Seven Rules from Thick Air

If you have to protect yourself

then you have created the enemy

If you have to love yourself

then you turned away all who could love you

If you have to feed yourself

then you have taken food from others

If you have to go somewhere

then you have never invited enough people to visit you

If you feel surrounded by uneducated people

then you have never told them what you know

If you have no one to touch

it is because you have refused to be touched

If you cry when you are lonely

it is because you never dried the tears of lonely others

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick all rights reserved

The Communal Campfire

The night surrounds us

and we are not alone

A mother feeds a child

A father worries over debt

Someone has pain

in their back

in their legs

in the emptiness of their soul

The enemy is just over the rise

Workers fulfill their duties

or ignore them
 

This darkness

might as well be a cave

water drips

bats fly

insects crawl through slime
 

The fire just started my refrigerator

burns inside four bulbs

and sends me across the worlds

to where you are

I wish you'd finish

decorating my loincloth

I'm feeling a bit chilly

sitting on this folding rock

listening to Vivaldi
 

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

The Windows

I'm likely to move

and don't care at this point

what the world shows

on these two

dirty cave wall transparencies
 

Here the branches

of the crabapple

and the spruce

to the south of the house

with the sun behind them

an octagonal squirrel

cast shadows

through which

I can see better

to the outside.

Yes, the shadows

help me see

though a window

mottled by grime
 

What will layers of shadow

do for you

my love

help me see inside of you

Does your soul wave

it's language at me

the leaves the branches the sun

Paste me up outside

and look at my darkness

I rain

even on sunny days

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

The Legend of Sallie Brown and Ben

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

 

Now Sallie was a real bright gal, she worked for Lawyer Mizer

a listening each day to client problems Sallie grew the wiser

She learned about the crimes and such, mistakes that people made

so she lived what seemed a nun's life and never really strayed.

Her garden bloomed next to the creek, the water pure and clear

her wee small house with surrounding deck and garden ever dear.

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

Each day at noon just down the block in the old Black Hills Cafe

Sittin' alone at a corner table, Sallie lunched this way

a piece of bread, a bowl of soup and tea to wash it down

then back to work above the bank, this was Sallie Brown.

Not a minute too late and always prompt Sallie at the typer,

Puttin' lawyer's words in rows so neat upon the cotton paper.

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

 

The years went by, each day seemed long but Sallie n'er complained

and one day after work, her foot stepped wrong, her ankle badly sprained

upon the curb at 7^th and main she sat there cryin' lightly

when all at once a milk white pup to her side plopped down quite spritely.

So she waited a while and no one came a lookin' for the pup

he looked so cute, big paws and such, Sallie just picked him up.

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

Over to the station where the Crouch line came, Sallie with her pup in tow.

They waited and waited for the engine to come while her heart began to glow.

“This little dog,” she thought, “has found me just in time,”

“I was lonely and lost, my days were the same, and me just in my prime.

“So, little pup, it's just you and me, I think I'll call you Ben.”

And up to the canyon the little train chugged where home was up till then.
 

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

Raising rabbits, chickens, ducks and such, Ben and Sallie ate like kings,

She worked all day with him beside to supplement life with other things.

The lawyer paid a little more than most in that Black Hills day

his clients were the cream of this distant town and all would fully pay.

One day, a sculptor came to visit about a mountain large

Sallie 'ud chat with the wife 'bout dogs drinkin' tea from cups so large.

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.
 

 

For 50 years her fingers flew across the typewriter keys

the sadness came when her beloved dogs would pass next to her knees.

All tolled there were 8 white dogs each with the name of Ben

out there in the garden with rows so straight seven buried now and then

Then one day some years beyond a neighbor called to check

upon old Sallie age 92 her body dead a-layin' upon the deck.

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

Know a musician looking for words?  This is an odd poem for me to write...but it might fit some musician's tune.

