Upon Reading the Cursive Writing of George Washington

His handwriting can be read

even when

the “s”s look like “f”s

Ol' George becomes real

with the way he writes

each letter in every word

Grandchildren

are not being taught

to read handwriting

spoiled as they are

by the print

on glowing screens

They aren't being taught

the language

of the times

of the founding

of our nation

Language of that time

seems full of emotion

emotions filled

with variations

not found

on glowing screens

in daily conversation

There isn't much depth

in the 140 characters

found in Presidential

Twitter tweets

just presented overnight

to a public

waiting with the patience

of a teenage boy

running to his room

after school

to fumble excitedly

though his clothing

in search of his pecker

Barry G. Wick

Cloth

It's red

the gauze that arrived today

fully nine yards

fifty-two inches wide

and very soft

since I needed

it to be in three yard cuts

for the three new loincloths

I will be wearing this summer

enough red cloth

to cover my butt

and the naughty bits

for the law

Man's oldest clothing

was probably some kind

of leather

upon which he or his woman

peed

to soften it enough

while stretching

the hide in every direction

on an old stump or branch

Now men just go

to a clothing store

to buy underwear and pants

complex constructions

worthy of a high dollar charge

with room for a profit

for everybody down the chain

This is just cloth

simple and comfortable

with the elastic band cut

from some worn-out underwear

and me

old enough to be considered

completely loony

to show so much fat

on a hot day

sitting on my little porch

trailing long flaps

front and back

glad I didn't have to skin

a buffalo or elk

damn that work is smelly

Barry G. Wick 

The Old Newspaper

In the center of an intersection

in the small town

stands a dying tree

with all its branches

cut to the trunk

whose roots

are still buried in the earth

where messages were posted

for all to see

The town moves around it now

never noticing

there is no growth

because this limbless tree

this place to discuss

the life in this town

shrinks daily

as invisible sparks

easily erased

chip away at its pulp

The town still grows

but the conversations

take place

far outside of it

The lives

of grandparents

who raised the children

of the town

with a cup of coffee

and a few crackers

at a kitchen table

who fixed a watch

at the local jewelry store

their lives preserved in the few lines

of their obituaries

may completely disappear

if set into an electric file

and not some deep

earthen vault

dry and safe

kept from the harm

of solar winds

infestations

and shaking crust

will still remain

until the earth itself

is destroyed

Say what you will

about saving trees

no meeting place

no place of memory

is as comfortable or real

as a tree turned into pages

for the eyes of a reader

Barry G. Wick

The Compassionate Attack

I hate to move

because pain electrifies

my knees and back

so I sit

at the kitchen sink

eating a pot pie

hot from the oven

to my left

being grateful for a family

that pays taxes

which provides

me a beg-free way

to beg semi-anonymously

from the government

the largest family

that does not

know me from my past

things I need

food heat care

only to realize

the government now

hates me

and wants me to die

as quickly as possible

without food

without heat

without care

a government

that would rather bomb

someone in another country

then rebuild

caring for everyone left

I've decided I want

the government

to bomb my neighborhood

in the hope I'll survive

in order to get all

the promises

of a better life

Barry G. Wick

Tears---for Elwood “Woody” Beam

In the bushes

some birds spend

a winter day

to wonder when

their next meal

will present itself

as the ground

is covered with snow

They fluff themselves

to stay warm

as they look

side to side

to seek a vision

of danger

I'm not much different

on the little twig

I find myself

as the cold surrounds

this warm nest

One friend tweets to me

from the next branch

A small conversation

expands for us

across this small distance

then only for him

to fly away

never to be seen again

It must be lunchtime

I'll fry some seeds

and let him go

Barry G. Wick

The Ides of March

A tyrant's death is sacred,

it's great to do one in.

The moment fades to naught

as Senators try to win.

Upon the Ides of March

be careful who is tapped,

a usurper might just burp

when poisoned food is lapped.

It might be in the wine.

Does it season chicken?

It might be in the soup,

used to make it thicken.

A bird tweets from the perch

the new ringleader rides;

this oppressor lies

every day not Ides.

His mem'ry not assured

by thoughts this hallowed day,

he'll be an orange-ish stain

upon some Appian Way.

Barry G. Wick

Suddenly Bach

and I'm on the sofa

in the livingroom

of the old house

It's E. Power Biggs

Bach

Bach

Bach

Jig Fugue

and I'm a little boy

who sees the world

through that energy

now

I'm listening to it again

as an old man

suddenly on the radio

suddenly Bach

and a surge of youth

stiffens my aching back

with all the pain

disappearing

I'm once again

a little boy

with his life ahead of him

laying on the sofa

Mother in the kitchen

dancing as she cooks

Welsh rarebit

Dad in his den

with the door closed

Barry G. Wick

Jacks

playing jacks on a sloped, granite slab

the eyes watching the jacks

bounce downward toward a cliff

the ball having preceded them

slow hands flipping

at the end of lazy arms

tiny suns sparkle from mica

uttered rainbows in childhood rhymes

the children fall through the air

far down to the bottom of this

following the game to its conclusion

children scattered like jacks

being picked up

by the handfulls

onesies twoies threesies

Barry G. Wick

South Dakota

The owner of this blog
is now refusing everyone
in the State of South Dakota
the right to read this blog
on the grounds
of deeply held religious beliefs.
You South Dakotans
can't possibly be allowed
to read it
because the writer
has a religious belief
that no one in South Dakota
shares with him.
Therefore,
disgusting South Dakotans
are forthwith refused
poetic service by this writer.
Please close this writing now
if you are from South Dakota.
All others may continue
to read this blog normally
since we share similar
religious beliefs.
If you don't
then you, too, must leave
this blog.
I don't have to explain myself
and you could never
explain your disgusting
South Dakota religious beliefs.
And you could never possibly
explain your disgusting
South Dakota lifestyle
to my satisfaction
since it is in conflict
with my current Iowa beliefs.
Even the air
coming from South Dakota
smells bad.

Barry G. Wick