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.

Monday, May 30, 2016


Frosting on an angel cake
Orange as I remember it
that comes to me
with the simple flashes
of her complete kitchen
I don't know how many
she made over the years
two or three I seem to recall
birthdays mostly
as they were
special creations

No boxed cakes for her
always crack the eggs
to separate the yokes
for a later zabaglione
so thick to spoon
with a light flavor
of Marsala
certainly yellow

They could be painted
together beside my
Mother's hand
on translucent paper
as if clouds pass
between her in heaven
and a tall fluffy cake
with the lightest odor
of an orange orchard
beside a gallon
of eggs whipped
with fresh air
in a wine infused dream

Barry G. Wick

Saturday, May 28, 2016

Remembrance--Memorial Day

Our young friends left us
suddenly and without fanfares,
ordered to carry
the weapons of war,
right or wrong,
into the greatest challenge
of their lives.

Now that our years
made the gray streaks
larger than we'd like,
their closest friends
on the same wasted ground
disappear into the darkness
of memory and forgiveness.

Behold our flags:
both friend and foe.
We fill the earth
with our bodies
as we tried to leave
a better world for all
in the midst of mayhem.

Charge the children
to march the same paths
in peace and friendship.
These simple requests
we silently make
as the stormy dust of ages
removes our names.

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, May 26, 2016

Looking for a Signal

My father in his youth went
to the 1939 World's Fair
in New York City New York
Maybe he saw television
neatly demonstrated there

Due to the expense
I cannot order cable television
so watching moving video
is available to me at large
from the cable on the Internet

The Queen waves on British news
rocket launches and eagle babies
all sorts of crazy people
violent crashes and awful gore
with or without a rowdy cat or dog

What I want to watch is this
sponsored television with soap ads
because I've begun to feel
I'm being kept from it all
until I click a link for spam

Put your name right here dear sir
we'll follow you anywhere
We're certain you won't mind
if we send you email ads
five times a day forever

I shudder to think its real
my Internet profile is likely fat
International computers in Utah
have everything in ones and zeroes
except the wrinkles, chafes, and tears

I'd fight back but it's no use
The corporations have the right
to watch this old bearded man
in my morning bubble bath
fart to sink the floating ducks

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, May 19, 2016

The Librarian's Sternutation

Among the dusty stacks
the silence was entertained
by a stifled sneeze
that shook the evidence
of writers' obsessions.
Terrified, the young librarian
quickly rose from her search
to race to the front desk
where the Managing Librarian
kept a proper desk
thoroughly clean
except for one project.
An apology meant a demerit
in a neatly kept notebook
that would one day
be a part of the same library.
Instead, the young librarian
queried the presence of the dust
to a face whose mouth descended
below the depth's of Nemo's submarine
and wider than Jonah's whale.
The dust protects every living book
was a perplexing answer.
If we really cared about these books
responded the young librarian
we would remove the oxygen
from this room every night
sealing the library
in a cloud of nitrogen
so these words would never age.
One never lectured the Managing Librarian.
words only age as the best writers create
for new thesauri
and readers to find.
Outwitted, the young librarian
returned to the stacks
red-faced and fully aware
why the Managing Librarian
had achieved that position.
It would be years
before the young librarian
would rise to that exalted position
having spent a life in search
of new words
as the dust created a scale
as if the books were pangolins.

The cyberwarriors might never
timesuck the stacks of books preferring
to head away hangry for cakeage
wishing permadeath
for the new Managing Librarian.
At the least, this Managing Librarian
would be ready to downvote
any attack from a young librarian
who adorbs themselves so much
as to humblebrag in defense of cleanliness.
In this new Managing Librarian's time
t'ain't no dumbphone here
especially with an aptronym
like Mr. Manual Booker.

Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Silence Costs

Golden silence. Really?
If people want to live
off the grid
the land will cost some bucks.
Cabins with all the trimmings
don't come cheap.
If there's a far beach,
life there might be fun.
Fish better be a number one
treat every morning, noon, and night.
It'll cost a hunk
to travel there.
Neighbors might complain
if all that's worn is a
leaf umbrella.
When the neighbor
complains a jeep
that's noisy
needs a new muffler,
it's gonna cost to give him
silence as a driver heavy-foots it
passed his trailer.
Twenty minutes at the muffler shop
is an easy bill and a half
except for retirees.
The old one had a hole
for five years.
The new muffler
spoke in low tones
that was almost a whisper,
Silence costs gold, cheapskate.”