 

We Go

(for Erin Wagman and all who knew and loved her)

When there is no more room

in our mother's womb

we go to meet our fathers

because it makes no sense

to stay in comfort

when we feel adventure

pull us forward

When we feel the pull of the world

it is often at the hand

that helps us cross the street

for the first time

It may be only a finger we hold

and when we reach the other side

we let go for a second

until the familiar voice

says to come

take my hand

come with me

The older we get

the less the hand is there for us

we've learned to walk to school

to see our friends

the other adventurers

with whom we grow

and get to know

their smiles

their happy voices

their worlds beyond

the houses where

comfort kept us safe

Soon adventures become challenges

some we conquer

and some we cannot

some have no end

These put clouds in our minds

the fogs at the edge of thought

at the edge of reason

across the street

wider than any street

we dodge monsters in traffic

where we never seem

to find the next curb up

or any hand to hold

This is where some of us

find ourselves

reach for broken hands

only to let go of all of them

We reach for anything

that will give us support

or reach for something

that often might be

cunning, baffling, and powerful

that won't let go

when we want to go

then

we just go

we just go

where we have not been before

to seek a respite

from the journey

to no side of the street

when we no longer want

our feet on the ground

any hands that help

and an end to the darkness

we go

where we cannot

feel the tears on our face

where we no longer

want to voice our pain

where we imagine

a comfort that surpasses

everything

we cannot understand

We go

even when we know

that all we leave behind

is the empty space

where others loved us

here and now...

we

go

into each others'

empty spaces

where you left us

with tears and doubt

where we try to fill each other

with a higher power

we cannot understand

and hope you've found

on the corner

across the street

is the playground

filled with stars

from where you once

came to us

and now return

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

ownership and publication rights

granted to the Wagman and Vickers families

in perpetuity.

Not a Prayer as Such

Do you see me in the sky

I am on the ground

trying to catch your eye

I'll wave my arms

and scream a lot

but I wonder if your angels

are against my plot

to just talk to you

to get your advice

on what to do next

and pay the price

for all my foolish ways

and goofy days

when I was human

and quite perplexed

I can't call you god

or some other name

because from those

you've taken blame

for all the bad things

on this earth

and while I nod

and poke the air

in hopes that you are there

I've grown to believe

you might not care

even just a little

or a jot and a tittle

So it goes

my invisible friend

I've run out of ways

to get you to attend

to the chores

you once were famous for

creation and all it's glory

I'm fairly certain my simple problems

can't be cured

if you just hear my story

Back to your room

as magnificent it might be

but I suspect

you are as gloomy as I

with all your creation here

that's never correct

and from what this stems

we suffer we cry we cannot act

so where you live

is as dark and dreary

as what I'm assured surrounds me

So there I said what I've felt

blurred and bleary-eyed

dry of all the tears

I once shed

and if you heard this soul

turned toward me or not

I got it off my chest

the rest is just the same old thread

you hear most every day

from folks like me

the lesser of the tribes

you put to wander here

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

As Close as I am to You

Here is a sofa to my right

I sit in a soft chair

to his left

Am I drinking

surely

for those were the days

when I thought all one had to do

to be a poet was drink

smoke some weed

and splatter any ol' words on paper

No question about it

I was a fake then

and not entirely certain

that I am not a fake now

The color of the sofa

is light brown or dirty yellow

in my memory

but I am there

not aware of what the future

will bring for me

or the man who sits to my right

being ever so gentle

with a younger man in the prime

of growth

Today I only wish

some of his teacher

had rubbed-off on me

as if Theodore Roethke

was pollen floating around the room

falling on little poets who will

flower in many hues

I am asleep sitting there

in that time of the past

not even waking slowly

or in any state of a being dance

though I try

sitting next to Richard Hugo

who teaches me more now

whose teacher makes my head

butter it's brain across the language

These warriors accost me

to go back into that past

to remember what it was

that made me grow into now

Richard I am 62

when you died at 59

with a small shelf of books

for me to recreate on my own

And there you are

living in my memory

surrounded by others

who have similar dreams

to take them into the pain

of Life magazine pictures

where you looked so hurt

The smear of ink on paper

from your arteries

the ball turret gunner

on the runway

of poetry

So I can only dream

in the shade recalled

of your girth

and smile

me now

not having any books

to prove

the youth of my years

me older now than you

beyond the moment

when all you left us

were the recordings

I made in a workshop

given now away

to where you taught

plus

so many sculptures

in a language

which one day

in ten thousand years

will not mean as much

as they do to me today

and your ridiculous assignment

to live longer than you

to weep for both of us

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

The Click of a Lock

 

