Tonight

Tonight

The old embrace

Their place

Slumped in soft chair

Or on the edge of a bed

The only reminders

Of what was once

The wrapped arms

They held

Or held them

The starting furnace

Footsteps in a hallway

A flushing toilet

None are the air

Rushing through trees

Bounding in youth

With joyous screams

Through grass

All the minutes

Must be now alone

As an old head

Strains to blot the past

Away

Like blue ink spilled

On a white plain

Changed forever

Where clouds and sky

Imagined for seconds

Bring joy and pain

In remembrance

Barry G. Wick

To the Day

To the Day

Six years ago

began the last month

of my mother's life

I get up from bed

steaming with memory

of that time in our lives

My life begins now

as I go to the kitchen

thinking of pancakes

and coffee 

with cream and sugar

the way she liked it

Headed towards 68

I've become 5

walking

into the livingroom

of the old house

with it's green wool

beneath my feet

Mother reads the paper

on a loveseat

by the floor to ceiling

bay window

her cup sitting 

on the round

mahogany table

I pick up her cup

she turns a page

I turn a page

to begin my life

with coffee

Barry G. Wick

Monet's Dog

Monet's Dog

In rare film

now turned to video

Claude Monet paints

in his garden

at Giverny

When he leaves his canvas

we see a small dog

follow behind him

To that small dog

Monet was everything

Perhaps somewhere the name

of that little dog

is mentioned

though Monet's painting

of the little dog

is just called

"Head of the Dog"

It didn't matter

to the little dog

that Monet was Monet

It doesn't matter

to us the name

of the little dog

nor the name Monet

We just see what Monet saw

after his paintings

became more than his garden

became to him

The little dog just saw

the garden and Monet

who stood there doing something

while the little dog panted

in the heat of a summer day

Monet likely held that dog

on that quiet evening

comforted by the company

of a small dog

I want to be comforted

by a little dog

to have that little dog

be everything

that Monet's little dog

was to him

and his paintings and my poems

to mean more to my children

than they do now

to Monet

and to me

Barry G. Wick

Checker Bored

Checker Bored

Invisible chains hold the woman

behind the register

She is not the daughter

of the original owner

who owns a multi-million dollar yacht

who plans to add another to her fleet

This woman has children

maybe a husband

maybe

for whom she scans and bags

until her mind is numb

on the little money

this corporation pays

Each little thing she does for me

I thank her

I'll compliment the “corn rows”

or the hijab she wears

I'll smile as much as I can

knowing well few will thank her

for her aching feet

the simple paper cuts

the rough skin of her fingers

If she puts the bags I provide

full of the food and products

I will use every day

into the basket on the electric cart

I will thank her as many times

as I am able

smiling whether she see it

or not

If she lives with her family

are they also burdened

with people who care so little

with long hours of repetition

unfamiliar operations she learns

as she grows into this job

she might leave in days from now

because the boss is strange

because a customer complains

because someone showed no respect

because a man was condescending

because someone told her

to go back to the country

from where she came

escaping the guns bombs and murders

escaping the poverty of the neighborhood

in the state next door

A thousand reasons will cross her mind

until I don't see her again

until she finds a place in this world

where the owner

will take less and give a living

to her and those with whom she works

Thank you for your help today

Thank you for smiling just a little

Thank you for saying hello

to an old man

who will only talk to you today

returning alone to his quiet house

Barry G. Wick

Poem

Poem

A Sunday at the typer

In a quick store

Watching shoppers come in

And go out

Thinking of where

I should go next

In a dream or with the wheels

This isn't the norm for me

Idle in public or indecisive

Even at home I'm active

Doing nothing

There is wind today

A chance of rain

I'll let the moving air

Direct me to a baptism

Sure of no belief at all

Aimless as this galaxy

Pointless as this universe

Controlled by god

With his explosive finger

Please don't pull it

It smells bad enough

As it is

Barry G. Wick

Narcissus

Cephissus and Liriope

Were really hot for each other

Liriope had a thing for river gods

Cephissus had a thing for nymphs

They did it on the shore

Of still waters

Liriope was knocked up

And had a kid they named

Narcissus

His parents thought he looked

Too hot for his clothes

So he took them off

To go sit by the still waters

Looking at his reflection

Until a fish splashed his face

He got bored with that

Asking his parents for an iPhone

Nope no way

We don't have Zeus pockets kid

Narcissus went out and found

A sugar daddy who fondled him

Bought him an iPhone

Whereupon he's been standing

In front of a mirror applying make-up

For 3,984

Of the last 4,000 years

Looking at himself

Posting selfies

Covered in layers of Max Factor

He applies with a trowel

Hey kid, you look mah-vel-ous

You really do

(I don't have the heart to point out
His wrinkles)

