Tom the Cobbler

At first the odor

accosts us

It's a small mess

on the inside

of his shop

and in that instant

its reputation is sealed

in the affirmative

Tom can't retire

because he's too busy

fixing shoes

selling shoes

selling everything

needed for shoes

little colored jars

of this or that wax

cans of this or that spray

hundreds of shoes strings

of every variety

This isn't a mall

where neatness counts

Here the only attraction

is Tom himself

with his spectacular

white hair and mustache

What he does

for a new customer

he's never met

someone with a simple fix

he starts on it right away

while the world enters

through the same door

to pick up a purse

that needed a new zipper

a better one

Someone ogles

colored shoes

An old man with a walker

sits near the entrance

unable to get further in

But how does Tom repair shoes

and care for customers

at the same time

The smell is a clue

elves

there's no mistaking it

the elves of the old shoemaker

have taken up residence

to help Tom

in Iowa City

Elves it is said

smell of gingerbread

perhaps

but careful discernment

inside the nose

picks up notes

of fruitcake

and rum babas

An elf on rum babas

is pitiful

Ask it to resole a shoe

and you're likely

to get a billfold back

Fruitcake munching elves

are mean

sometimes vicious

Tom can't let them

greet customers

They refused to read

anything

by Dale Carnegie

If elves eat gingerbread

they will slobber

all over you expressing

love of mankind

Eyes roll every time

Tom is patient and wise

always watching elves

for the potential

of such a mistake

It's why he's so friendly

with his customers

That way the elves

don't help

in the front

And nobody likes

an elf who paws

and slobbers

Barry G. Wick

Old with Animals

We all see the stories

of old women

who have cats by the bale

that rule every corner

of a uncontrolled house

or the old man

who only leaves his chair

to let the dog out

that grows gray

along with his owner

When the furry face

no longer sits in a lap

or lays its head on a leg

for a scratch on the head

a woman will busy

herself in undone projects

to forget the loss

and a man will pull

a few hairs from his beard

conveniently stuck together

with drops of yoke

to feel the pain of loss

he stifled every day

of manhood

But what of the people

who are allergic

to furry box huggers

or who can't walk

a dog in places

where the dog

must be on a leash

to be in the sun or snow

Even a goldfish

in a bowl or tank

discovered to be floating

by a homebound

elicits tears

that enter a bubbling tank

unnoticed by no one

when in other years

a parent would flush

and replace

before the end day

school bell rang

The little friends

who just breathe

in the same room

keep love alive

when working children

and world-exploring grandchildren

never call and never write

The old call it justice

for the same treatment

they lavished on their family

in days of work and growth

with the stillness of snowfall

seen through blurring eyes

a bored dog's sigh

the flick of a cat tail

the burp in a bubbling tank

reminds those forgotten

that forgetful family

will get theirs

as an evil laugh

races silently through

a graying head

Barry G. Wick

Generation

I read my parents' letters
in the light of an oil lamp
that flutters in the evening breeze.
The words cast shadows unexpectedly
over the years back to my mid-teens
when everything I spoke
hurt them as deeply
as my own child
now breaks my illusions.

When just the breath is heard
raking across the tightening walls
of my chest,
all things separate from me
and become the paper-thin seascape
of it:
only the one needed hug
or hand held in this growth
of final silences.

Perhaps the shaken sense I have
of the letters in each word
is not advancing age,
but the apprehension
in their own thoughts
wandering through a mined land
I once planted for them.


Barry G. Wick
written possibly in the late 1980s
unknown date

(It's)

All clean inside this silence
without audiences creating noises.
The sweep of the landscape
changes with color.
No simple movement, this,
no eyes, no mouth,
no vibration of the threat
or repositioning of the tongue.
This will never light the way
for some young student.
It will become itself
in a drawer with dust
or ashes.


