Familiar Music

“When the music's over turn out the light”--Jim Morrison

Often the music is the same

a few tunes that express

this constant mood

repeated

like the stuck records of old days

that would regurgitate a single word

or phrase as many times

as possible

until the finger slaps

the needle to stop it

bad needle naughty record

except now

it's possible to have

one or more

musical moods play

until either the gun goes off

or something breaks

the concentration of the player

two songs today

repeated ad nauseum

were it possible to end

all this

the music would play

as the soul slipped

into the expanding universe

until the electric was cut

or someone found

the remnants of a final act

that can never happen

who would even call

or check to see

months perhaps

until a concern revealed

the truthful corruptions

of an evacuated head

its dessicated last thought

upon the wall

what chance

that the exploding brain

creates the written score

in blood upon the wall

of music heard

the final second

as the universe

repeats itself

this scene might play

again with theme and variations

or create

the greatest symphony

this self-possessed victim

would never write

or go unrecognized

as a musical score

by crime cleaners

in protective white suits

lost greatness destroyed

by chemical swipes

so somewhere this orchestra

that you cannot hear

plays on unknown instruments

the music

of desperate love that soars

through an audience

so suddenly come to grief

by the story of this piece

the entire house is gassed

to end the shrieks and sorrow

the flood of instant tears

that flows through the aisles

the symphony of suicide

plays

only one performance

where even the orchestra

sees the music for the first time

and despite its vast creation

five movements with a choir

no performance has ever made it

to the second movement

or passed its initial

8 bar reading

it must be difficult

to populate so depressed

an orchestra and chorus

surely someone just had a baby

got a new job

bought a few new recordings

to play over and over

over and over

over and over

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick


{{It's an unusual poem.  The question was asked if I'm alright.......and no place within the poem do I suggest that am the potential victim....it was a train of thought based upon some listening I was doing this morning...that turned into a dark, albeit morbid examination and surreal set of images....after I wrote it I was assisting mother in her bedroom and since we had no internet this AM....I had put on a large playlist that included The Doors....and the Morrison line came up...almost as if there was some sort of muse working here. I am quite alright and have NO intentions. I have much to live for...much. So I appreciate the concern....there are dark corners of my mind that must given light during creative times. They are examined and tossed away as easily as one would toss away a used tissue. NO basis in reality.   I'm quite fine. I write...I am a writer. Not famous, never likely to be famous....but one could also ask the same question of Steven King....}}

The Second Snow

These flakes seem much more resiliant

able to stand the cool breath

this day breathes

upon the Black Hills

until time sends them

dripping through the canyon rapids

Certainly I know the words

Paha Sapa

but raised in the white bread house

those words were rarely uttered

unlike the homes

on the reservation

or the northside of my town

Rapid City

Hay Camp

and who knows

what the Lakota

called this gap and the grass

that filled two sides of it

It's hard to imagine

them coming into this area

in search of tatanka

buffalo

another word most learned

from a movie filmed

east south and north of here

My father double scheduled Lakota

people in his office for eye exams

and gave out watches

in the early days

because he said

“Lakota have no word for time”

how lovely

no word for time

no moviestar many moons

no measured distance

from here until tomorrow

just alive and surviving

the system that locked them

into the spaces where

we could tolerate them

separated from us

we who felt so superior

handing out five dollar bills

when the troubled family

struggled up the hill to our house

baby wife man

on a snowy day

much like this

no sense of time

except the empty bellies

that gnawed at their dignity

so much so they came

to my father for a handout

my father

telling me to stay inside

when I watched from his den

in our comfortable home

fearful that something might

happen to him

when all this family wanted

was food a place to get away

from the cold

this measured cold

that pulls the hunger

from a conquered people

I would barely know

and feel the shame

of my superiority

the day I shook hands

with Russell Means

in the downtown deli

near the piano store

where in “times” before I sold

sitting at my desk to watch him

when “times were slow”

and his friends

across the street

take AIM

at a thoughtless world

from the second floor

to shoot a message to the world

about dignity truth worth

about the people

who really own the land

where this house sits

where I watch the snow

and worry

where I'll get five dollars

to feed myself

after I'm forced to leave this place

by the system that forced

them

off their land

into servitude

to strange customs

of ownership

the destruction of families

the system of time

no snowflake

is white enough

to stand up to

the same system

that forces me to finish

this poem with these ugly words:

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved


((((Writer' Note:  A friend points out that there are many Lakota words for the passage of time.  Of course there are.  This is a poem about misunderstandings, misconceptions, lack of understanding, cross- cultural differences and stereotypes.  I understand stereotypes very well as a gay man because stereotypes have always been a part of gay life....sometimes we even acted them out becaus of our own ignorance....Ignorance spreads like wildfire until it often becomes hatred of others and self-hatred....which is just so stupid.   The greatest lesson we can learn is to take each person one at a time.  What was passed to my father was ignorant....and it was a story he repeated often...and to a few knowledgeable people....he looked very bad in some respects....but they said nothing to him as he was a man who genuinely wanted to help people see....and a large number of Lakota people had very bad eyes.  I am genuinely a man who has to communicate in order to stay sane which psychiatrists will probably inform me has no place in modern psychiatric discussion as "sane" is probably not a true definition or diagnosis of why I need to write.  While it's not OCD...it just might be close to it.   Instead of compulsive hand washing, perhaps it's my way of cleaning out the words and feelings in my brain so I can feel clean.  Oh no, the more I write the more my foot becomes either locked in my mouth or my head.  And as we all know, a foot in the head is worth two on the ends of your legs.)))

The Hard Fall

The hard fall is here

with its

alternating skies

switchblade breezes

tree-blown fruit

jaundiced leaves

perch-pecking turkeys

arcing squirrels

hesitant bucks

nervous snow

Away you summer furniture

checkered tablecloths

candle-lit breakfasts

to be covered with plastic

Time for boredom's chores

And now the words open winter

with desiccated thoughts

when libraries become shields

from the revenge

of poor sentences

The Bradbury

labels October

a rare month for boys

from his lake shore

Waukegan cubbyhole

me at sixty

wishing I could lay in leaves

with a pen

and a crackerjack line

for each detached parchment

that floats to my desk

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved. 

Asleep in Her Chair

Beside her every day

I sit to watch and keep

the world spinning

while she sleeps

after breakfast

Today I play

Glenn Miller's Moonlight Serenade

and wonder if an old memory

now keeps her in tune

with a time she and Dad

lived in New York

during war

And the future asks of me

which war was that

and even though I know
let her have her memory

as the saxophones and clarinet

climb through tall buildings

It was a time

when she was happier

before children

before her Nanny died

before her brother and father passed

when the world was engaged

in the great project

when she and my father

were in the great city

where they felt like winners

at the end of the war

couples kissing in the streets

I won't tell you who fought

It's enough that her dreams

of Flushing Meadows

the library where she worked

her singing lessons

cross the darkened room

with Glenn in charge

of the war

trombone in hand

a great weapon that tolled the moon

into the lives of lovers

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick  

In the Wind

The first few leaves of fall

were blown to ground

Oh, I'd seen the colors change

from brightest green to yellows and reds

all around

I had not expected to see leaves fall

yet I knew all would

I've seen this many times before

this year somehow

To see leaves fall for the first time

came as a shock

as if I'd seen a crime

Have I become that sensitive

that the change of seasons

the on-going constant

would upset me to such a degree

an invisible grip would squeeze

the center of me

the visceral knowledge that calls

another end to this season

these visions of life

that send me dreaming

away from my world

behind these walls

For now the summer fades

and cooler winds chase birds away

soon squirrel, turkey and deer

will be just prints in snow

that show which way the cadence

of their wild hearts shall take them

and I shall stare instead of follow

with my own wish

to fly outside in any wind

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Apples, The Turkeys, and The Election