The spots on my skin

begin to form

as feet ache

and grow numb

My joints aren't in their twenties

anymore

anymore

will there be anymore

as my father used to say

old age is not for sissies

but I am a sissy

at least to that generation

and perhaps

a few here and now

My eyes must have

their reading lenses installed

pulled from their black case

whenever I can't see

the wrinkles on my hands

to remind me once again

that anymore

is this day

with it's sun

as it creates trapezoids

on the green carpet

While winter approaches

I listen to music

only I hear

as it passes through my heart

my empty heart

that ages with each

empty day

as I wait

for the only moment

that will complete it

 

the sudden note

of the lock on the door

through which I can't return

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

On the Beach

Her glazed eyes

to the gray sky

stared at clouds

as if they

were pinned

to the horizons
 

The Spanish Olive face

with pimentos in her nose

there on the sand

days later

dead as the minute

she died

beneath the wheels

of a truck

by a teen boy

out for joy
 

her chest turned to yuck

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

(note: I seriously don't know why I wrote this...but it just came to me in a Hill City restaurant...not based upon any true story or picture I've seen. Perhaps I received a thought, an image or something from someone somewhere.)

Two Hunters

On this moonless night
after wind and snow
a hunter steps
over the mountain top
His sword and kilts
hide all worlds behind him

He pauses

His distant lanterns
help me gather wood
to raise the fire
His slow pace shows me
his hunter's patience
I learn what it means
to see the moment

As the fire grows
jagged-toothed predators
turn away

On the shadow of my breath
The huntsman smiles
We have seen each other
always from far away
both of us lonely
for homes
full of memories
of arms and comfort

Though his heart is empty
he continues to trudge
over endless trails

Tonight's gameless hunt
in his eyes
Orion is visible now
to one vagabond
who wants to share his fire


Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

Wide Eyes

The door opens

then a short step through

the clap of thunder closes it

In front the multi-tides

wash away the shore

beneath invisible feet

Floating becomes drowning

drowning becomes dying

Dying is a vision of the surface

in final eyes

a glassy stare of amazement

perhaps shock

this always:

the small surprise

at the end of this box

of Crackerjacks

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

The Nuisances of A Day

Within the last hour

pollen from the spruce trees

flew in clouds

above the back lawn

It coats any surface

brazen enough

to face the sky

Summer heat returned today

for the first time it seems

since this year began

Mother's range of comfort

must be maintained

so we pay for electricity

to warm her too much

in the winter

and cool her down in summer

I could live in both

goosebumps or sweat

my choices are simple

Laundry lays in baskets

to demand organization

What I do

can't be called folding

Woman folds

and man organizes

Yes, this thought seems sexist

but since I play the role

of both man and woman

in the house as I care for Mother

I decide the words I live by

Dust accumulates

always dust

somewhere here are bits of China

that find its way across the world

There must be words for dust

in Mandarin or Cantonese

either way it speaks to me

with unknown vowels

the remnants of dried-out bowels

The kitchen floor

speaks to me in bits of this and that

that fall as I cook

or move the groceries to their

appointed nests

Onions are the worst

always flaking from their nets

to what I think is a clean surface

They shame me as I make breakfast

Stay away from my raisin bran flakes

I scold

my tastes are much too simple

Now a dozen projects stare at me

as they demand some mental attention

this and that

here and there

I shake my head

to wonder what I can do today

beyond my comfortable place

next to Mother

where I protect her

from herself

I tell her what to eat

She forgets she has a left hand

Her right hand holds the tea

I know I shall have to tell her

to take a bite

Of what she'll ask

the banana in your left hand I'll say

It's been there for 20 minutes

while she sorts through

her breakfast items

A lonely banana cries

in her wilderness

with hope to be eaten

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

Upset about links

I'm very upset that some of my poems now have links on certain words.  I didn't put them there.  And I didn't approve of them.  They were there on 5/26/13...and are gone today in my poem "I Dreamed of Carl."  I agreed to have ads on my page because I know these blogs are free.  But I didn't agree to have links in my posts.