Barry G. Wick
written in May of 1991
recently found in some very old papers

The Stage (for Vice-President-Elect Pence)

Watching an actor

on the boards

for the hoards

is a challenge

to brains that are tame

More often than not

the words and the movement

send a shot of improvement

to someone who's not part

of the plot

If going to the theater

is just to sit back

for nothing to happen inside

it's a waste of space

that playwrights confide

someone in the audience

is slack

Next time the lights

fill a stage with delight

go deeper

than smiles and bone

Let actors and words

sink into your skull

to spark some thought

in a neuron

Barry G. Wick

Simulation

I am a computer simulation

written by a student

of programming

in a civilization

that sends bots

to check on our progress

They appear as UFOs

As a simulation

I have to examine

the life given to me

inside a machine

as it relates

to the student

who created me

I failed in math

and had no interest

in numbers

I failed in business

I failed as a pianist

I failed in so many

ways that I'm certain

the student who wrote me

failed the course

And yet I keep running

to keep failing

in the corners of the computer

that hasn't been cleared

of the projects

of the last class

I've even failed as a poet

In my next incarnation

I shall choose

a student who is smarter

at least enough

to get a passing grade

Will someone please

drag me to the trash

Barry G. Wick

The Doors of Nevermore

We know where she was born

We know where she died

beyond that

we're not able to write

an obituary for the newspaper

and what does it matter anyway

that we don't know what she did

what flowers she liked

her favorite walks

with whom she loved

She had no children

No one came to visit

when she went to the nursing home

Her life is a blank

since all her papers were burned

by those who cleaned

the room where she lived

Does anyone remember

Does anyone care

So now a simple grave

on the South Dakota prairie

in a simple wooden box

in the flowered dress she wore

rolling in the wheel chair

through the doors

of nevermore.

Barry G. Wick

(Less than)140

I try the bed

in gray sheets

hucksters swimming

with what will ease

my life

anyone have sleep

for $19.95 plus shipping

Barry G. Wick

A short break.

I shall not be writing for a while.  This will be a short break.  The next phase will be a new blog.  I think of this blog with it's over 245 poems to be a single book...the audience having made selections of the poems by their approval or never, a disapproval.  Some of these poems have as many as 5 pluses.  It suggests that the people are editors of my work.  Some things they like--some they don't.
The next phase...a country not yet visited.

All Powerful

Sitting on the edge of the bed

looking murder through dark curtains

into the yawn-gaped day

that refuses to burn away

with fire-ray vision

the optometrist informs is real

This is no mere super villain

that limps from bed

through the kitchen to desk

now carrying

the instrument of salvation

It's black handle and toothy blade

ready to dispatch

the globe from Florida

in four strokes to the plate

Five neat pieces

reveal it's delicately strung beads

filled with acidic tears

that burst as jaws begin

their evil ripping

all the way to the rind

This orange begins

to raise the brain through the smoke

of dream-filled cataclysms

The earth is finally safe

Barry G. Wick

Phlebotomist, Poet, Students, and Teacher

Her smile

her thick-framed glasses

her short black hair

over her dark skin

She's from Sudan

drawing the blood

in an Iowa clinic

telling a poet

he should make money

from his poems

The answer for most

would be yes

hell yes

yes dammit

Poets aren't remembered

for their bank accounts

in a chain of banks

or how much they leave

their families après croak

Just one poem survives

for most who write

It might not be

their best poem

All any poet should want

is to have a junior high kid

ask the teacher in 500 years

why

they should have to read

this stupid old poem anyway

One day a student will ask

this as the teacher points

to a poem on the glowing screen

“It's old English,” she'll say.

Then the teacher will be

beaten and robbed

just minutes before

the third nuclear war

Barry G. Wick

Montana Love

Believe this is Butte
with a strange poison in the air
Is this going to or coming from
It doesn't matter
there is a YMCA in town
with a pool and shower
The check in is nominal
with a change from streets
to a comfortable suit to swim
A mile down the lane
and its out to sit
There is no one here
but a young man
who watches
who follows this exploration
of empty rooms
to the shower
he stares at places
where things reveal themselves
Simple conversation becomes
the invitation turned away
with wet silence
despite where his eyes
have been
as he hurries away
down the hall
and out the door
A towel drys a questioning head
At the door he is seen
farther down the street

Where is his life now
married or alone
dreaming of a traveling man
in a flowered Speedo
where love in Butte
is always furtive and fearful
This miners' town
of years ago
that turned to energy
when there was energy
to spend a night
embracing him
before that energy
turned into the aches
of older years
farther down western highways
the scenery of orange sundowns
and needy men unrelieved
having never held each other