Barry G. Wick

Poem of summer 2019

Poem of Summer 2019

Humidity
Turbidity
Vapidity
Senility
Argue these auspiciously
Regulate suspiciously
This pot is stirred
My life is blurred
Nothing's meant maliciously

Barry G. Wick

(Haiku Stream)

(Haiku stream)

Fingering my way
Through a keyboard alphabet
Phone words save big trees

Somewhere squirrels play
Unaware we have saved trees
To save life for all

Heating our planet
At a frightening death rate
Cars boil oil

Only we can know
What we daily do to earth
Destruction's our way

At work or at play
We file our plastic waste
The water trash bin

Belching smoke still reigns
Despite an earth awareness
We know smoking kills

Barry G. Wick

(Poem)

Flying on a dream

Falling in love

With an arm around someone

Who pushes me away

To later see them talking

To someone else

Even in my dreams

I am rejected

My question becomes

Wondering if this is karma

Or me rejecting myself

Waking to sadness

The dream holds me

When no one will

Barry G. Wick

(Poem)

A small light creates shadows

In the dark of my night

Awake as an old man

Traffic is heard 

as it bumps over bridges

Tires sing their Doppler song

I touch my leg

In a wish for your hand

And soft voice that asks

if I'm alright as I return to bed

You're not there

You have never touched me

You are a dream for me

That speeds through the night

To take your love

Far away from a small light

Which dims in my heart

Never to have met you

Barry G. Wick

(Poem]

     

        Drops of last night's rain

           Remain upon the window

     Their tiny magnifications

        Slowly drying

     The eyes of the dead

        Upon cement

        Their last vision

             Revealed by hate

          Barry G. Wick

The Bore-a poem

The Bore-a poem

The bore had one or both parents

and relatives

who could talk on for hours

about the most meaningless things

forcing those around the bore

to either fall mentally asleep

or wishing they could leave

since the bore knows how to capture

the audience in a corner

or behind a desk

The bore never knows when to

Barry G. Wick

Spinning Blades

Cutting the air above 
The spinning blades of a fan
Air stirred causes the hair
On wrinkled arms 
To slightly move
Small trees in a storm
That will not flag
Like the ponderosas
I saw on the hill
Above my childhood home
And yet
My branches move away
From the direction of all winds
Which tells me
The long quiet is coming
My bark shall fall from branches
Split by gales that have me
At their mercy
To where it will nourish the sod
All these reminders
From a cooling breeze
Inside on a hot day

Barry G. Wick

Split Thought

Split Thought

A fingernail is rough

To my right a large pill bottle

now filled with what

is useful and useless

small scissors

letter opener

small bandages

pink and green paper clips

tweezers

an old key

several metal fingernail files

All inherited from my mother

I retrieve a file

thinking about her

sitting on a flowered loveseat

using this

beside the bay window

looking up the hill at The Rock

I wonder how far

through the family

these items will travel

All this just rattles in my head

as bits of my nail

fall to the carpet

becoming the dust of the world

along with the lives

that fully explain

memory of yesterday

Imaginations of tomorrow

And the mystery of today

Barry G. Wick

Tech Collapse

Tech Collapse

A hard drive, a circuit, something

is dying in my computer

I'm beginning to weep

though it's more about

what phone-fix hell

I'm gonna go through

rather than

an actual fixer

who would show up at my door

taking the system in hand

smashing all conventions

actually fixing something

rather than taking my time

to talk with Malaysia

or the Philippines

nice people

but not an American fixer

with tools

and replacement parts

a box full of replacement parts

like the old guys who

put tubes in black and white

televisions in the 50s

their box of mysteries

at the ready

priests of the tube

as we knelt in awe

waiting for the next opportunity

to let our eyes get too close

to the glow our parents

didn't want us near

fearful of blindness

or too much communist control

kneeling with open mouths

waiting for the electric wafer

to confess our sins

to Captain Kangaroo

Say five Kukla, Fran, and Ollies

wait for “What Time is IT!”

