow from my powdered bones

BGW

The Porcupine

The Porcupine

Needles drag yarn

Felt deep in hips

All love is careful

The stars’ miracle

Healed by a universe

It's an infection

A first bump

Risen from the earth

Across the Black Hills

Ponderosa pines

Across our hill

Dripping sap sticks

As I 

Chew the bark

I dreamed of

Slapping the porcupine

Barry G Wick

The Nazi Lawn Guard

The Nazi Lawn Guard

I rarely leave

To venture wide-eyed

Into the white sun world

Full of angry people

Who don't know me

In my cell in my home

Surrounded by her prison yard

Upon my door a warning

From the commandant 

To reduce the length

Of grass to five inches

Six feet from my prison

Walls that keep them

From me and me from them

Two days is all I have

To cut my growing lawn

Or a fine a punishment

For the poor man in cell rags

Will be whipped from my bank

Stinging my backside

My wallet hole

She is the Lawn Nazi

Who will not call

With friendly voice and smile

No her guard like scream

Taped to my door

Through which I never leave

How was I to know

My confreres have seen

Her post her pistol blue tape

Sticky grease the glass9

On my door sensing punishment

Trim and slash my tiny yard

Freeing their prison mate

From the fine of penniless death

Barry G. Wick

Tides

Tides

My mother's comb

Sits on the side

Of her sink

Then gets moved

To my house

After she dies

I won that argument

I'd been arguing with her

Since my childhood

And just gave up 

Fighting her

The same with my father

These were long arguments

I gave and let them win

Now I'm her not arguing

With anybody

I just walk away

Everyone can win

Over me

I don't think I ever

Achieved what I wanted

Out of any relationship

Some will say this or that

But I'm convinced

I never landed where

I was supposed to land

Everywhere was low tide

Barry G. Wick

The Wish

The Wish

When the day is cold

When the moon shines

Into the bedroom

Or was it the neighbor's

Porch light left on

Disturbing my thoughts

Into some crazy story

An imagination of complex

Nothing so much

The blankets are warm

Just placed a little less perfect

Around the room these things

All touched by ownership

Of false hands that seem to beg

It's the old wish returning 

As if some giant screw

Is turned with elemental  tools

Just wanting just needing

An ache a silent scream

Fingers rubbing the scalp

Scratching at the eyes

Unable to sleep with legs

That can't find their place

Yes the wish rides this old horse

Here are its reins

Just as a jump from the saddle

Announces by jostling it loose

Can someone please call this home

Barry G. Wick

Snow Day

Snow Day

Opening the curtain

Behind my padded wooden chair,

Fresh snow has fallen.

A neighbor shovels at his car,

Giving me an internal wish

That this snow could be cleared

From my porch.

This, after I hurt my knee

Reaching for the hooks

Where the strap holds

The white and the brown curtains.

Across the cold lawn

A black cat limps in the street.

Does he wear orange make-up?

My luck is holding

While an unlucky nation screams.

My birthday cake bakes

For tomorrow's tiny celebration.

I'll smear chocolate frosting

On my old, white beard

From plates on a red table cloth.

A blue throw sits at the arm

On the red sofa.

Fireworks will be missing,

Wishing I could hear

A flake's conviction blizzard

On a windy day 

Seeing the drifts of liberation.

Barry G. Wick