News Yearth 2016

News Yearth 2016

So a news yearth comes agained,

making this an age old trend,

and so my elbow doth be bend,

to toast with milk, you, dear friend.

Barry G. Wick

Tinsel

Some memories

take so long to fade

They are made of people

who have passed through

my life

or gave it to me

I want them all with me

now

around some live tree

covered in lights

still attached

to its roots

much as I am

to the people

who were mine

Please help me celebrate

Your darkness must

become the light

my life once had

after many years

filled with grief

too many lost

to age or sickness

Oh glorious light

push away the darkness

make a wall

that gradually expands

enough for breath

to reach my lungs

while they draw

their life into me

I am ready to smile

despite every ache

and darkest memory

which colors its black

beyond the lines

I was told to stay within

Come my friends

come to me again

if only

in a dream's reflection

your smiles

mirrored on Christmas

that sees everything now

with a library of strands

that hang into this future

when I can see

the wisdom of tinsel

Barry G. Wick

Beethoven Between Dreams

It is after

the first few hours of sleep

the night begins to glow

in the steps through mental snow

following the blizzard of years

as we wander through the keep

The Moonlight, Sir,

invades the process of thought

and what days created it

the process of selecting

between black and white

between major and minor

runs up the scale at night

when dreams that are bought

repeat themes knocking at the door

Sinking into remembrance

fingers fly hesitantly

across the keyboard

finding a letter here

and the joy of chance

in new melody near

when dark around us

peers over the shoulder

at the small sparks

that light the fingers

in their joyful dance

Always drifts begin to close

upon the gates then open

where feet through memory

run when no fence will hold

and the need to doze

intrudes it twists and trills

to lean back into the drama

of a neat little glimmer

where fates await

their dream eludes

Barry G. Wick

The Wind

The wind pushed trees

in a bully's attempt

to game the playground

just the other day

They stumbled a bit

as if there

was another wind

on the ground

just behind their knees

Each tree had seen

this trick before

as trees are often

older than they say

Each year is much the same

to us on the same playground

though our roots

are rarely as sturdy

as we'd like them to be

Sometimes we fall over

not from any wind

that raises itself before us

but from falling years

Each year crashes into us

as if propelled by

an accidental push

from an unseen hand

to which was cocked a shaking fist

Hopeless standing our ground

we wish we could

fly through leafless trees

in an imagination of wind

Those leafless trees

are often the later years

in which our health

forces a rooting

to an unfamiliar place

And so we let the wind of years

though our leafless branches

accepting the constant

push from the bully of time

Barry G. Wick

Tennis Balls

In a very large room

are tennis balls

that represent

the molecules

in my hand

Thank you Alan Watts

for that image

but sir

I am enlightened

where I am

Nirvana

I see the tennis balls

as all the smiles

needed to accept it

All the molecules

in my body too

All I have to do is smile

with every molecule

in me

So I smile all the time

to thank everyone

for their help and themselves

with my smile

and the words behind it

all the molecules

all the smiles

all the words

When I jump

from tennis ball

to tennis ball

I'm not certain I smile

because there is so

much time in my hand

then no time at all

like the present

So I give myself the present

to jump with a smile

Barry G. Wick

The Old Comet-Asteroid Decision

No more destroying cities

no more floods'

just no more

the creator doesn't seem

to understand

what starts on this planet

and gets to the creator's ear

is cacophony

Some want this

some want that

everyone who prays

can't seem to get together

with the others who pray

4000 plus religions

on one planet

the creator's head shakes

back and forth

as the hands shake

Is it a wave good-bye

And so the creator walks across

the universe

mumbling

It's sad

So creative a talent

now unable to make a decision

time for the old comet-asteroid trick

the destruction can be blamed

on something without mind

it's on the way

it's been on the way

since the beginning of time

just like the other ones

we just have to wait

Barry G. Wick

Thanksgiving Day

My Mother and Grandmothers

are cooking Thanksgiving at my home today

Oh my no they aren't in the same kitchen

but their own kitchens that have expanded

beyond the walls of the place I live

The rain awakened me this morning

and the clattering of pans

in between the smells of cooking turkey

and pie oh yes pie

All the cousins aunts and uncles

everybody I ever knew in my family

and some I never met until today

arrive in this magic

as a great table begins to expand

in my living room

Why they chose my place is beyond me

and beyond the small walls of these rooms

that seem to explode with the arrival

of family and friends

Such a table has never been seen

It grows each minute

when someone remembers another

who belongs with this group

Out comes the bottles of wine

with grandchildren begging for a taste

More cousins arrive

Brothers sisters wives husbands

hundreds now chattering a roar

that outdoes the rain on a metal trailer roof

I see my children when they were little

playing with their own children

in an impossible scene of hilarity

that spawns a sandbox in another room

that expands suddenly before my eyes

as little hands steal olives

and a chorus of mothers and grandmothers

sing in multi-part harmony

their age-old song

“Now don't spoil your dinner”

that seems to have been written by Bach

and Sondheim all at once

an amazing chorus that seems to last

through many curtain calls

dripping with applause

Now from a hundred ovens

dancing turkeys browned to perfection

drop on platters for the fathers and grandfathers

going back generations

to feel important as they strop and steel

their fancy knives used only on this day

The table expands beyond all walls

in a star shaped explosion as if July 4^th

just became a day for furniture to detonate

with more and more chairs filled

with friends family and the ones

who need such a party

as they've never seen before

Soon there are soldiers from every war

home to hug their moms

tears flow into barrel-sized gravy boats

Dancing down the middle of every section

the finest silverware jumps into hands

as platters float silently in front of the family

for we are all family today

doing justice for our freedoms and our gratitudes

As I walk from my bedroom

into this circus of Thanksgiving magic

someone yells for me to say grace

words I now stutter with my radio-trained voice

whose ending is the loudest amen I've ever heard

breaking windows and sending clouds away

to seize the light of a distant sun

that now surrounds each member

of this golden table

Happy Thanksgiving everyone I yell

and all at once it seems

every silver serving dish

and platter of slabs of perfectly carved turkey

show up before me

Such a day I think

Now where's the gravy

I have stuffing begging

with outstretched arms

to be drowned in thickened rapture

Barry G. Wick

T. E. Lawrence-- Two Paintings by Augustus John

Forget the movie

forget the actors

forget the desert

forget the Arabs

played by an Englishman

and by an American

forget the handsome Egyptian

forget Omar Sharif

forget Peter O'Toole

though they probably

are the elephants

that create themselves

inside our heads

forget the oil beneath

the sand thousands of miles

away beyond the curvature

of a boiling earth engulfed

in a new world war

to see the man

an Englishman who was himself

dressed in the clothes of a nomad

the handle of his janbiya or Khanja

sticking out of the belt

his thobe and tassels

the kufeya, ghoutra and igal

if you want to blame someone

blame him for being a man

who opened the Bedu

to the 20^th Century

so that now every one

has a Lamborghini or Ferrari

with a Kalashnikov

in the back seat

Here a wide-eyed crazy painter

or so how he looked

still creates the images

now long after both are gone

as if these two flat creations

could see into this future

where we experience a locked door

afraid of the neighbors

shy of the others

who shop like us at Walmart

where the greeter wears an hijab

in an Iowa city

who smiles as she checks

the receipt

for her corporate bosses

certain you might be deceitful

with unpackaged

toilet paper

and cases of bottled water

A painting sees more than its subject

It often sees the people

who many of us can't see

and don't want to

Barry G. Wick

Henry's Dream

There comes a point

yes a time in space

when the realization

comes to pound down

the doors put up for show

It's not the game anymore

It's not being in it

Every wind has its wall

a line of trees without leaves

purpose without play

It's all gone

ideas drip into pools

on bare floors

when even the mops

can't be alerted

fingers follow the same paths

on soundless keyboards

whole tone after whole tone

white black black black white

white white white black black

no melody erupts from silence

no creation gets an ear

every action seems foolish

every attempt to fit

becomes thin milk

through a plastic sieve

the butter already churned

from each hour

better to extinguish the lanterns

than to pretend to show

there is light

settle back now

don't try to talk

a thumb finds the hard edge

on an unprocessed board

that isn't sharp

where is a good plane

a sharp plane

when one is needed

to take off just enough

to make this kingdom look good

just one more time

once more into the breach

or just close the wall

for the wind

the always blowing wind

Barry G. Wick

The Last Trail for Big John (for John Miller)

