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