Thank you to those who support me via my Paypal account: 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.

Friday, January 27, 2012

The Echelons

As I get older I see the dreams
that soared through clouds of mind
the daily hopes
turn into a lemon's tart
that no amount of mental sugar
can sweeten
These moments aren't bitter
just soured at the edges

I see no chance to celebrate
with my own days of dance
My freedom to look up
and sense the sun of my life
has been submerged in the dark
of another's closing door
While I continue to be
the light along that edge of darkness
I dim into a visual whisper

These bandages of buffoonery
surround me in a binding
that is no longer loose
over old wounds and sores
the smiles and jokes that hide
the sour and sorrow
It is as if I see a hierarchy
of self-inflicted pain
the echelons of failure

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

Friday, January 20, 2012

The Folly of Faggots

Farley is a fireman

from Fargo.

Farley's fella Fritz is a fiberglass finisher

from Faulkton.

Farley and Fritz:

fun, fashionable,

fapping and frenching friends.

Farley and Fritz are fathers

for Frank and Felicia,

founding a family

from failed flings.

Father Fred fulminates inflexibly,

“Foolish faggots,

freedom is for fundamental families,

forebears of forever!

Faggots forsake families!

Freedom is a folly for faggots!”

For Farley and Fritz

Father Fred is a freak

and a fuddy-duddy.

Father Fred influences fanatics.

Friday, the first of February,

Farley and Fritz

feel fractured fingers, forearms and faces

failing to fend off

ferocious fighters forging fatalities:

fiends of the fist in a frenzy.


Farley and Fritz

are phantoms,

a foundation for a field of flowers,

favorite of the foxes.

Frank and Felicia are afflicted

and facing fears of the future.

Farley and Fritz:

fallen friends,

forever focused,

famished for freedom.

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

Thursday, January 19, 2012


On my route home

along the highway

are guardrails

three wire strands

between zink-coated metal posts

punched into the ground

that will hold back

errant drivers and their cars

from the ditches

on either side

The memory of you

punches through the invisible

barriers I put on my road

where once I drove into your ditch

and was hooked in the brambles

you created for me day after day

This is not fair

I made a recovery from the accident

that was us

I sent out the crew

to make those repairs

truckloads of beefy guys

with hammers and wrenches

in their hardhats and toolbelts

I even inspected their work

in photo after photo

touch after touch

thrust after thrust

I've just sent a wrecker

to pull my thoughts

away from you

and I expect to be on my way

after I make the payment

old memories force me to make

the fresh pain of poor driving

along this rocky backroad

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

Thursday, January 12, 2012

238 Ghosts

[Part of a multi-part, epic poem currently being written surrounding events of June 9, 1972, The Black Hills Flood, during which thousands became homeless, hundreds and hundreds injured, and 238 people lost their lives in one night of flash flooding.]

They roam the land where I live

and yet I don't live here

they do

I am as invisible to them

as you are

They go shopping

for their invisible lunches

full of twigs and broken glass

they walk through the wrinkled hills

filled with steep evergreen canyons

as deep as wooden coffins

looking for nothing

but what they see

just empty towns

and houses without people

These collaborators in a dark parade

occasionally meet each other

nod, say hello

some know each other

others do not

Their silent conversations

contain broken tail lights and splintered siding

with knowing glances inside knowing eyes

unseen portraits to each other

slashed canvases covered in damaged oils

seething with life and love

none of it loud

quiet ghosts filling empty spaces

Magnetized by one day and the hours of rain

they stick to the sides of canyons

bits of bark trees and grass

an occasional coffee pot

part of a chair

the springs of a twisted bed

across the creek from a house

that stands to this day

Sometimes naked

they breathe as they remember

their last breath

the chest rises and falls

their last breath goes in and out

seconds after second minutes after minute

hours after hour days after day

their last breath makes them live for us

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

Monday, January 2, 2012


out comes
the delicate dance of the overlords
which shows how they truly are
how they see themselves
inside their protected world
by their illusions
of safety and security
their bristling weapons
displayed in their over-politeness
they always remind us
we're just passing through
what they already control

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick