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