Barry G. Wick

The Length of the Path

Laying in bed before troubled sleep
returns to surprise in colored dreams
with an impossible story
comes the memories of children's feet
on a hilly forest path to school
surrounded by the brown grass
of a snow-less winter or dry summer
among old pines flagged from wind
at the top of Hangman's Hill
with its beige and pink sandstone

The path returns in the morning
from the house sided in dull red
to the area behind the rock that marks
the top of the hill down the other side
to the road around the corner
or crossing the old witch's land
who yells trespass warnings
before you pass the mayor's house
seeing friends on the playground
playing tag or chasing games

Thousands of hikes to and from the school
where the first polio vaccines
on sugar cubes gave a mother confidence
that what happened to her brother
in an iron lung won't happen to her child
the school where friends would play
and old people voted in the gym
We played war games there of an old world
where real wounds happen bloodless
with loaded sticks or pine cone grenades

The first days of school began at a bowl
of limp cereal in changing seasons
when there were no problems dry or wet
challenging kids more than arithmetic
in a red brick building with gravel playground
Inside dark halls were forgotten brass
plaques to remind forgotten students
of the people who approved money
for the building of this school
and their commitment to learning

All students waited for Saturday mornings
with Mighty Mouse if the family was lucky
to have invisible television radiation
close enough to the towers of two stations
no more silence in the night to read
sitting on the carpet close waiting
for Ed Sullivan to show us Buddy Holly
being told to back up because being close
will ruin the eyes with which we need to read
the books in later times would become irrelevant

All the memories of the path are different
resting quietly inside those kids
who pull them up to wonder about them
or laugh at what was serious to teachers
as some of them came to school
hungry or in torn clothing from shacks
after a night where drunken dad beat mom
or arguments disturbed a darkened bedroom
when children would cry pulling covers
knowing parents could not love

Most of the whispers would disappear
learning the words for tests of memory
with spelling the days when corrections
weren't underlined on a glowing screen
but checked in red by unmarried teachers
who were smart to be single and free
The more we knew from the news
it was mostly that we learned Crest
was tested against other toothpaste
making us 34 per cent better with Fluoristan

Now the commercials are more believable
than the repeated news on some channels
The informative presenters have nothing
and never give us tests they check in red
These news stars of fact also know
what ad agencies say about repetition
So true or not we all live over-informed
near Hangman's Hill's blue pasque flowers
that grow in bunches along the path
enough for teacher enough for mother

Some days we played in school
because the radioactive fallout
was so bad from who knows where
from over the hills from over the seas
There was no understanding this
because it looked the same outside
just as any other day in our town
just as any other week in other seasons
So over the years our parents died
our friends died too of cancer this or that

How many inches of memory
are used to make this message
how much of it lost to chemicals
that we were told was part of better living
As we watch our planet die
with plastic piling up in the oceans
in the guts of birds fish and mammals
oil and gas still rule the lands of earth
only the lies have changed from tigers
in the tank to tanks at the doorsteps

Children and grandchildren show up
in invisible bytes of ones and zeroes
who have murmurs in the heart
disabilities too hard to explain
a need for chemicals to concentrate
all the while teachers no longer
believe it important to check wrongs
on papers turned in to show progress
only that all students should be encouraged
to be there the day of the national test

We wonder now if what we made
was not the world we wanted
just something we tumbled through
in which grandparents rolled before us
in their old clothes the future down-loaders
will laugh at and never really know
what the pictures reveal to be true
that we are just as ignorant of our age
as they were of their making-something-better
that takes the challenges away from some

No one returns to the path on the side of the hill
going back and forth to the red-brick school
to and from the redwood sided house
in a small meadow below the crest
of Hangman's Hill where three horse thieves
ended their lives at the behest of locals
who thought stealing a horse equaled death
just as today when we think just being a child
in a land faraway is worthy of death from the sky
when our path now conflicts with the kings of oil