The Day of the Leaves

It's been an unusual spring

colder than some

heavy snow

long days of rain

and here today

I look out the window

as if I've never seen this before

leaves

in every view

from where I'm

locked with mother all day

she still in bed

and yet I sit here

in my own time now

before I must attend her

the bloom of the crabapple

every bush and tree

as they seem to have pushed

leaves into my face today

the warmth of this spring day

an eraser of everything before

of everything that troubles me

of fears and worries for tomorrow

certainly an oxymoron

but here goes

leaves

returns

It's plural I know

but there are so many

I cannot see them all

and some hide behind others

from me

as if embarrassed

they were late to my party

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

Unfulfilled

It is said that

we are all the characters

in our shimmering dreams

I've often wondered

if there are connections

with other sleepers

long threads of gold

spun between those

in beds on couches on buses

worlds apart

because I can't explain

why I always awake

disappointed

in humanity

not getting the job

or the break I've always wanted

so I could feel successful

not dissatisfied with results

after walking

through an unfriendly city

where pigeons eat a drunk's vomit

on a gray sidewalk

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

The New Spring

“I have never considered a difference of opinion in

politics, in religion, in philosophy, as a cause for

withdrawing from a friendship.”  ---Thomas Jefferson


My old friend is no longer my friend.
It was going to happen.
It's happened before with others.
I have been in winter with my country
and the people around me
since I was frozen just out of the womb.

You cannot support the north winds of hate,
those who freeze me
from my human rights
and expect to get my warmth,
my inner sun.
I've read enough about
my homosexuality
to know others haven't.
They prefer to maintain
their ignorance of my reality,
my being,
while they hold on to a few lines
from a two thousand year old tome
that has wrapped the tombs
of millions who were denied and died.

The new books know something new.
The Sunlight of the Universe
has made revelations
to us, to me:
that I am what I am.

To keep me from my flowers,
from the budding of my branches,
is to follow an evil season
to maintain an ignorance
that light, the Power's Light,
has difficulty penetrating.

I shall be the last generation
to hold the hatred inside of me.
It breaks up even now
like old ice melts in the spring
in shaded areas
when after days of warmth
a few sheltered shapes
end their cold, impenetrable dominance.

My friendship is not for sale
with a smile or a memory
of what we were as children.
This is now.   This is me.
I am forever changed.

What I have wanted and needed
was denied to me even when
I thought I had found it.

I gave my love
and found the cold,
this world built around those I loved
and around me.

The walls melt.
The dams of ice now belong to the few
who remain stuck in their frozen beliefs.
I am thawed in a new spring,
the kind that never ends.



Copyright (c) 2013 by Barry G. Wick  All rights reserved

In Your Own Skin

((This poem spoken by the author))

Whose skin were you going to wear?

The prophet is no longer available.

There have been plenty of them

and most have grown much bigger

than the flesh they wore in life.

Poet has been over done

since so many made the ultimate

statement by jumping ship

or outliving their youth

when they were passionate.

Parent was given up some time back

when the word queer attached itself

to a torn psyche full of guilt

now past history of torn rainbows

but still it's what was learned.

Protestant seems to fit

without all the religious baggage

carried on a long train

full of previous nailers who now yell

something disrespectful in a crowded tomb.

So, now to run out of “P” words

means a start where the alphabet

separates itself from grunts

and gestures with means unknown

though some were wrinkled when worn.

To look at these hands that pound

out a simple language

with gaps that search

a forgetful noggin for the “right” dictation,

the scars belong here to no other.

So what is found is owned:

a cloth of memory that surrounds

all that has pretended and accepted

this year of simple messages,

this skin that passes its owner's test.