In a good year

two varieties of apples

load trees on the south side

of our home in the Black Hills

The two trees closest to the creek

are spotted red even in this drought

the roots reach deep to the water that flows

This late September day a flock of turkeys

has attacked these trees with some

trying to roost close to the apples

turkeys in the apple trees

heavy birds on branches

twenty-five or more

on the apple strewn

ground excited

by the few

that fall

Much like the unemployed who queue

for jobs where jobs can be had

hundreds gather beneath

the greedy corporations

that only give enough

to protect wealth

and power

election

apples greed water

turkeys drought branches

election wealth jobs 

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

To Make Sense

It's dark with the only light

a screen across the room

upon which I type these words

The fans of the computer

The fingers pounding out words

The refrigerator in the kitchen

chugging out ice

and ice smashing back and forth

in a plastic container with a handle

You can't call it a glass

it's not a plastic glass

because it's not glass

it's a plastic

I must have spent 20 minutes

looking for the recipe

because I wanted to make

some sense

I know

trying to make sense

in the dark

when a yawn comes upon

and the stomach growls

I just have to wait

and go to the store

common sense

what is the price today

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Prisoner's Room

As the morning sun streams through dirty windows

the patches of sun reveal the cart of unfolded clothes

parts of the desk

the inside of the lamp shade

the top of the satellite receiver

hard to look at glints on the turntable

the front of the couch

a metallic camera next to batteries

the wooden table with a candle and snuffer

a Chinese miniature scene carved in wood

dust everywhere

All these things in this prisoner's cell

where the guard quietly sleeps

some 25 feet away

and yet I am the guard

and the prisoner both

who watches the branches slap each other

on a windy day

and the sun on things

never found in a real jail

So I am both

the split personality of elder care

who keeps the doors locked

the prisoners fed

the uniforms washed

the beds made

and the floors scrubbed

and all for what purpose

to someday walk free

to explain why I didn't have a job

for so many years

to end all this

to go to someplace else

and some other life

all unknown to me now

as if I'd just walked outside the walls

from the darkest cell

in the deepest canyon

that man creates for himself

we are our own wardens

unlocking the doors

for ourselves the prisoner

the sun on our faces

as if it were the first time

pushed out of the womb

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

In the Breeze

The birch is either green

or mirror

The spruce is either blue

or pipe cleaner

The woodbine is either orange

or screen

Light of sifted leaves

Dust of melodious sandpaper

Fingers of tense air

Spider silk

Water stains

Dirty windows

Hand on throat

Body on couch

Feet on floor

Reflections

Shadows

Barriers

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

Love in the Internet World

There is a light breeze

through the spruce

The apple trees droop

laden with ripening fruit

that only the squirrels and deer

will eat to keep away

the cold of winter

that approaches in just two months

From far down the wires

there are tentative notes

from those who want friendship

perhaps more

Their world is desparate

for a real touch

a message that will stir them

into heights of emotion

the sense that someone cares

I feel no such need to raise

the heat of my heart

It is enough for me to see

the first sun painting the tops

of the trees to the south

as darkness receeds to the north

in this canyon

the last darkness of a cool night

The mountain rises across the creek

where trees begin their pirouette

into yellow and reds

The words can be sent

but not the feeling

of the twitches in my muscles

from the chill of a fall morning

And soon I shall return to sleep

with another day of the same

day after day and the repetition

of the same words the same smiles

the same questions

from the aged head I guard

It is not love from distant souls

or readers of the lines that tumble

across the streambed of my life

I tell the world

peace is what I need each day

in moments all by myself

when no one wants me

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

In Chicago, not at Home

There is no sense of home for me here

and I'm not even there anymore

except for now in my memory

as I wind through the streets

going from here to there

in the Green Mill

underground downtown

waiting for my love around the corner

The sense of home comes to each of us at birth

otherwise we are tumbling

through the waves of an electrified field

we are unfamiliar with

imprinted on us at the moment of conception

or perhaps the moment of our birth

or learning to sail through it as we grow

and from then on it is everything

This reminder came to me listening to Metheny

ask if I was going with him

and for that moment I was

standing on a train platform

heading for a studio downtown

to record a commercial for a furniture store

inconceivable to me now

that I would follow him into the city

But there is the power of music

the piper pulls you through another life