This path is steep or rocky in places near and far
It's the same path going to and coming from
that has been beneath feet in many shoes
The first paths are always the one that stay
locked into the mind like anchored rocks
This could be anyplace with its varied flora
being picked to take or picked on the way home
It is always the same feet one after the other
So up the steps into the house paths take us
where land is flat or hilly the result is the same



Barry G. Wick

Shut-ins

Old people in their homes

who are unable to leave

are adventuresome rocks

who hope for a great flood

to take them downstream

while they feel like fish

who just escaped a hook

Barry G. Wick

Collected

There are names on books

of who edited poems together

by this or that author

the editor sharing a life

that could not possibly

be understood in its entirety

not understood by the readers

who do not breathe

the same air

as the poet walks

in sandals or barefoot

in loafers or heels

The collected dust

on a poet's skin

would show where

the poet walked

but they do not sell

small vials of it

in bookstores

Collected hair

left by balding poets

isn't traded

at the supermarket

Old bills paid

by checks signed

might still exist

but few might collect

Empty bottles or bindles

don't seem to make it

to the auction

The last rays of light

that touched the poet's skin

have been reflected

in light seen or unseen

Exhaled breath

with droplets of moisture

traded to the air

from coursing veins

dissipate among the vegetable stands

on a distant street

in a town unnamed

in every line of poetry

or letter written to a friend

All we have are remnants

of inspiration

that deleted a moment

of awareness of everything

around the poet

long enough

for pen pencil

tapped keys or tapped keyboard

chalk or tip of burnt kindling

to set limited words

spelled in designed letters

of a thousand alphabets

onto something another

might try to comprehend

only to fail

this challenge

of crawling beneath the skin

to live one second

in awe or disgust

of a life for which

we are desperate

Barry G. Wick

Strange Morning

Up earlier than expected
the want to sleep more
the want to make coffee
hot water run for dishes
then the business of health
then the business of bills
as hunger creeps over a tongue

The numbers have been logged
with a late mother's silver pen
or on an aging computer
that was once fast
and now begins to show
how there is a need
for something newer and slick

The body ages quicker
one pill makes this ache go
another makes movement easy
here are these two
that silence the electric feet
another raises some number
that makes a doctor happy

One friend gave a small statue
of the Hindu god Ganesha
the elephant sitting here
all powerful unable to fix
that friend who now lives
his last days confused
with a tumor that eats his brain

The bills create another ache
Morning sun does not bring joy
Its reminder is the passage
of time that cannot be stopped
of failed love and loss
the want to return to night's dreams
where sleepers play unashamed


Barry G. Wick

Summer Haiku

muscled youth labors
on lawns of summer's beauty
as the father snores



Barry G. Wick

Eagles Haiku 2

Eagles rarely laugh
in deference to pine trees'
stoic hysterics


Barry G. Wick

A Life from Memory

it isn't sadness that brings
the past boiling
into the present
because we must
be here now
it is a requirement
of misspent years
to retrain the old head
despite losing memory
in the midst
of forgetting that word
what was that word
oh yeah it doesn't matter
it will come to us
in a minute
do we have a minute
does anybody
the ownership of time
not one second passes
that we do not own
yet they get away
flashing by us
splashing bias
into the waters of time
our commitment
to one thing over another
when we suddenly know
incredible distance
from that now
that something else
was possible
it all could have been
different from what
we think it was
not that it matters
somehow it does
sticking a quick thought
of the past
gluing it to this moment
when all its possibilities
give a second choice
or a third choice
then comes the moment
of its lesson
when we begin to think
about what we choose
in the now
how important it is
how the silver pen
can be cleaned
with aluminum foil
hot water
and baking soda
or the tarnish of time
can be left on it
just like the black
will find us eventually
when there is no
dipping the old
into a new bath
of life