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Midnight in Iowa: for our military men and women overseas

I'm thinking of him
halfway around the world
a new friend
who is where he is
in a job that is what it is

I'm headed for bed
and I don't know
when he works
or when he sleeps
not that it matters

Men like him are there
doing jobs we don't
we pretend we don't
remember them
on days that we do

Bonsoir good knight 
on rough paths
on ground not ours
who dreams of sleep
in peaceful Iowa

Barry G. Wick  (((It turns out the original person to whom this poem was dedicated is not a real person and an attempted scam was tried on was also a case of stolen valor and photos of a highly decorated Army soldier who wasn't real in so far as the person behind the pictures wasn't real.  He'd stolen the pictures and was pretending to be a decorated military man.  Ah, even in the age of the Internet, even the hard cases, like me, can be briefly taken in.  But I'm leaving the poem to stand for our military people overseas...who are in danger every day.  I honor them as they are as real as it gets.)))

May 2016

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Strawberries (after William Carlos Williams)

I have eaten
the strawberries
that were
in the refrigerator

There is no one
for whom
I should save them
or to whom
I may apologize
for my gobbling them
greedily with sugar

They were delicious
with sugar
that I should not have

I am alive this day
and don't care about
yesterday or tomorrow

today I had strawberries

Barry G. Wick
May 2016

Monday, May 9, 2016

First Conversation of the Day

Me: I just had a completely weird night of dreams. Can you help me?
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Certainly, just a moment. You don't mind if I smoke a cigar, do you?
Me: No, go ahead..
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: You know, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Now, go ahead.
Me: Why do I have toxic people in my dreams?
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Since all of the people in your dreams are really you, that means that some part of you is a toxic personality.
Me: How do I stop that part of me?
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Stop drinking Kool Aid. It was that weird blue color this morning?
Me: Yes.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Well, there you are. And since you don't mix it with real sugar you are giving yourself a double dose of toxic chemicals that remain in your body for a very long time.
Me: But I like Kool Aid.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: So how many times have you heard it?
Me: What's that?
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Don't drink the Kool Aid.
Me: But they are referring to the Reverend Jim Jones poisoning of over 900 people. He put cyanide in the Kool Aid.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: And you know what's in Kool Aid now?
Me: Just one packet of whatever flavor I grab and about a cup of sucralose sweetener in water. Though I mostly like the cherry flavor.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: These things will give you toxic characters in your dreams.
Me: It was only one night.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: So how much Kool Aid do you drink?
Me: A gallon or more a day.
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Oh my. One glass after school would be enough.
Me: I'm 40 years or more passed school. Since I'm not far from the end anyway, what can it hurt?
Dr. Psychiatrist Me: Well, you are having a conversation with you.
Me: You've got a point there.

Barry G. Wick

May 2016

you can't be here

you can't be here
     dear running through a forest
     beneath pudding stone
     the needled floor
     softening dreams
and why not
because I only want
to touch you
     above the pine
     ripped by lightning
that would be impossible
because I won't allow
you to do that
     rock broken in half inch sheets
     strewn about its base
     madness for vampires
as these eyes
fill with sleep
nothing is fulfilled
     the cliff towers
     over a shallow cave
     partly blocked and dark
thinking about you
minutes melt
I am wasting my time

Barry G. Wick

Friday, May 6, 2016

May I May You?

Be warned
to stand back

When thrown
the month of May
tossed around like a dirty ball
could hit
causing damage
that changes life

There are flowers
new and bursting in color
petals are flying in every direction
hand grenades
beneath breeze tossed bows

Grass unseen in winter
now needs the violence
of a mower
a few good yanks
to start or fail

There is love
that hides to suddenly
send its hot steam
that cooks all the sanity
from a winter-fed brain

While the search goes on
be leery of hidden corners
where new eyes hide around
viciously blinking
their lonely code
as a bump sends books
upon the ground
to grant the players
a hesitant touch
of crimson-faced dreams
in darkened rooms
with torn sheets ablaze

Dramatic as all this is
cunning patience
proofs its dough
in pump-swelled chests
where bravery meets
it's frozen match
in arid glares
displaying full knowledge
of the lusty game
begun with traps
behind the needs availed
in wilted blossoms
with chocolate coats
on red fruit coils

One tug on the rigging
to start the fall of May
as it spills its marvels

everyone plays with marvels

May I May you?

Barry G. Wick

Monday, May 2, 2016

For What is Broken

The famous marchers have passed
with their important signs

next in line are those who believe

followed by those who believe
but think it will never happen

followed by those who think
it will never happen in their lifetime

They are all workers in their coveralls
changing broken bulbs to illuminate
building walls of insulation against cold people
fixing the front door for others to enter

That's all protesters are

Barry G. Wick