just listening to a melody or a beat

that passed through your world

a long time ago in another life

and suddenly you are transported

into the sights and feelings

the pain of not being at home where you are

But I can pull myself away now

and I'm back in the Black Hills

surrounded by my magnetic field

so comfortable and warm

and hearing another city move through my mind

I move back and forth

swaying between home and hurt

the pain of a city where love went away

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Watching Lots

What is this place

Publix Cub Foods Safeway

Ralphs A and P

or any of a thousand stores

where the old sit

inside the cars of their wives

sons daughters

the caretakers of the challenged

in their later years

with Alzheimer's or just

significant white matter disease

that pulls the sitters away from

the rest of us

who pass by with our shopping carts

the ones who do not notice

that an old person is in a car

on a hot day

Now if it were a dog

we'd check to make certain

the windows were down

or a child where police

would be rushed

to break the window

or fish the lock open

to save the young one

But it's just an older person

we assume to be an adult

capable of all the adult decisions

we have for ourselves

as the heaps of Cheerios

flavored yogurt

household goods

sail by those empty eyes

Are we even in thought

when we park across

from another car

that maybe the tired one

is inside to buy the necessities

for the one inside the far stare

who wears the Depends

and spends most of the day

in front of a television

entertained by everything

the family cannot provide

For the minutes they are alone

on a cold or hot day

you are the watcher

who makes certain

nothing happens to the ones

who tossed a child on his knee

or carried the shopper to term

because now

the child has become the parent

the child who is the only one

in a large family who cares

or loves

and can't leave the wanderer

at home

to fall down the stairs

to forget the walker

to imagine they go off to work

or hear a party down the block

you provide the respite

as you in thoughtless hurry

park to buy a salad or a sandwich

So this is the watching lot

full of old people sitting in vehicles

not quite with us

and yet alive inside the years

that you see on their faces

their lonely faces

as they wait for the one

who gives them a bath

feeds them some chicken

who makes peas far too often

the one who wakes up in the middle

of the night to any sound

their parent makes

the tears of a dream

the shouts of a happy child

remembered in the dark

the tired son

the exhausted daughter

away from their father or mother

to get a bit of life

as they shop for a break

you now give them

for five ten or fifteen minutes

the only time they have away

or are a part of the world

outside the home where

mummy or daddy

provides an absolute rule

often in silence

the kings and queens of emptiness

as their last golden moments

tick away in a lift chair

or a ten year old Chevy

in the parking lot of a grocery store

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Blunders

The Blunders are guests in this house

who live all around me

They touch my hair

They stroke my hands

but mostly they just rattle around

like a marble in a tin can

alerting my soldier mind

of their forage into my territory

Often, they come in the dark

in dreams

strange allegories blended

with the pinpoints of stars

and wisps of smoke and dew

as hard as I might try

I cannot get them to leave

They are embroidered on my clothes

and often sneak beneath my skin

The older I get the more annoying

they become

all of them are the child's mind

I once possessed

when I'd just as soon forget

them at the side of a country road

an unwanted pet wandering

without the love of family

Oh, don't think of me as cruel

they have taught me morality

patience of thought and deed

the importance of passing time

and distant colors I'd thought were gray

but come back to blaze

through my thoughts

fires burning out of control

I only want doused

but no, they don't put out

they put me out and I am annoyed

by their constant caresses

Copyright 2012 (c) by Barry G. Wick

The Distance from Me to Me

Was it always this foggy

I remember crossing

the Bay Bridge years ago

unable to see anything beyond 10 feet

around the car

and that is what it felt like

as I grew into an adult

littered with the thoughts

of everyone around me

inside my head

I couldn't stand up for myself

direct who I was

into anything for me

I always heard voices like flames

and I was meat on the grill

No thing seemed right

no direction was the best

and so I wandered through

the cloud high above this world

and didn't even get wet

Now suppose you've reached my age

having tried so many paths

and none of them seemed right

there's no success in the modern sense

no feeling of accomplishment

And now I find the same cloud

hanging around me

some ghastly shroud ripped

from the graveyard of past lives

I now fight to keep from tightening

My friends move in their directed lives

filled with comforts of self

confident in their own worlds

their lives secure on single roads

they've chosen years ago

Why compare myself to them

I think inside this high cloud

full of unfulfilled dreams

It's only a matter of time

when all this fog will blow away

