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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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Saturday, February 2, 2019

Silence


Silence

I love communication
with silence
It says so much more than
the flicker of lips
in candlelight
It's especially useful at a distance

The planets and stars
told humanity
truth with it
Wives and angry friends
use it frequently
After one extended silence
a person knows exactly where
the switches are
since darkness surpasses
even a wordless dream
Any query brings
the dreaded
“If you don't know...”


It is not gold
because gold will purchase
all the chatter
anyone can stand
at the end of your arm
staring into the noisy abyss
A length of rope with which
to hang oneself
brings on
the kind of noiselessness
we are all applying for
at the moment
of our first wail
Return us to a heartbeat
it says
or less
much less

We only have to wait
much too long
through interminable
meetings and industry
best left for the deaf
How I envy them
some days
With deafness
all say the same nothings
the hearing can't understand
those useful hand gestures
one has to learn
in order to
get yelled at
Imagine a world
where the numbers of hearing
and deaf are reversed
There would be no mufflers
on engines
There would be contempt
for musicians with no support
for concert halls and orchestras
who performed badly


With silence
we know where we stand
at the center
of a great city
a nothing
a nobody
a zero point zero

Chopin or Led Zeppelin
will lead you away
from your own creations
Something as small
as a poem
is a noise
with which to rend
all others
with bombs in their heads

See?
I am the king of crash
the wandering boom
from whom you flee
Only the ice that
falls from the eves
into a drift
is the Aztec knife
ripping open my chest
sending me where
even friends want
me to be silent

Silence is my destination
all I ever knew
all I ever will know
will be lost in its library
Here is my ticket
to an empty shelf
no one will dust
My silent cough
attests to its reality
its gold-less beaches
filled with unknown beauty
illuminated by a cold sun
on a tumbling rock
that watches itself slow
as the light recedes
across its expanding years
which cannot count themselves

Barry G. Wick




Friday, January 25, 2019

Age


Age

I'm old enough
to have failed more times
than I succeeded
yet
I believe I'm a success
It's the little lie I tell myself
to keep me going

I made it to old age
despite narrow escapes
in car accidents
a few infections and surgeries
thoughts of suicide
the triple icebergs
of stupidity ego and asininity
using the same washed pots
dishes glasses stainless ware
everyday

The occasional runny egg
drips into my beard
or onto my shirt
A needed vacuum
of every room
is delayed just as
a change of sheets
I made it to my mess
in which I think I live
with no one but gODD
to keep me company
He she or they listen

I made it to the age
where I have a separate
briefcase for my medicine
and a small box
filled with supplies
for testing my
well you know
that stuff that runs
through my heart
I learned
that mentioning it
is a turn-off for readers
Some people wonder
if I have a heart
I'm old enough
to have a crowd behind me
that wonders that very thing
but they don't come to visit
or phone me to yell
or write letters with threats

I'm old enough to wish
I had one person
a loving person really
to look cross at me
over breakfast
because I didn't kiss
them first thing
or help with laundry
It's all just me and my years
full of memory and regret
There are no comforts

I'm old enough to have
odd habits and old clothing
knees bad enough to walk
inside a cage
that little portable prison
with bars between me
and anybody who could
love me enough
to sleep next to
a gray old man
with a beard full
of crumbs and egg
Living in a mobile home
ain't like living in sin

I've made it
I'm a success
in my loneliness
just happy to see
a spider has woven
a new web

Barry G. Wick


Tuesday, January 22, 2019

First Thoughts


First Thoughts

The ice of mornings
separate a prison of dreams
from a word
planted in my mind
The fire of my life has been
a series of mistakes
in blackened rows
leaving me a field of ash
awake to cultivate more


Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Omnivore


Omnivore

Ich habe angst
for an Angus
who provided
the rib-eye steak
I cooked
along with baked potatoes
petits pois
(that's little peas
in that Frenchy lingo)
with everything swimming
in butter
which means I likely
violated some Old Testament law
Ah, but I'm not Jewish
in fact, I'm as religious
as a post...post something
post this or post that
Vegans and vegetarians
will hate me
Cattle will fart at me
and make global warming
worse for my fellow humans
Peas scream when I pass their field
Shove my pod up your ass” they say
Potatoes are just plain stupid
which makes their caring impossible
still
I thought I heard a faint scream
when I mashed them with my fork
and salted
everything on my plate

With blood pressure rising
by the minute
I chew slowly and deliberately
since this is the first steak
I've eaten in Iowa
in five years
I'm sorry Iowa Beef Producers
I'm really poor
and some Senator or Representative
in Washington
will scream that I used
my S.N.A.P. Benefits
for expensive things
Nope
A surprise check
from a Rural Electric Association
ownership retirement
came
bringing tidings
of great joy
Angus beef
and the depth
of understanding
of my habits as an omnivore
Praise beef from whom all
blessings and juices
topped with butter ad nauseum
flow
on the plate
down my chin
on my shirt
whereupon my shirt
even tasted beefy
enough to make me think
I could eat the shirt off my back
which I won't wash
so that I could drool
first thing in the morning

Praise be to Drool
in whose image
we are all created

Barry G. Wick


Thursday, January 3, 2019

A Visit with My Father

A Visit with My Father

The legs are slower
covered in support socks
that turn his white legs beige.
His hands are a varied mass
of liver spots and wrinkled skin.
On this face a bump or two
looks to be new from the last time
we talked four years ago.
His obvious pride for the brother
who stepped into his professional shoes
no longer strips me of myself.