Barry G. Wick

Eagle Haiku

naked on a rock
one eagle soaring above
he started laughing


Barry G. Wick

Feather Haiku

right or left wing turn

fletching spinner of arrows

wasted glue on birds

Barry G. Wick

The Day in Letters of the Alphabet

how much should be written today
would all of the letters fit here
like bits of rat on the tongue
beans in the pot not a day old
with onion sauce rice tomato seasonings
washed down with cheap tea
spots of day old syrup on a shirt
and a poorly executed sip of tea
leaving it's trail to the floor

some hellish horns blasting old music
that should be recognized
as violins fall to the ground
in a long scale to conclusion
these words could be ziptied
so only those with a clippers
could use them again on their pages
being bogged down for the next hour
waiting for the state to say this house ok

ask for the identification he says
deep inside the gray skull from Dakota
where stacks of buffalo supped grass
a window stuffed with air conditioner
plastic sacks filling the cracks
retard the voice in an idiot's glance
when words molded with rubber bands
squeeze outside their undyed cloth
oh brother save some in your pocket

that ache just lept from the hip
to roll around in the swirling a/c
listening to the bubbling air
in an orange fish tank with goldfish
too soon for another reduction
of opioid goo from the Afghan plains
where ink stains feather into cloth
the one dark spot with several others
from last night's invigorations

sunny skies for a festooned announcer
with aromas strung around the neck
boiled in that pot of beans and rice
to get the words to the page
through the end of the month
otherwise an empty Frigidaire
with Chinese fingerprints of mindlessness
where toothpicks sit atop pill bottles
ready to fall from grace upon the carpet



Barry G. Wick

The Reclining Magician

Behold! The Reclining Magician!

who lays upon his divan

involved this very hour

in a prestidigitation befitting

the greatest of the wizards

sans smoke sans audience

full of gasps and amazements

yelled or spoken under the breath

in a shock so as to make

their jaws drop suddenly

their breathing stops

with one great inhale of regard

knowing full well or even half well

what has just been seen

that exceeds

no

tops anything

seen before this day

including births and deaths

the topplings of great buildings

the shaking of the universe

the galaxies stunned

their starry pates exploded

clustered brains of primordial goo

having plopped

upon a heavenly ground

waiting for the exhale

that fails to explode for endless time

Yea

the invisible audience tumbles

from their floor-bolted seats

upon the sugared floor

gum-stuck fingers

dragging the seats with them

row upon row falling

toward the mystical stage

in bone-crunching silence

The Reclining Magician

puts down his book of spells

tosses his finger-worn implement

an ink-filled wand

of universe-founding creations

as sweat-beaded hands

reach for a damp

wilted towel

and

and

and

blows his nose

Barry G. Wick

Morning Haiku

three drops of syrup
trees on an open prairie
sweet shade full of birds



Barry G. Wick


(((published as a part of the Johnson County Iowa Poetry in Public Series 2017)))

As Night Recedes

The last time dark was seen
rolling over was a dream
then waking as if in the night
life was climbing mountains
while actually living
on the surface of Planet Iowa
in a bed whose peaks
seemed twisted mountains
completely wrung of their trees
by a motherly hand
whose droplets of pine and rock
were felt splashing
into a baby's tub

When eyes opened
there were the covers
roiled into a cotton massif
drenched in frozen sweat
as this bear snored
through his search
for the next patch
of blueberries and moths
in summer hibernation
with windows open
to the sounds of elegant trucks
like steel beads strung
around the wrinkled neck
of earth in upheaval


Barry G. Wick

Evidence of Simplicity

My awakening this morning

more cloudy than usual

Little habits move quickly

though the day's beginnings

This pill with that water

That button on this screen

I learn this day's anniversaries

the tiny celebrations

that make some people

smile or cry

then the first food

with the second pills

Reaching for a pen

logging this day's first news

putting a brace on the left wrist

as surveys of a work area

look for changes

mice spiders or ghosts made

Plans for simple tasks

where to go and how

when to move the now

The mail will be there

it's not going away

like my going to get it

This push through air

the unseen clouds of Iowa

move out of my way

only to discover

I am just a branch

moved sideways in a breeze

Barry G. Wick

Vulnerable

for Kent Stevens by request

There were things called records I do believe,

they stayed all day in a cardboard sleeve.
We pulled them out to make them play,

so music could make the room full sway.
Then video recorders came to stay,

years went by they went away.
I don't know what comes out next,
its going away will have me vext.

Better to save your dollars dear,
than lose them to a fad this year.
Flowers and trees are next, I'm told,
people now think they're just too old.
Losing their bid are air and water
to stay with us, I think they ought'r.
Earth is tired of humans we know
since heat is rising with a very hot blow.

