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