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

The Speed Of Life

[My great-grandmother, Gertrude Bertelsen Gunderson, wife of South Dakota Governor Carl Gunderson, was a well-known poet in South Dakota, founding the state's poetry journal “Pasque Petals”...still in existence. She wrote poetry for another time and every once in a while I feel her presence so much that words come to me like prairie lightning in an older style. This poem is an example of that.]

The Speed Of Life

I moved so fast I could not see

the best the world had offered me.

Now, windows give me outside views

Not one thing seen will come in twos.

Each part of what I see unique.

My gaze, my interest at its peak.

You think pine needles just the same,

But each is different I can claim.

When I can leave I hear all sounded;

The creek across the rocks all rounded.

And sometimes smells to me exclaim:

I am alive, I have a name.

So turn your car to greener land,

Remove the key, on grass now stand.

Take all inside, leave nothing out,

You'll find yourself, what you're about.

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

The Voice

Somewhere between

the unheard beep

of a bat

and the low rumble

of the elephant's roll call

the human voice

plays through the silence

of dictionaries

or sitting at desks

in the habitats

of darkness

dreams tossing words

through oblivion

Across the sea by cable

or the alleys of the old

the voices betray

everything we are

though strange

to the rest of our companions

we walk with

yet the dog may know

the meaning through repetition

the chimp by sign and ear

But what does the crow

across the creek

think of this yell

to leave my sleep undisturbed

by the racket so many create

Whatever they say to each other

I'm damn mad

and by their continued bird rants

I'm diminished

to the level of stupid humanity

who can't even fly

without some idiot's contraption

strapped to my back

as it sputters and spews

a smell the ass of a crow

could never fart

So off they fly

in a laugh

at me who thinks

all the world is mine

as I stand on a balcony

to squeak at crows

as the resplendent unseen letters

of this unknown language

explode from my mouth

upon their bothered conversation

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

Another Storm Brings Dorothy

On this day

with its yellow brick sun

as it hides between

the puffy munchkin clouds

and behind the dark emerald hills

Suddenly

the white fliers

crystalline witches

on holly broom sticks

in a swarm that clothes the air

in this chill accompanied

by swirls and sudden shifts

of these lifeless crones

as they attack the old

on sidewalks and doorsteps

Upset trees wave their arms

in warning

Evil billions pile their magic

on the edges of sinless water

afraid of its goodness

though many are doused

as if melted by a pail

of trout-tossed water

The stored spring melt

flows in toto

passed the stones that scream

in this monkey-tail canyon

through torches of light

between winter and spring

This house falls

on its faceless occupants

who wear home bound slippers

their feet curling back

under striped blankets

with courage to keep

hearts warm

and brains from boredom

a snowy day

in the Black Hills

yo-ee-oh

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

Dawn Over Rapid Creek

The sun not yet into this canyon

somewhere towards the east

that circles about Big Bend

behind the run-up to Norris Peak

No sense the air moves

along the ice sheets

that cover the edges

Two days of melt

the large breaks sent

into the dark tumbles

of a creek still in dreams

where fish yearn

for the flies of spring

The ponderosa pines stretch to attention

as they salute a sky in its last yawn

They have been awake all night

fearful of the porcupine and pine beetle

day will let them sleep

The night lights popped on

for deer that pass this house

perhaps cats both large and small

some after mice

or ones that chase the deer

Floaters in these eyes

suggest the ghosts of this canyon

pass through this glass lined room

that head for shadows

as the day ahead

never needs their haunt

and their memory

of the Crouch Line that once

chugged along this watery lane

to Johnson Siding

for an engine's thirst

on to Pactola for Bernice Moosecamp's

scrambles bacon and corn fritters

Perhaps the sun will make its hike

through these deep canyons

to have breakfast at her hotel

now drown beneath deep water

five miles up behind the great dam wall

then later in the afternoon

to the old store in Silver City

for a Nehi Grape pulled

from the cold water of a deep cooler

This sun remembers

what was always

the best

a long memory this sun

to be followed day after day

as it breaks the ice

as it greets every resident

along the gentle curves

of an old friend's hand

a hand that shapes this canyon

this tireless sculpture

