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.

Thursday, March 30, 2017

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
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

Thursday, March 23, 2017


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
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 

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

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
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

Sunday, March 19, 2017

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

Thursday, March 16, 2017

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

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

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

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Suddenly Bach

and I'm on the sofa
in the livingroom
of the old house
It's E. Power Biggs
Jig Fugue
and I'm a little boy
who sees the world
through that energy
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
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


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

Saturday, March 11, 2017

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.
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