and scream at the screen

knowing Howdy Doody

will personally hear the prayer

as we guzzle sweetened corn flakes

with milk and spoonfuls of sugar

each spoonful roaring like Tony

Barry G. Wick

A Plague at the Sink

A Plague at the Sink

Humans are not

without their diseases

Some physical maladies

have their inoculations

for prevention

some have other medical cures

or none at all

The disease of old age

has no cure

There is no hindrance

to the advance of time

Its toxicity is memory

of ingratitudes

and wrongs against others

The symptoms rage

in the lonely darkness

with no physical pains

It is the soul set afire

No matter how deep

our head sinks in prayer

for forgiveness

the flames lick at us

with their raspy tongues

raking each moment

as if we'd been fed

through a grater

Creation is a temporary salve

music

art

poetry

nature

a change in how

we treat others

making amends

where possible

These reduce

the terrors

as dishes are washed in the sink

Barry G. Wick

The Death of Poetry

The Death of Poetry

Oh yes poetry is dying

and you will say to me

that new poets are arising

from many directions

Rappers and song writers

children writing in schools

and the always lonely and lovesick

teenagers who ache for love

old men and women

who have seen too much

and know things that will

be forgotten or must be written

Again the age conspires

to turn itself gray

a dead body unwashed

and prepared for final burial

Yes there are many who oppose

this change of colors to one

Poetry is violent

a product of injustice

a creation for those

with starved thought

Poetry is an empty mouth

a cell with bars opened wide

that chews the tough to soft

The swallow becomes

an upset stomach

that vomits a need for change

Once poetry charged the soul

to give generations

a reason to live and create

Now the unseen fills

batteries in phones

with clues to neutral colors

no one can unravel

For the reader poetry may live

but think of all the poets

who will never be read again

the ones who write in desperation

burying their scribbles

in the electronic graveyards

forgotten in unmarked

digital graves

Oh yes poetry is dying

as it always has

day by day

hour by hour

resurrected only by the needy

who discover shadows

in the corners of their lives

where the flash of words

may bring the moment

into focus like a famous photo

Keep searching

through the unfinished headstones

for poetry that has died

Some is being buried today
Mourn with others at the open hole
that is deeper by the second

Barry G. Wick

Raisins with a Spoon (for Tyler Luetkenhans)

Raisins with a Spoon  (for Tyler Luetkenhans)

Cold from the fridge

with a tepid spoon

Raisins stick to my teeth

I fill my mouth

with this sticky fruit

some deep in my cheeks

All this sweetness

like being among the creative

at a evening for image and sound

I taste that night still

sounds sneaking from my ears

to my mouth

image draining from my eyes

down my face to my beard

where my tongue licks

the visions that close my lids

to widen my smile that drools

color line and word across my lips

This sweetness of my dessert tonight

recalls so much of those five hours

that seem as if I were transported

This spiritual boost

brings tears to my eyes

the kindness of young friend

my amazement at his pallet

which explodes deep in memory

as if fuses were lit on raisins

sending rainbows in every direction

Barry G. Wick

Foreign Elations

Foreign Elations

In Russia's arms doth Donald lay,

Putin's hands clutching clay.

All thoughts from Vlad come this day,

His forming hands this world doth prey.

When day is done his breath is still,

Having sculpture be his will.

Now troops in Caracas bold,

Traded for that country's gold.

Donald says zero to this play,

For he can't lead this nation's way.

Korea, too, is mocking high,

“Insipid Donald!” our nation's cry.