Step by step on gravel

dirt or pavement

one foot goes in front

He is lucky enough

to have one leg

Age can make a leg

heavy as a roped beef

that bawls out

grounded in the branding

His last saddle

surrounded by food

and medicine bottles

Back and forth

one grabs this or that

to leave

to save a later effort

along the way

To pass the laundry

sister folded

a towel is grabbed

to dry the dish of the day

or to drop off a dirty towel

of a forgetful nurse

This path is way beyond

the year of rowdy youth

who wasted time and energy

on a ranch or at the bar

to make fences for his body

Some paths are scratched

by a false appendage

that tears at floors

No edges of danger rugs here

Sometimes the bones

in the last knee

click like a dead battery

in an orange and white taxi

adding pain to the meter

TVs are heard outside

for ears who trace

a softer path

Spots grow on skin

with livers blamed

who claim false accusation

The trail to here

fades in dimming eyesight

This chair raises a foot

and lowers a head

until the sun sets

as the last ride

puts two ghost feet

in the stirrups

It could be Fruita

the Hart Ranch

or Blackhawk

where this cowboy

ropes an angel

that flew in front

of his saddled lightning

Barry G. Wick

Our Friendship

                      

 (for CR)

It began somewhere in the dark

of grade school classrooms

kid drawing projects on the walls

mother's cookies on birthdays

milk and nap-time in kindergarten

A red brick building with a flat roof

upper graveled playground

for the older kids fourth through sixth

the lower for the little kids

Miss Widebody had the little little ones

in their own

Yeah, that's cruel but I can't remember

her name right now as the past

slips away in confusion and loneliness

but she was patient and sweet

The principal was a tall rancher

who would be tall even now

making an in-town living

for payments his acres couldn't budge

My friend lived on the next street north

I lived over the hill

The folks gave me a camera

that captured faces with no names

including his

I could not forget his

His father was killed

serving in the Air Force

My father killed golf balls

on Wednesday afternoon

We played war as kids

to make a machine gun nest

that looked across my gravel driveway

out of boards covered with dirt

There were Germans out there somewhere

I was descended from Germans

My college didn't teach machine gun

He saved his own life

in Vietnam

with the real thing

Barry G. Wick

The Return

An old shame has knocked on the door

to make remembrance dance painfully

With each footstep it is silly to feel

the growing of it that is best

turned over to an erasable yesterday

Father's parents are coming to visit

They are sitting on the patio

in padded redwood chairs

waiting for the grandchildren

to greet them since they rarely cross town

The one child missing from the greeting

is having trouble finding pants to wear

because they don't properly fit

as buttons won't button and zippers won't zip

these pants too small on a growing child

Eventually the mother takes an arm

to pull him out into the summer night

in a t-shirt and underwear

Grandmother says it doesn't matter

Grandpa smiles through his gold wire glasses

The hugs aren't remembered if given

That's what should be important

No amount of erasing will wipe away

the truth of these embarrassments

It is truth that begs its writing

Such moments return with a lowered head

even when years are suppose to drop

away as a child grows to manhood

then into the aged years grass of the path

of a man is worn away beneath his feet

It is the child inside who feels a failure

The adult also lets such emotions drain

into the same pot that becomes

so overwhelming no amount of self-advising

will knock down the castle of shame

If only hugs could free ourselves in a family

that rarely hugged or held a hand

Reassurance and forgiveness at any age

wipes away all of the dark stains

the created imaginations of a fleeing child

That child is still running to the unknown

to beg for a moment of unfiltered kindness

as he cries for all the times he paused

to hold his self reflected in smaller socks

running around the home he left behind

Barry G. Wick

The Gradual Colors of Blindness

Raised in the home of an optometrist

good vision was often the topic

as the family settled for a meal

in the nook on the corner

of the house with windows

that looked east to the hill

and west to the black mountains

where the sun blazed at its setting

Father mixed the complexity

of long and strange words

with something his boys

could understand

He spoke of his day

staring at the eyes

of patients with diabetes

macular degeneration

and the gradual loss of colors

For someone who had given his life

over to the care of those who

needed his care and concise observations

pain could be easily felt

as he spoke of someone going blind

Jorge Luis Borges was not his patient

because he lived in South America

far from the west of South Dakota

Borges spoke of his descending vision

losing blacks and other colors

one or two at a time in slow progression

Those who know these conditions

have sympathy for the one going blind

Yet thinking about these changes

and the blind who have crossed

the paths of my father's sons

there must be something special

