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