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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 400 poems here on this blog by me, I hope you find one or more you like. Thank you for my readers. Thank you for your comments.

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Monday, August 3, 2020

Bat Shit

Bat Shit


I'm certain this isn't some crazy notion

of why the world has used this phrase

to denote one kind of sanity

Let us review

Insanity

Insane

Crazy

Bizarre

Odd

Loony

Off the rocker

Lost the marbles

One sandwich short of a picnic

Lights are on and nobody's home

Shit for brains

Crazy as a soup sandwich

Crazy as a dog in a cat factory

and a few thousand other references

to personal oddities and limitations

plus all the psychiatric diagnoses

But to be truthful

we are living in a world now

that truly came from bat shit

I've been in my home many months

I fear going out because

a virus has attacked our nation

and our leader has a voided skull

Between anti-maskers who think

liberty gives them license

to infect everybody

and the anti-vaxers waiting

in the sidelines for a vaccine

they will tell everybody not to use

I only want to survive without illness

or death

Truly

this is all bat shit crazy



Barry G. Wick

Friday, July 3, 2020

The Diggers

The Diggers


Today will be like any other

during this time of disease

They will dig the graves

for the people who bring

the members of their family

The body will be wrapped

in sheets from the final bed

Coffins are not available


So many have died today

the supply of wood is lean

There is always crying

No one cries for the trees

that are now being chopped

for some other use than shade

A digger's tears are dry

His face is always creased


At home the teapot sings

This is the wail of oceans

for all the dead in rows

Too many shrouds yell

from the earth for change

These people were all unique

before the diggers came

We all reappear in the dust



Barry G. Wick


Wednesday, June 3, 2020

The Revolt of the Dandelions

The Revolt of the Dandelions

Spring began on time this year
the winds of April
the rains of May
not too much of either
Deep in the soil
a root begin its wake
a little parachute broke open
to send the shoot aloft
Soon jagged green leaves
with a stem like a small pipe
floating high above the ground
the popcorn of flowers
opens boldly 
buttered by the sun 
A bee who acts
in the movie of new life
sits atop the waves of yellow
to enjoy its early flavor
as the script unfolds
and evil dares this thriller
saturate the observer's fear 

Then from beneath the porch
in his gray uniform
sporting the slicing teeth
of floral doom
a munching tank called rabbit
rolls across the verdant carpet
to rip at this undulation
this wave of solar freedom
Down its maw the victim
descends in rended beauty

Oh this first of spring
screams its final message
REVOLT! REVOLT!

Just as this moment proceeds
while teeth finish a first meal
from every hole in the ground
from every seed and stem
an explosion so violent
is seen and felt by this vicious
this steel-eyed Lagomorpha 
Oh yes this awful Leporidae
as every dandelion surrounds it
in sudden opposition
to protest this herbivore
that upsets the order
of this green universe

One sign
then the next
a protest of thousands
marching from the earth
to the warmth above
surrounds this viciousness
that now runs back to its hole
having taken their message to heart:
Eat Grass not Flowers
Leave this lawn
you you
Oryctolagus cuniculus

Frightened by their language
and apparent intelligence
it changes its mind in sleep
dreaming of my garden
as a shudder fills my body
only fences and foxes can allay


Barry G. Wick

Friday, May 22, 2020

Morning in America

Morning In America

On the edge of a bed
facing the window
open to the sound of day
construction on the highway
distant sirens chasing
or rushing to some scene

The images of my mother
and her sister
begin to dissipate
and the urgency of cleaning
the carpeted floor
where a broken mirror
and  light bulb fragments
have me spinning
from dreamland catastrophes
these two siblings created
Worry of injured feet
have my vanishing thoughts
joining this world
rather than the imagined
visitation of specters

I begin to push aside the night
to once again isolate
from all I know 
and have known
to escape an illness
just being in my home
doing the dishes
taking my pills
realigning the cans
in my cabinets
throwing away the useless
as I realize how useless I am
producing little nothings
at the edge of language

It takes the music of Glinka
to spin me up
from this reverie
to go on
into my day
as if I had value
locked in a cage
behind my prison walls

Where are you?
You have never 
come to visit
You are the only one
I would let in without
a mask
to protect me
from the one thing
I sometimes desire
So I wait for you
reminded of our days
and how few they were

All this from the edge
of a bed
as the curtains breathe
in and out
the lung of my house
unaffected by the disease
currently in fashion


Barry G. Wick


Sunday, May 10, 2020

The Switch


The Switch

I found myself searching
for the switch
to turn myself off
giving myself
to the universe
for all time
I'd close my eyes
throw my head back
relax every muscle
only to fail my desire

This comes from loneliness
and the need for touch
A kiss or a hug
from someone who loves me
each of us unable to live
without the other
How can I find this person
in an age of isolation
topped by fear
of all joy

I know what this is
in depth of soul
It has come over me
before surrounded
by millions in a big city
more people
than my entire home state
where family was known
and I was welcome
before I changed my image

The search for the switch
ends at the wall
I try to penetrate
only to realize it will visit
when it is good and ready
on a day I will not choose
in an hour
when I will lose
the chance to turn off
the road of no return

I require no help
to stop my dark feelings
since there are reasons
to stay with this world
the continuation of atonement
for what others
call my sins and shortcomings
I dream each day
for an end to shame
life's gratitude can cease


Barry G. Wick






Saturday, April 25, 2020

A Future Test

A Future Test

My life does not belong
To me
It is the constant creation
Of all the stars
Of all the galaxies
What is between
What is close
What is faraway
Unnamed things
That move
with gravity's finger
Of an unseen hand

I move the small bits
That move past
And through me
I sing its honor
Unheard except by walls
That vibrate so slightly
Dampened by the felt
Of atoms in motion
They are the beat
Of my heart
The love and the touch

I thought I belonged here
As the spirals of this planet
Were woven on aether's looms
It's strands pulled through
from one side to the other
A great garment of light
Pulsed from my body
To cover me

This small space of me
Becomes a voice
In a choir of random notes
Unheard and unvibrated
In cold and darkness
Where I will rest
Until I'm needed again
To paste a language
Upon skies
Pulsed by my small glow

Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, March 31, 2020

The Visit

The Visit


I want to wake up
In that place
Two minutes before
I die
To know it's that place
I chose to visit
At the last

There were always dreams
Of building it
Making my arrival
A special occasion
To be greeted
By all the art
The music
The poems
The love I created
In my life
A giant collection of me

Others
Needed me
To matter to them
So I let them take
Small pieces to abuse
Or rather take them
From me

Those important
Seconds at the change
Will belong to only me
As I slip away to greet
The only friend
I ever wanted to see



Barry G. Wick

Sunday, March 22, 2020

The Never


The Never

When
for years
no one has touched
your skin
or hugged you,
it's then you know
you are dead

A defeated magic
touches your lips
as the heart
fails to kiss
the inner walls
of a chest
filled with a vacuum

The never
takes over
one windless day
at a time
spread like tasteless jam
on dry bread
more dust than sustenance


Barry G. Wick







Thursday, March 19, 2020

Corona Bologna


Corona Bologna


Rich, poor, or well-connected,
This thoughtless virus has you selected.
You may have tested negative,
But get too sick you'll beg ta live.
In simple rooms I wait alone,
I have no fear as I atone
For all mistakes that I have made
That memory now my world invade.
All across this wide wide land
The tempest life again has planned
To separate, to take me whole
From all I've  known in my brief role.
Collect your money, collect your things
This virus thrives as death it brings.
It doesn't think about your dreams,
These simple proteins, your cells it reams.
So, hoard away or take from others
As breath of life it simple smothers.
Who gets what or who gets tests
Will never matter in earthly rests.

Barry G. Wick


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