Though never you fear of sun and heat
for everything some day becomes obsolete.

Barry G. Wick

((one of my rare rhyming poems, usually on light themes.))

Uniform

Perhaps they kept crayon in the lines

their cartoon hero Mighty Mouse 

with his red cape and speedo

with yellow tights

right fist in the air

as they dream about the streets

where they save the birds from cats

Then there are the colored lights

racing through a dark city

attracting moths that fly

around the driveways

on top of their black and whites

Later in the bar with their loud spouts

taunting their fellows with jokes

or experience of the people

they've collared but not collars

steel bands and chains

that their victims see as

remnants of the days of slavery

only it's a new master

that keeps them in their neighborhood

with rifled barrel and clubs

It's still “nigger” town to some

in whatever city they prowl

who never experienced

the music of the Duke Count or Marsalis

the words of Hughes or Baldwin Giovanni

or the art of Basqiat

and photos of Parks

who never heard of this or that massacre

Rosewood or Tulsa

less than a hundred years ago

when Jim Crow was the law

Jim Beam is a policeman's blood

and kids didn't mix in schools

much to the loss of the entire population

where respect never crosses into empty hearts

when the boiling streets beg the question

from a black therapist helping an autistic patient

away from the safety of the building

who follows every command yet wonders

“Sir, why did you shoot me?”

and the answer is only

“I don't know.”

Welcome to the town near a reservation

a word that sounds like your suite

at a tall brick hotel in the hill-lined city

filled with beautiful furniture and high tea at four

where the school system rids itself

of the “injun” counselor

who managed to keep the Lakota boys in school

or the girls from hanging themselves

in their well-appointed suites

provided by their reservations

somehow eight people manage

to drown in the small creek

ruled accidents and suicides

where one witness says

she saw someone roll a body

into that creek

the witness ignored

or shootings are justified as

suicide by cop

he lunged

with a kitchen knife

The officer who just happen

to forget his less than lethal tools

where the white officers

stay away from the wacipi

at the civic center

because they know they're

not welcome

because they don't understand

the questions raised

by people whose great-grandparents

were shot down at the Knee

loved ones buried in a trench

by soldiers awarded

Congressional Medals of Honor

Is there honor in slaughter

again the question

“Why did you shoot me?”

and the answer is only

“I don't know.”

A uniform can be worn to infect

or it can be traded away

for membership

in a community to protect

Barry G. Wick

Mother at the End of the Line

Her afternoon begins

with a long shower

she's still able to accomplish

The towels have been warmed

above a heated register

Their first touch to skin

reminds her of another touch

someone who once loved her

The next hour is for her hair

brushing and combing

getting it just right

creating the bun in the back

she always wore

but today seems important

that she spend some extra time

to get every hair in its place

Her glasses help her eyes

stare into a magnifying mirror

on a stand by the sink

as she applies her makeup

Her eyebrow pencil

needs to be sharpened

and she calls for it to be

just so

Foundation lipstick eyeliner

all placed with extra care

Then one final look

though her thick glasses

as she puts on her rings

that sat in the cloisonné dish

on the right of the sink

Next her finest black pants suit

with the fringe on the sleeves

the zipper on the back

of the shirt

Again she calls for help

Sitting on the edge

of her large king size bed

where she sleeps on the side

she's slept on for years

one leg at a time

her wrinkled legs

enter each column of crepe

much as an actress

gets ready for her close-up

She directs the helping hands

to reach into the top drawer

of a walnut Karges dresser

to find the gold bangles

for her arms

the green silk scarf

for her neck

then to reach

into the bottom drawer

for the thick round green

bangles for her ankles

“My black heels, please.”

The first thought begins

to form that something

is not right

“Are they arriving yet?”

she asks.

“Who, Mother?” you reply

“Why, my guests, of course.”

“What guests?”

“For the party.”

There is no party

and hasn't been for years

It's just another night

after long nights

when you sit with her

eating dinner in front

of the television

changing channels

to her favorite shows

There is no party for Mother

“There is no party,” you say

Her face betrays a micro-shock

Her mouth opens

as her face turns sad

from the excited anticipation

of the entire day

as tears well in her eyes

“Then bring me my slippers.”