in the loss of a sense

as other senses take charge

as the memory of visions

sharpen into the razors of thought

There is no desire to be blind

however eyes no longer drawn

this way and that

some kind of peace must settle

into the minds of those blind

who render the remembered

pile of black letters

into the word pictures

of the astonished void

that is the life of most people

Just as dust settles into the cracks

of a table or between the letters

on a keyboard

words gather no dirt

with no need for a polish in the mind

if they are properly dipped

in the colors of a blind man's creation

There's Borges yes but also

Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder

Jose Feliciano and Ronnie Milsap

Moondog and Doc Watson

These colors can make the legs weak

or force a toe to tap beyond all control

Father helped those near to blindness

see the dimming of the world

knowing well that something else

could rise from the pool

of remembered visions

What is left of each life's way

by accident birth or advanced age

needs no pity or tears of sorrow

but a closer look by inner eyes

of those who still can see

to recognize the possibilities

of darkness as a gift

for a golden frame

around the blazing colors

spilling from a changing soul

Barry G. Wick

Word Stringer

“Any great poem is one you wrote anyway.”--Richard Hugo

Those who put words

together

one after another

are not writers

image manufacturers

poets

whatever is believed

the occupation

or avocation may be

the real creators

are the readers

who bring their own

mental images to the paper

the pages

the screens

to the voices aloud

bouncing wall to wall

or dancing across the prairie

like light rain

No

rich and often poor words

bring thunderstorms

drop hail and tornadoes

inside heads

to flash their lightning

across inner eyes

the ones that cannot be

examined by an optometrist

until after brains

have exploded from heads

when they become invisible mush

for the dead to digest

To enjoy them

stay alive

to prepare for the apocalypse

when dictionaries are burned

sending smoke aloft

unreadable by everyone

except Indians in the movies

or destroyed by noon-day cannons

their loud utterances

demanding rest or nourishment

The King proclaims

only what is accepted

by those who are woolly caterpillars

in line for the next bush

unable to see anything

except the next crawly butt

Stop that at once

search all the words

being fed by the spoonfuls

to find the depth

of the gift of creation

Now blow that up

Mr. Hubble

Barry G. Wick

Recollection

A poet awakens from his dream

Before the paper records it

he wanders to his toilet

to let the night's words drain

He checks his underwear

for poetic skidmarks

Yes his dreams are written there

The fog of darkness hustles him

to the kitchen where he takes

his first medicine

a pill of words prescribed

by poetic doctors

Dishes from a poetic dinner

sit in the sink

so he draws the water

into his well of words

adding soap to billow

over its edges

He wants his poem to be clean

He rushes to feed more words

to his fish who are hungry

Sitting

he tests his blood to see if

he is still worthy enough

to record the memories of the dreams

that sleep has stored

He presses buttons to open

the paper on a screen

The pens on the tips of his fingers

splash ink where the clouds lift

as the sun enters

his drifting storm of letters

that create the gibberish

that poets always recollect

This poet's dream has him rushing

to his mentor to retell a story

that never happened

of a gathering of poets along a river

where they spilled their words

in a distant land of mountains

The senior poet nods

at his student's progress

deciding to give him a radio

full of his poems

attached to a window sill

by a separate base

wires piercing the wood

into this poet's collection

just as empty as a gathering

his student organized in the backyard

of his past life

The instrument is separated

and given to the student

who beams with pride

at the gift

that can never replay

the voice of the man

who gives it

No matter how many watts

the student poet applies

to the tubes and speakers

the words of his teacher

cannot appear in the morning haze

as the poet drools more words

onto a glowing screen

while he watches the bubbles

disappear in the sink

to the sound of bubbles

where his fish swim

to the bubble of memory

that pops in his head

He is ready for the day

surrounded by empty words

popping everywhere

a sonic bubble bath

that keeps his dishes clean

his fish alive

and his poem

empty of voices

Barry G. Wick

To Space and Beyond

Whatever empty space is

I think about it

and it doesn't seem to notice

my thought

That empty place is locked

inside the wrong of me

that I see every day

Those who are pleased

I suffer

are rewarded by it

It is an expanding emptiness

certainly not black

for something to be black

there must be something

to absorb the light

but inside the light fades

an empty jug

deeply empty

atoms of thought

pushing farther into nothingness

and I'm spread out

until the edges aren't just thin

this toast has no butter

this music has no vibration

this painting has no color

no frame

no canvas

I hang it on my wall

to remind myself

of its memory

which is nothing at all

sprouting into the distance

a growing plant