My suspicians begin to turn

to the sense of all lives past and present

to realize a fact

that what I feel today is what

all feel at different points of life

We circle in our clouds above

trying to see the ground

that has never been beneath us

and no matter what our comforts

they all shall disappear

So what I did to take as many paths

to breach the distance

from me then to me now

is what I did with what I am

all other voices silence in this peace

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

There is a Bird

I know there is a bird

sitting on the trough

that gathers rain

from the covered porch

at the back of the house

the rain that falls when it wants

to fill these small rivers

that become larger rivers

This bird is there

if only for a few minutes

before he flys away

to poo somewhere else

because that is how I knew

he was there

Suddenly a white glob

dropped through my

line of sight

between me

the air in the house

the double pains of door glass

the screen on the door

the air on the porch

the screen on the porch

me looking at the tree

and poo falling to the ground

from the ass of a bird

Oh Bird with poo of white

please take your unclean ass

to another porch

where there aren't poets

who see everything

and dream of a world without

white poo

It wasn't what I wanted to see today

I'd had thoughts of living on the prairie

while putting a bedspread in the washer

living alone on the prairie 500 years ago

trying to survive the hail and the winter

Instead

oh imageless bird

because of you my thoughts

are of poo

now poo on the prairie

herds of great pooing buffalo

and one dumb naked poet

dodging enormous flops of poo

hail stones and winter snows

and it's not even time for cocktails

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

Of Oaths and Darkness

I remember when I signed

my oath

oh not a signature

because I did not know

how to write

it was what I saw

bright lights

the first feel of hands

the vague images

of first experience

they come to me now

from 60 years ago

remembered visions

from what I believe

was my birth

in a hospital not far

from what would be

my first home

on a gently rising street

first memory

of a promise to live

in the light

and away from the darkness

and yet life has a way

of showing us those first visions

though the darkness

that surrounds us in the years

that follow

the haze of the foggiest bridge

the dull closeness of a wet rubber glove

things seen and felt

and yet somehow eclipsed

surrounded by a halo

through which we stumble

not drunk yet inebriated

with an overwhelming sadness

as if one is walking

through a cemetary

filled with family

it is the oath we who live have signed

to go on through this field

to return to the doorway

of the closed room

from where we came

to which we promise to return

enlightened aware bemused

filled with laughter and sadness

a giant tank filled with beads of life

blended into the fullness

of debilitating age

whose promise has been fulfilled

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G Wick

The Justify Sonata for Brain and Colon

What I bought I now sell on Ebay

to gain a few bucks for what

I no longer use

which I used to justify

my existence

and the string of bullshit

to which I attached myself

Now I realize

the manufacturer

is bidding up the price

on my used item

against the great unwashed

in order to keep their new product

valuable in the marketplace

so that snobs will keep buying

what they probably make

for pennies on the dollar

They bid on my thing

to keep their thing posh

(It's like tattooing your cock

with the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel

instead of a barber pole)

And that's the point isn't it

to build a stack of shit so high

that people will feel good

they've hired you

or bought your product

and you thought this

was going to be a poem

filled with rare Amazonian orchids

and nectar drool snot droplets

with rare and phantasmagorical fauna

enough for ten expeditions

and one-off high-buck phrases

to make you feel justified

to spend this time

to absorb what I write

when a poem is only a piece of shit

sticking out of the poet's colon

able to make that musical splash

in the toilet of your imagination

So how is that a sonata you ask

(the poet references the title

of his majestic creation)

hey it's a musical term that makes

you think I'm edjikated

and trying to pull

images from various encyclopedias

of human experience

when all I am

is another corporation

to be sure a poor one

trying to game you

into a purchase

at a price that will make you

believe you have something

of value

Thank you

dear reader

because my share

of your unconscious mind

is now assured

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

Rules to Guarantee a Short Life

((Author's Note:  This poem/rant has been written in response to many Christian conservatives claiming being gay is a culture that worships death....despite the fact that Christianity is a middle eastern death cult in itself promising life after biological death.  This poem/rant contains unsettling images and is recommended for mature audiences.  The author hopes to live a long, full life to old age in good health and suggestions contained here-in are not  what he really believes.))
This poem read aloud by the author