The “stars” dance

on a glowing screen

just for Mother

at her party

at her party

at the end of the line

Barry G. Wick

Halloween 1973

The knock on the door

It's Harold Simon

Harold gives me some acid

He invites me to his party

just blocks over

from where I lived

Here

take this

come to my party later

okay

as I put the small piece of paper

on my tongue

Harold leaves

I shut the door

I sit down to wait

but in a little while

I look at the sunset

as a Roman Trireme rows

across the orange sunset

west of Pullman

It's time for Harold's party

a swift walk across the hill

to a shabby house

Harold lives upstairs

I knock

A beautiful gypsy woman

answers the door

Harold wears a magician's robe

and pointed hat covered

in tin foil

his head is covered in tiny mirrors

Sharat Chandra holds the crowd

from his comfy corner chair

as I sit on the floor listening

and for the first time

I understand poetry

Barry G. Wick

The Stars

In the dark away from cities

be drawn to the stars

like grandparents before

who stared from grassy knolls

their back caressed by earth

All dreams begin with stars

winding their lives like clocks

until the key to time is lost

Dreams that begin with stars

shave with diamond shards

so no hair of thought

extends beyond the face of it

Each dream is smooth

for itself and another

just as a lover's pinch

is drawn to smooth skin

The dream for peace

does not reach beyond itself

but remains pure of heart

The dream for love

has no further shore to settle

The dream for knowledge

travels through the universe

with an invisible ship and sail

Hold these dreams close

for they appear bright ghosts

as sunlight fades from day

These molten shadows of hope

retain all that came before

enclosed in their wispy shells

true for all the ages

as they fly through the dark

Barry G. Wick

Roller Coaster

It became my Mother's home

on Rapid Creek up the hill

on nine miles of two lane

from where her condo

had been destroyed

by the great flood

down canyons

It had been

lightly flooded

but the old couple

who had lived there

decided to move away

rather than risk another

Mother was brave that way

The house came to me

at the end of her life

as she lay in a bed

at a town home

where nurses

could do little

with her swallow

all wrong and gagging

food and water impossible

to take in at her advanced age

It all was sold to pay the bills

furniture and everything

gone in an auction

and I slept

on the floor

of that house

until two weeks

before it quickly sold

An empty house yields

its darkest secrets

wall cracks

webs

attention

all you movers

there is no one to move

Barry G. Wick

The Last Embrace

(for Juan Ramon Guerrero and Christopher “Drew” Leinonen)

It wasn't planned this way.

Families were to be invited.

Flowers, cake, and all

chosen to make the day

so special for them

and for everyone they knew.

No one can predict rain.

Clouds sneak in to skies

to play dark games.

It is the same with people.

Some people are so dark

they cannot share in love.

While sharing their love

with friends, the clouds came

when light changed to dark

for one and then the other.

The last embrace unplanned

kissing their crimson altar.

Barry G. Wick

Sounds: Part II

Within a thousand yards
of Interstate 80
the mechanized music
of mankind and money

Late at night
when local noise is gone
motors and tires
sing to each other
as lovers might
sweetly squeal
arching in ecstasy

The thump of a gap
between a bridge
and the highway creates
an irregular drum beat
as a concrete hand
strums the belted radials

Diving in and out
the bass notes
from truck engines
delivering the reefers
along side flat beds
their steel passengers
lulled to sleep until
the announced destination

Empty aluminum boxes
full of internal echoes
appear and disappear
full of Doppler poetry
spoken as if
their poets are born and die
within universal seconds
They are victims
of the cruel dictators
from time and space

These blended notes
form symphonic manuscripts
inside the tired mind
as the open window
allows its conductor
to gently fall asleep
dreaming of the sounds
of love and loss
pain and pleasure
joy and jealousy


Barry G. Wick

Sounds

Surrounded by

sounds of a Tuesday.

Outside

a mower rattles

across a corner of concrete

bringing control

to the ever disturbing grass

that threatens civility.

Inside

the air conditioning

keeps the Iowa heat and humidity

at bay,

and we mustn't have anything

out of the bay.