unable to gain sustenance

from its impossible growth

without a root

pushing deep

into a dirt-free soil

Barry G. Wick

A New Coat

To whom and in what do I fit

raised by a lonely woman

who had second thoughts

after her marriage

of three decades

her second husband

tossed away at the wrong time

for poor reasons

when she could have had

someone to share a few more plays

concerts and parties

then ostracized by his circle

deserved or not

She was never very physical

never full of hugs

or just a simple touch

It felt so odd to hug her

as her runaway dementia plowed

though her hole-filled brain

mowing down memories

of everyone including me

at the end of her autonomic gasps

silenced by drops of morphine

Here the violins crescendo

in dark hours

months past those tears

when I still talk to her

across the chasm between

her chair and my sofa

the same stations

that brought calm to her sleep

Even in the years I cared

she always shouted

to a flameless room

filled with family shadows

in years that didn't

include me

never once falling

over the syllables

of her children's names

Her ashes in the ground

beneath the pines

far away

in what seems light years

across the galaxy of states

I am buried in my mobile home

quiet until the dawn

when I can no longer hold

the emptiness at arms length

only to jump into a cold bed

trying to still a vacant mind

akin to pulling a boiling pot

from a glowing stove

the liquid boiled away

to cause rainbows of heat

in the steel

Yes all the colors

anyone could want

except the one color

of you in my heart

whoever you might be

I hug the ceiling with my eyes

doused in minuscule shadows

from the acid street

curtains always drawn

to keep away my dreams

that always end with you

that always awaken to sorrow

much as she opened

her crusty eyes to empty days

You are not my mother

you always an imagination

of your face and hair

reflected in the polished pipes

of her empty funeral dirge

or the mirror of tarnished imagination

I don't know your eyes

the touch of you beside me

in these days of punishment

spiking memories mixed

with the burn

of never having met you

my invisible love

as I try on these age-filled years

a new coat made

from the wooden shavings

of my last breath

Barry G. Wick

The Bread on My Stove

Pending a visitation

to my local big box food

pharmacy clothing garden store

you know the place

where bread

appeals browned and airy

in the plastic socks

tied neatly with a length

of papered wire

red blue or green

butter and jam awaits

the smell of end season

violets onions and oranges

that boost the odor

of unscrubbed

or tar-fingered patrons

the beep of the oven timer

in its high-pitch regularity

announces that a poorly crafted

inadequately covered

in the rising phase

pile of crusty dough

not really a loaf

in a loaf pan

but on an oaf pan

dough slammed onto a flat

blistered and mottled cookie sheet

forged incomplete

through a heated cycle

to the point

where it might be edible

across the kitchen it cools

in its appearance of a pillow

cased in pale protuberances

a bread sandpaper

only slightly brown

at each end

just enough to rake a tongue

with its cheap flavors

of salt and olive oil

that's it

any more images

and I'll be forced to eat

that crappy loaf

Barry G. Wick

The Chosen One

My Valkyries are joining the party

they bring glitter and poppers

swords and spears

disease and damnation

love and lust

Upon the clouds they ride

dark and demonic

wearing sensible shoes

for they travel far and wide

They choose who lives and dies

in battle

I am surprised by their decision

I am chosen by them

Go about your business, ladies

For I must immortalize you

in all your Wagnerian thunder

I don't have time to fulfill

your requests of me

It would be more exciting

to see you in the clouds

above a fjord that descends

into a deep sea

full of dark monsters

but this is Iowa

at the end of summer

and the only monsters here

are talking about taxes and banking

poverty and riches

snakes and angels

Of course I'm half Norwegian

which is why I am able

to see you in the clouds

before all my neighbors

who peer out of their mobile homes

wondering what is going on

So I add more trumpets and tympani

chorus and cannon

flame and fluster

It's all for you

the women of my dreams

with at least one named Bob

Barry G. Wick

Peace in Our Time

The only gold George Custer and his troops

should have seen as they traipsed

through the Black Hills in 1874

wouldn't have been gold but the light blue

of the spring crocus

They might have convinced him

to throw out any prospectors of the hills

and given him incentive

not to fight anymore “Indians”

He would have announced

to a waiting world

“I found the crocus and nothing else”

Then there wouldn't have been any greed

any Mount Rushmore

tourists in their whale-sized RVs

nor motorcycles rumbling by the millions

passed Bear Butte

near an unfounded Fort Meade

no Sturgis or Deadwood

Hickock would have lived longer

No Rapid City or Ellsworth Air Force Base

No broken treaties

No reservations

My parents would not have met

and I wouldn't see any crocus

on my hike over 

an unnamed Hangman's Hill

to an unbuilt Lincoln School

or take them home to Mom

by my little handfuls

Barry G. Wick

Publish This Poem!

Hello my name is

Juan Feng-shi Apollinaire-Washington

My parents are a combination of

German Scottish and Norwegian

I concocted my MFA

at the University of Southern North Dakota

where I teach 22^nd Century Poetry

I write poetry that never gets published

Soon this will change

because I have a name

the covers all the bases

I know you'll take this poem

into your deep publisher's heart

swirl it around a bit

get to know me

and put this poem

in your monthly magazine

I shall become famous

My poem will be translated

into thirteen languages

Italian but not French

Swahili but not Urdu

and some others

You will seek out

other poems by me

and my mysterious photo

because I have such

a important-sounding foreign name

You will call me on the phone

to invite me to read at the Y

or the Brooklyn poets

for a slight fee or let's just say

a ghastly-large honorarium

I will wear colorful clothing

and shoes

that do not match

My hair will be soaked

in a brand name shoe polish

I will say a few words

in my religious tongues

that no one will understand

and fake an accent

that sounds like a Native American

who grew up in New Delhi

I will be brilliant at this reading

and will chat with all those

who will fawn over me

at the rich man's apartment

after the reading

What a beautiful view

I'll say

while sipping my single malt

with a splash of cranberry

Barry G. Wick

Isolation

I don't understand

all the complaints

about people

with their heads bowed

and their eyes

on the screens of their phones

Man's long-term dream

is isolation

We treasure the stories

of Daniel Boone

Jim Bridger

and those who

lived in small cabins

at the edge of a mirrored lake

built over their first summer

to trap the beaver

on dammed streams

in the wilderness

The screens show us

the great wilderness

that is humanity

as we search for beaver

buffalo and elk

all by ourselves

on the L to the “Loop”

Someday a passenger

will shoot an elk

near the CTA Blue Line

We'll call her

Elk Megan

since

Buffalo somebody

is already taken

The Chicago SWAT Team

will show up while she's

beading her elk-skin shirt

and yell for her

to put down her needle

Cell phone by her side

with complete instructions

and color illustrations

Barry G. Wick

Three Drops

On the floor they appear

in the light from my rechargeable

like planets on the page

of a childhood book

See here is the sun

with two planets circling

though these planets are immovable

and are not really planets at all

The largest

farthest from the entry

to the small room

with wash and dry machines

The smallest in the middle

with the mid-sized

closest to the kitchen

Now mottled brown

appearing almost as if

these had been struck by meteors

Closer inspection would reveal

dead worlds of tiny things

that had once been a part

of a larger life force

These planets show

because the blade of a hatchet

had been carelessly replaced

among other needed tools

which ever so gracefully

put a half-inch slice

in a right index finger

deeper than first thought

from where these planets

would form on the floor

from the drops carelessly

created by the sudden pain

more like a paper cut

than this dripping wound

So here these three show

themselves long past the minutes

of anxious footsteps

to the first aid box

crafted in the wood shop

some years ago

for just such an occurrence

that never happened hundreds

of hours and miles ago

Here was the bottle of wash

to treat the cut to move

what might have stayed

inside the skin now dripping

cells of many kinds

into the tiny sink

The first attempt at a bandage

failed from skin being too wet

and again the drops

were swirling down the drain

as the sting returns

to remind how carelessly

was the search for a screwdriver

The second held longer

but again failed to stem the flow

and now a third

between attempts to dry

the wounded digit

of the dominant hand

Now it closes the thin line

that caused so painful a drain

that the pad was not soaked through

that the adhesive held this skin

together to seal the skin closed

So now forgetfulness becomes

a need to put the air conditioner

into the window when the central system

had failed on a hot day

A second attempt to procure the right tool

to remove the screen

Could the machine be lifted

Could the window be sealed

So quickly it was in place to cool

So the night progresses though phone calls

through life attachments to friends

who suffer more

to video to radio to type

to all the things that take away

the pain of creation

billions of years ago

before the galaxy

the solar system

before this fragile planet

before these sudden creations

dripped reminders upon the floor

of all the atoms

of all the cells

of all the chemistry

learned in hundreds of years

of war and study

from more than

three drops of blood

Barry G. Wick