Please remember

you are likely to wind up

in a toilet before you

are big enough to be born

If this is your goal

you will have succeeded

in not having a life at all

Acquire and wear make-up

prior to birth to look

like a different race

from your mother's husband

so that when you are born

you are guaranteed to be hated

by at least one person

Put cellophane tape on your eyelids

to look Chinese

unless you're Chinese of course

Stay in your mother's womb

eventually someone will force you out

kicking and screaming

often with sharp instruments

Try running into one

Start smoking just after birth

and request daily contact

with drugs and hazardous chemicals

though some call it eating

Since you are likely to be human at birth

these substances may have already

given you flippers

which means

you'll be given sympathy

making it difficult to find

an early exit from life

About circumcision for boys

try jumping just as it's happening

assuring you of ambiguous genitalia

everybody out here hates

people who don't know their sex

You will be hated for this immediately

Speaking of food

don't eat much

food has become poisoned

with all sorts of bad stuff

if you insist

eat nothing but butter

and raw pork sausage or better

eat nothing but uncooked hot dogs

Don't drink the water

or the milk

instead concentrate

on convincing your mother

to give you martinis when you cry

Immunization can be a good

or bad thing

Ignorant parents will

eschew shots for you

Be sure to give them

intelligence tests

before you are born

Better still

be born in a Taliban family

Never go to school

instead read books

without pictures

or learning

any alphabet first

Education often guarantees survival

which means Sesame Street

is a big no-no

Stay naked

The older you get the more

fun you will have walking

into religious meetings

where you will discover a power

greater than yourself

Draw and post

pictures of a middle-eastern

prophet who shall remain

nameless

playing American football

and eating bacon

A significant number

of people will be unhappy

with you for even thinking

about it

Collect pets like

rattlesnakes

funnel web spiders

grizzly bears

and powered tree chippers

Fall in love

with cliffs and tall buildings

eventually you may find

one that will reject

your romantic advances

Remember that

green means go in China

and stop in the US

Have gay sex in broad daylight

on any corner

in St. Petersburg, Russia

or at Robert Mugabe's birthday party

though if you've followed the

rules to this point

you're not likely to have

achieved sexual maturity

If you live in a democracy

don't vote

if you live in a dictatorship

run for the highest office

if you live where

there is no government

suggest forming one

this will guarantee

some kind of hatred

that might provide an early exit

from life

if somehow

you've grown up

to be a productive

member of society

you have failed

Ropes guns pills and skydiving

were invented

for your particular problem

even then these things

can fail

Lastly, if everything has failed

to this point

to provide you an exit from life

and you are now

late middle-aged

divorced

living at home

and paying child-support

try caring for an elderly parent

This will likely kill you

before the parent dies

Failing even that

refuse Social Security

buy a tent and live

in or very near a forest

or a tall mountain

Pray for a dry year

and lightning

If you've completely failed

to heed the intent

of all these suggestions

you're wondering if there is a gODD

The answer is no

These rules have always been here

They've always been written for you

and

you

citizen of the universe

are a complete fuck-up

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Crib

Awake in the dark hours

staring at a bright screen

when I

refuse to go back to sleep

this is my inner child

as defiant as ever

even now to me

as an adult

younger I would have

been spanked once

and dragged off to my crib

by one arm

and the lid tied shut

in more than a dozen knots

by mother who knows

how many to tie

to keep me busy

until she's ready to get

me up

and now I have

untied all the knots

to care for her

nearly 94

tied in her own knots

not sure where she is

in a desparate effort

to get out of the crib

she fell into

the crib she made

all by herself

the older I get

the more I understand

the concept of karma

and wonder what awaits me

for all the trouble

I caused my children

It is a knot in my brain now

that keeps me awake

and even lucid as I am

can't untie the last one

wet with my tears

held fast

by my fingers that fumble

in the early morning

before the bright screen

this child cannot leave

these fears of the dark

future of my childhood

as I wait for anyone

to untie me from my prison

that I made for myself

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick
Follow this link to hear the poet read this poem.



-30-

The Composer, the Critic and a Saint

Johannes Brahms in his mind

at two pianos

playing variations

on a theme by Joseph Haydn

on a path in the forest

with Saint Anthony sneaking

about someplace.

Saint Anthony whispers to Brahms:

Being a composer is not as complicated

as being

gODD,

who makes a tree and

then says, “i'LL have another,

only different,”

in a variation that only hE understands.

gODD hopes the second tree

will swing along with the original,

so, hE knows the trees

have to practice daily

in order to know

how their branches

will sway in the breezes together

to end on the same note;

the same beat.