A pleasant Bach Sarabande

tries so desperately to compete

with all this machinery,

as a squeak

from a challenged office chair

complains the words aren't flowing

fast enough to satisfy it.

Perhaps these sounds

are all critics:

“You'll never be loud

enough to quell a mower!”

“Your mind won't be cool

if you argue

with your air conditioner!”

“Dichter sind die lauteste Publikum!”

screams Herr Bach

from his peaceful tomb.

And finally from my office chair,

“You're fat!”

Barry G. Wick

The Poet's Photo

That gasbag

Dumbforbrains Thunderjaws

runs for office

If IT wins

all the poets who wrote

unkind "nerd mcwords"

about IT

will be rounded up

for their police photos

much like

the NKVD photo

(Народный комиссариат внутренних дел)

of Osip Mandelstam

who displeased

Uncle Joe in Russia

Two different sets

of smug

and resistance laden images

attaboy Osip

I hope I'll be arrested

for my poetry

because I can think

of nothing more lasting

than the photo of a poet

charged with poetry

just before he or she

went into the mashamatic

or perished in the gulag

Such a cover

for the collected poems

there never was

that should sell

for years beyond years

It's very hard to get arrested

for writing anything

in the United States

One must threaten

great bodily harm

Since I'm non-violent

in a physical sense

I shall poetically do

the only action possible

I intend to commit poetry

on Dumbforbrains Thunderjaws

I shall

eviscerate verbiage

reposition prepositions

adjudicate adjectives

assault adverbs

confront conjunctions

neutralize nouns

plunder pronouns

injure interjections

detonate determiners

I shall sabotage any badinage

I shall devastate the dictates

I shall disarm discussion

I shall detonate debate

I am prepared to suffer

every poetic act

for the want

of a police photo

with my name and numbers

The headline shall read

CHARGED WITH POETRY

I shall serve my time with dignity

Barry G. Wick

(To support and defend writers in prison

please visit the website of

Pen International

who does exceptional work

to alert the world when

writers of conscience

are attacked and in trouble

worldwide)

Loneliness: a primer for training

There are trainers

who teach being alone

It starts at an early age

with something

as simple as piano lessons

age four comes to mind

which is much too early

Then the house has to be

far enough away from others

few children in the neighborhood

a long walk to school alone

through a forest

filled with dark imaginings

and an older sibling

who races ahead

so as not to be seen

with the intended loner

The parents must be aloof

from each other

only talk of business

no kisses or hugging allowed

of each other or the children

These are must-obey rules

Be sure to find fault

with the child

when it can barely understand

the language of fault

A spanking will set

invisible marks

Instead of laughing off

the childhood foibles

everything must be serious

This also makes the child dependent

when praise is given

usually in excess

Be sure to overfeed

The child will learn

that food is reward

instead of project accomplishment

Eating will occur

in the dark hours

when everyone else is in bed

Eventually all meals

will seem normal

when eaten alone

Be certain the mother

drags the child to her

social events or shopping

so the child just stands around

waiting on the next place

to stand alone

The backseat

is a loner's kingdom

As the child grows

make it do things it doesn't

want to do

and be certain

to deny it all the things

it wants to do

Make excuses

like

“The hands will be hurt”

Shop for and buy

clothes and shoes

almost every day of the year

The child

gets nothing it wants

except for

one day of the year

before school starts

This will establish

the child's unimportance

and the parent's totality

Be sure to establish

a sibling rivalry

so that one child

gets more than the other

The choice of what

does not belong to the child

but to the parent

As the years go by

the child will remain a child

and won't know

how to be tender

how to be loving

all relationships will fail

all friendships will have distance

all beginnings will end

All endings will be painful

since the child has been

trained not to understand

the normal course of relationships

As the child grows older

there will no longer be attempts

to start or rekindle relationships

Deaths will be unimportant

Tears will never flow

The trainer won't be mourned

except in darkness

when the child is alone

always alone

The loner's children

if there are any

will figure out what happened

late in life

as loneliness training

is quite possibly genetic

This is the success

all loneliness trainers

expect to achieve

Barry G. Wick