Father, the song still plays
even though you're tone def,
never could sing all that well,
we'll manage not to follow you.
There's nothing we can do
from day to day to stop the fate
we felt at the grave of your parents.
You said you didn't like graveyards
We didn't linger long to say goodbye
it was our private moment
for me to say I'll watch over them.

Did we talk of my children?
Not one word.  There's no reason to open
that kettle long since boiled away
And did we talk of my mother
in whom part of you is still in love
and long since departed from the scene
enough to say she was fine,
though age begins to tell on her
and every pill doesn't do her well.
Here I am the walking love
you had one early spring evening
in a Dakota blizzard run wild in '51
So did you not expect a howl from me?
I'm full of them and more to come.


Barry G. Wick  (written in July of 1995

Wednesday, December 26, 2018

Shooting Stars

Shooting Stars

From the depth of the speckled sky
travelers arc through their lonely plans
The tumble becomes a lifetime
of senselessness in the dark
Nearer the glow of distant heat
they shed their insensitive skins
Their cells leave a trail of identity
some would classify as dust
The children of this body
ready themselves for their day
when they are seen in glory
crossing a sky giving vision
to a being who understands
the motherhood of gravity

Barry G. Wick



Wednesday, December 19, 2018

After Receiving A Robocall in Chinese

After Receiving A Robocall in Chinese

(Possible translation)

American imperialist dog
we call you today
to thank you for
answering our call
We know you don't speak
our Chinese dialect
which means
you don't understand
a word we are saying
We could say we want
your eyeballs
to make our
five spice powder
We could say
we're ready to put
MSG on your privates
We could use your doctors
in forced labor
to make shoes
We offer our prisoner's
kidneys lungs and hearts
to replace your failed organs
Our waiters will treat
you like dirt
while you eat noodles made
of sawdust and ground dogs
Trip over the curb
because you stupid Americans
walk with your cell phone
in hand
listening to this call
and watching porn
Now
buy five Uighurs or Kazakhs
for the amazing low price
of just nine ninety-five plus tax
Shipping not included.
Have a nice day


Barry G. Wick


Monday, December 17, 2018

A Vision

A Vision

I walk along the river
Sun sparks light up the surface
My friend will meet me here
His long black hair sways
with his stride of purpose
He has brought his sitar
Soon a woman with a tambura
and a young athletic man
with his tabla and rough fingers
A small tree hangs over the river
swaying in a gentle trill of air
This is where I am four days
Each day they show up to play
I forget to eat
I forget to drink
Finally my mouth dries
and my stomach is a burning match
Someone brings milk
Here is rice and vegetables
How do I repay this vision
How do I seal it to what is reason
These minutes beg my attention
as I cool my feet in imagined water
and the love of this universe


Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

Late Hours

Late hours

This head hangs low
as its eyes stare at the trunks
of  leg
All this rests on them
Later in the darkness of hours
they will pull this body
from bed with its sheets
creased into green on green
folds that mark this back
and the legs
Then to seek sips of water
to cool a mouth dried by breath
hotter than air that surrounds
a body uncovered by blankets
that lay pushed to the edges
kicked by dreams
of forests and holes so deep
they are unguarded
in the curves of roads
that scale the mountains
or jump to an apartment
looted by strangers
that wakes the sleeper
with screams of loss


Barry G. Wick

Thursday, November 29, 2018

The Fullness of Each Day

The Fullness of Each Day

Through trees
and on roads
up and down the hills
I walk in a dream
where I am always alone
There is no low whistle
of the wind in pines
no deer runs ahead
no stare of coyotes
at a distance
Once appeared
a lake I did not enter
a name I thought
from years behind me
Strangers stay away now
as I seem a wave to them
and they to me
Empty of bird song
and chirp of chipmunk
I go on through
but to where
I arrive at a day
when my eyes open
upon an everyday
also vacant until
I turn on the radio
that fills the room
with voices and problems
of the world
Hearing a phrase
I'll yell for no one to hear
my approbation or scorn
which seems to be
my acknowledgment of life
wakefulness away from sleep
I can not go to that forest
to that lake or road
even if they were just outside
waiting for my feet
without the cage I use
to tame this unsteady animal
So now I know
why I moved hundreds of miles
away from the place I dream
where I might drink away
my sorrows 
Here I am sad
engulfed in memory
at which I only yell
to push it aside
instead of drown it
As I rake the nails
of all my fingers
hearing violins
and staring at snow
though gauze curtains
each day becomes new
away from the old
where something must be done
to make my life
my life
the one I have
unencumbered by a past
where I tried to please
even a chipmunk
that I'd beg to like just me
when I wasn't sure
if the family of my birth
did

Barry G. Wick