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G Wick

A Note to Someone Who Doesn't Feel Loved

This is a happy day

because of this discovery

Laugh into your hands

then write

love is missing

on your onion skin soul

Perhaps love plays a childhood game

of hide and seek

Was the count

to one hundred completed

as all the little lovers

escaped into their hidden selves

or was love disguised

to the point of invisibility

a camouflaged bug on the bark

of a tree

or it crawls beneath rocks

swims in dirty water

ready to attach itself

a leech

You face New York City

with hope to make

it's world see you

when it's blind

to pictures you take

to show you are

what it wants

You might be better going home

to the small town

from where you came

The nightlife will be horrible

The people more than real

each digging their cisterns

ready to catch

your love as it falls

from the cloud

you live on

Soon

these drops

will nourish new growth

in the soil of your dreams

something concrete and steel

never could

and who knows

I might just pop up

from this cracked mud

ready to kiss your feet

your sequined feet

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

The Cocktail Party

The hour is late after mother

is put to bed

Windows reflect this room

where the conversation

turns into buzz and laughter

spent here away from the world

This imagined is a cocktail party

with others in conversation

about their stumble in love

success at work

the political topics of this cold day

how to make palatable chip dip

The other guests sip their daiquiris

the advertised beer their fingers

unconsciously harvested

from a liquor store cooler

Martinis olives pool at the end

of Soviet flagged toothpicks

Soft piano melodies rinse the room

of any darkness

Then a trumpet plays familiar notes

this handsome crowd notes

with a nodded head and gestures

of green blue and red stereo light

This imagination is still work for me

since my ear is cocked

towards the dark hallway

and her bedroom

These invisible guests surround

this silent observer who just listens

Individuals could be described

a blue turtleneck hopelessly

out of style

mustachioed black leather jacket

with worn elbows

a younger man receiving glances

But none of them are really here

despite my need to be with others

while mother slips

into darkened dreams

This is my party alone

in deep blue shallows

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

To That Place Where Sleeping Dogs Lie

Most of the people

of the world

are where they are:

wanted, needed or not.

Some of the people

go where they want to,

wanted, needed or not.

Pushy, pushy, pushy.

The most difficult decisions

surround going where

we are both wanted and needed.

The two are not the same.

We can go where we are wanted

but not needed;

its an excess thing.

We can go where we are needed

but not wanted:

its a matter of they're pride

and butting-in

and we become imperialist dogs.

Poets are the least wanted,

the least needed,

except perhaps

by colleges and universities

who want to look posh.

“We have a poet.

He's even had his shots.

The department chair

grooms our poet once a week

and even picks up his poo.”

I serve no function

except to translate other poets,

teach word games to children,

play with my sand pile of words,

and try to make others think

about what I think about,

edit the little magazine

where I can chew up other poets

with my rejection canines.

Yes, I am a thought imperialist

doggedly barking up your brain stem,

scratching away the paint

on your outside doors.

I track in mud on your floors

you neatly maintain

to keep yourself from falling

into depths inside your hidden house.

I dig up your flowers

in those awful things

you call the poem you write.

I chew your invisible shoes

to bits

in the hopes your feet of clay

will be forced to walk

in more common soil.

I beg to be fed.

I want to be a fat, lazy poet.

I'll look at you with sad eyes

hoping you'll throw me a bone

I can gnaw on in the afternoon.

You can be common:

a human in your comfortable chair

reading a newspaper

or surfing the Internet,

me in my carpeted corner

chewing, grinding, gnawing.

I'll even try to sleep in your bed

to make you toss and turn,

my poem breathing heavily

through your sleepless mind.

In the morning I jump at the chance

to be taken for a walk.

If you're possessive about my words

you'll hold them tight to you

with a leash.

Careful, I can pull quite hard:

I'm a damn big poet

and I'm poorly trained...

perhaps, even impossible

to control.

If you repeat my words to others,

I'll run free in parks and fields

peeing on everything taller

than an adjective.

Throw the ball.

Let's play.

I'll woof a few times

to get your attention.

woof woof

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All Rights Reserved