Imagine the entire forest

as each tree grows and sways,

as each tree pulls water from the soil

to push out leaves:

an orchestra of trees

under one cOMPOSER

who also conducts

this green orchestra.

And then fire:

the critic in the first row,

wiping all the notes from the page:

dissing the cOMPOSER.

“yOU had a chance to make it rain.”

says the critic.

which is why gODD

refuses to read reviews

about the trees hE makes

“Stupid critic,”

grumbles gODD.

“I was in a mood to try

some dry humor

and you could not feel

mY creation:

absurd and funny.”

so the critic walks from the theater

with ashes on his coat

and fire for his words

printed in the daily

to admonish gODD

for destruction of a forest

Brahms

with just two pianos

balanced between his ears

fully understood

the relationships

between fire and forest,

between critic and creator,

and

between ashes and empathy,

as he walked through the trees

hands clasped

behind his back

listening to the Saint

rustle the leaves

ever so gently.

Copyright 2012 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved
Follow this link to the audio version of this poem read by the author.



xxxx

The Boiling Mind

Too much sour stimulation

images, text, video

and I physically start to heat

then looking out the window

toward the secrets

of the back yard

I see the moving water

of the creek that roils

by our house

every minute of every day

ten thousand mirrors

in seconds to calm

and I know that I was

never meant to let

my brain boil away

on the stove of my computer

so I turn it off

with just one glance

that removes the pot

to make a cup of tea

soon, it's cool enough

to sip my own

lightly-sweetened thoughts

Copyright 2012 by Barry G. Wick
Follow this link to the audio version of this poem read by the author.



xxxx

A Man Alone

"A man alone is obviously crazy."--Paul Goodman

here at night

I look at the dark

and edit the instrumental

parts of a song

not unlike

snipping pieces of my memory

and pasting them

forwards and backwards

in my mind

as I try to come up

with something that means

anything to me

the visions of the past

youth and growth to manhood

the sparks of a past life

create lightning in my closed eyes

and all the while this music

echos through the house

trying to find its way

back to where it came from

these notes are lost

to the new generation

who have their own revolution

to pretend they can win

and no matter what I do

I want to race into the street

and scream for the world to change

for wars to dump their arms at sea

for hatred to change into hugs

for hunger to slink away starving

as the gaunt turn into the chubby-cheeked

All this time alone has turned to years

and I can't decide

if what I feel

are the sharp edges of sanity

instead of the smooth curves

of a happy day

filled with what I once wanted

flowers, peace and love

flowers, peace and love

Copyright 2012 by Barry G. Wick
Follow this link to the audio version of this poem read by the author.


xxxx

The Darwinians Eat Steak and Salad

                                     for Mike and Jacqueline

As the engine of life

ripples across its stones

friends share a meal

and conversation

a blue jay flies by

and disrupts my thoughts

about last night's dinner

This is typical.

I try to honor something

so simple as an evening

meal with friends

from Colorado

and a colorful bird

takes me through time

to now

and what I wanted this morning

was to write a special honor

for a visit

only to be interrupted

by the spreading blue and white

wings of a dinosaur

yes, we believe in evolution here

we believed in evolution last night

damn us liberals anyway

Copyright 2012 by Barry G. Wick

Quintet for the Confused Mind

I am flying through

Antonin's mind

perhaps some European scene

or Iowa

when nearly 94 my mother

says this isn't very good then

your trees are blowing outside aren't they

they aren't my trees

you own them

they belong to you

those trees?

Yes

they don't look like anything I ever had

Perhaps Dvorak owned them

as his piano glided

like Dakota air

through the branches

of these spruce

and the Box Elder

beside the creek

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Green Nurse

The light is limited

by clouds and rain

yet

bright green spring

stands between the hill

and me

across the creek

only last week

clouds of pollen

obscured the view

from where I sit

most every day

I've been in pain

for several days

from a back

the twists me

like a private earthquake

so I seek comfort

in this view today

from this damp nurse

of leaves that fills

the emptiness

I saw all winter

He doesn't take my temperature

or cuff my arm

nor feel my head

and change the sheets

instead his comfort

leaps into my eyes

to fill me with desire

to take the first steps

to wish myself better

The colors of this season

sit near me

in green attire

to pull me through

another day

to hold my hand

and say

“There, there. It'll be alright.”

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick