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 25, 2013

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

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

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

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

Monday, January 21, 2013

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

Friday, January 18, 2013

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