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.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Barrys Christmas Card 2014

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

The Facebook List

Since numbers never lie, I see one number less
of friends on Facebook now, my friend page makes me stress.
You dropped me as your friend, so now it's not so fun.
We were on Facebook then, but now you've had to run.
I don't know why you left, or who in life you are,
You, a friend so distant, and now you're really far.
It seems unimportant on why you're missed  today,
I went to check and see which friend escaped my play.
And since I keep no list of who jumps ship on me,
I'll have to wonder why this memory persists.
I knew you once it seems and now you think me nuts
or maybe thought occurred to you that now I am a putz.
I'd friend you in a minute and ask you what I did
to piss you off so bad and why you now are hid.
Oh, I think, okay to leave, we knew each other long,
since you said I was friend, I chose another song.
I wish you well enough to say your flame goes on
inside this well-worn heart, your day again will dawn.
So bye for now, dear friend, you're gone from daily eyes,
I maybe saw your posts, or who you did despise.
So fair you well, old friend, I, too, must go away,
I won't be weird or mad, if you come back one day.

Barry G. Wick
(I write rhyming poetry that can easily be tossed away...on passing issues of the day...and don't care how far it spreads.  It's not my intimate, important work that is usually not rhyming.  So if you wish to share it, just please attach my name to the bottom so someday people might find my serious work.)

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Cereal Murder

Good morning bowl, good morning spoon,
good morning milk, I sing your tune.
Upon the box of oaties sweet,
law in black words quite small, but neat.
From snakes of York law words with charm
protecting them if they do harm.
So now, I'll eat my breakfast, dear,
as I feel sure the poison's near.
Protect me, someone, from all that's bad
in my red bowl: this food I had.

Barry G. Wick

Monday, March 31, 2014

Writer and Editor Russell Jaffe runs the Strange Cage poetry reading bacchanal in Iowa City near-by where I now live in Coralville.   He edits an on-line poetry magazine he calls "USA"...and he's published one of my newest poems.  Here's the link:

The Big Tuna

I'm rolling in an ocean tank
called Coralville
When the wind comes shooting across the roof
and I hear the metal ripple
sounding like a large tuna can opening
Oh it's a damn big tuna can about 80 feet in length

I'm the big tuna sitting inside
cut to pieces that fit
by the death of my mother whose eyes dried up
like an old lemon in the fridge
no more sting
no more sour
then it ripples one more time
her best friend floats belly up in the tank 7 days later
and then the lid finally reveals the meat inside
my best friend
slips across the great barrier reef
I feel like the goddam tuna of death
because I went swimming with them all before I left
I fishtailed into their worlds to make my report
only to be gutted
As each one was hooked with no release
the hooks pulled chunks of my life
away into this odd shaped can

The wind ripples across the top of my house
one more time
and I'm the tuna again
trying to reattach my fins
to get the hell out of here
the thoughts of things undone
incomplete friendships and projects
pulled into a new tank
where my pieces just don't make sense
because I'm still a tuna cut up in the can
thinking about how to swim away
from what I feel
only to find I have been skinned
no longer raw
cooked in the can
and no ocean in sight
swimming in some unnamed oil
an oil that washes up on a dark shore
that cooks as it kills
Welcome to the can it says
you chose the oil instead of the water

I'm just the fish in this sandwich
Maybe being the bread on the outside
could more appealing
as the teeth of the world sink into them first
which means I've forgotten
that even the bread gets eaten
so nothing makes it out of the can
or the sack
or the mayo jar
nothing makes it out alive
All we're left with is empty cans
crumbs and dirty dishes
for someone else to clean up

Copyright © 2014 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

 published by USA online, Russell Jaffe, Editor