Barry G. Wick

Under the Home Sky

Under the Home Sky

Years of distance

miles of time

My eyes cloud

thinking of the stars

that send photonic dreams

though my memories

of the hills and prairies

in the dark

where variable lights

blink my next lives

among them

I have not achieved

Buddha's goal

so expectations

of future lives protect

me with hope

the next arm's reach

will send me to them

Barry G. Wick

Little Boy

Little Boy

I want to be the little boy

clopping along in yellow

rubber soled shoes

that will never wear out

following his mother and brother

into the library

with eyes of wonder

shy of three foot tall

His neat blond hair

combed with a part

in a gray hoodie

He's ready for the rest

of his life

if they'll let him

in the world to which

he was born

Leaders don't want him to live

to be his own man

They want him a slave

to their corporate greed

their pollution

that poisons his milk

that diddles with his DNA

I want to see him grow

for himself and not

for the world's owners

who don't know he exists

other than to use him

He won't see

the forests and meadows

I have seen

because these will be

just rock and sand

March on boy

go into the future

where hate will consume

the entire world

Fear will run through streets

carrying torches and guns

Bombs will explode

The books mother will read

to you

will be burned

Little boys in rubber-soled shoes

will turn to mush

to feed rats and worms

I'm lost in this vision

of your future

I'll never see

My grandchildren will

save you and others

It's their job now

Barry G. Wick

The Shape of States

The Shape of States

I have decided to write a poem

in the shape of an unknown state

I thought first it should be Louisiana

but since I can't remember

if I've ever been there

if would be foolish to write something

about a place I know nothing about

So that is the origin of my unknown state

It's a place where nobody lives

until some government official

decides to draw a map

then places it's unnamed capital

near yet created rivers and transportation

and decides what resources

will make this state wealthy

so he or she can reap the rewards

of graft and personal investment

This state is to be named after some

yet to be discovered native tribe

with a history of dancing on full moons

wearing red berry-stained loincloths

woven from Morvopinus Tree bark

Again a tree created by government

biologists and insane foresters

with a grudge since the juice

of this particular berry stings

Yes the native do wild dances

As the roads and cities of this state

begin to take shape

we are reminded that place names

usually come from the distinguished names

of citizens who either gave away their lives

or raped someone or something

for personal gain

Arguments ensue between groups

of this state's yet to be politicians

An entire politically correct system

develops from almost nothing important

the bubbles spit by fish

chicken phlegm

dust from the tops of pianos

I then realized that this fictitious state

was probably like South Dakota

the state in which I grew

from tadpole in mother's stomach

to uninterested adult

It only makes sense to dismiss

this project entirely

It's all been done before

and wasted like all political argument

The sun shines on this unknown place

Birds sing Gershwin here

Cows fart Cole Porter

I guess we should be thankful

nobody else lives there

as I am its only resident

The budget for state aid to education

is enormous just like South Dakota

Barry G. Wick

The Same Morning

The Same Morning

It always begins

with the end of a dream

I've never had

I lay on my back

perched like an extinct bird

flapping the lids of my eyes

just fast enough

to rise above the jungle

of sheets and pillows

I am no longer pretty

in my orange breechcloth

which I straighten

before standing to grab

the handles of the walker

that steadies me

for the travels through light

I mutter simple prayers

of gratitude and hope

I know I will die

It is this knowledge of death

that replaces the foolish youth

that sometimes returns

inside me

someone willing to make

the same mistakes

I gave up years ago

I move through the tight spaces

that limit my trek

around this simple house

Will the particle board

furniture finally sprout a tree

Will the radio announcers

stop in their scripts

to take a moment to hold my hand

All things are possible

when the sun speaks

to the one plant I nurture

I spread myself upon the couch

a weird potentate

searching for a t-shirt

the only wealth I seek

to give me comfort

Through the veils

that cover my windows

others are known to me

by the sounds of their automobiles

or the barking of their dogs

People should bark

their morning greetings

to the world

It would change the sameness

of intractable hours

that silently begin

in a yawn or a stretch

Behold

I yelp my greeting

I sniff at the world's butt

hoping I won't get dragged away

by the leash that binds me to heaven

Barry G. Wick

Winter Haiku

Winter Haiku

Winter's sudden fright

Curled oak leaves wind-blown down

Spiders crawl on snow

Barry G. Wick

The Shadows

The Shadows

I stare at the morning from the window

to the snow. The shadows of branches

demonstrate the measures of music.

With reverence. gray fingers play slow

notes of an organ from a star to recreate

the keys caressed by Cameron Carpenter.

Barry G. Wick

For Poet Nanny Gunderson

For Poet Nanny Gunderson

Mother told me about your

pacing the house in Vermillion,

picking words out of the air

as if they were flying to you.

Then you'd speak with your mother

in Norwegian and her blindness

in a silent room with her knitting

that you'd pull apart every day.

I don't float through a dictionary.

A few useful words stream

through the ice striped window

while snowplows bank the useless.

We are all blind in our rooms

knitting some sense to our lives

with gODD pulling things apart

each night for our next day.

Barry G. Wick

Night Travels

Night Travels

I wash clothes

in a small room

that was coupled

to my childhood

I compliment the new owner

on the white cupboards

that I don't remember

from years ago

Back and forth

from the patio

to the kitchen entry

I see the two dogs

who meant the most to me

the white Great Pyrenees

and the St. Bernard

who hangs around my leg

begging for the touch

I give him in these clouds

I go no further inside

and make a call

to the Frenchman

who lived with us

after his years fighting

in Algeria

I hear his voice

saying that he can't stay

on the line for long

when an insistent woman

calls my name

in a tone that wakes me

and I'm left with the feeling

I shall be here again

Barry G. Wick

Silence

Silence

I love communication

with silence

It says so much more than

the flicker of lips

in candlelight

It's especially useful at a distance

The planets and stars

told humanity

truth with it

Wives and angry friends

use it frequently

After one extended silence

a person knows exactly where

the switches are

since darkness surpasses

even a wordless dream

Any query brings

the dreaded

“If you don't know...”

It is not gold

because gold will purchase

all the chatter

anyone can stand

at the end of your arm

staring into the noisy abyss

A length of rope with which

to hang oneself

brings on

the kind of noiselessness

we are all applying for

at the moment

of our first wail

Return us to a heartbeat

it says

or less

much less

We only have to wait

much too long

through interminable

meetings and industry

best left for the deaf

How I envy them

some days

With deafness

all say the same nothings

the hearing can't understand

those useful hand gestures

one has to learn

in order to

get yelled at

Imagine a world

where the numbers of hearing

and deaf are reversed

There would be no mufflers

on engines

There would be contempt

for musicians with no support

for concert halls and orchestras

who performed badly

With silence

we know where we stand

at the center

of a great city

a nothing

a nobody

a zero point zero

Chopin or Led Zeppelin

will lead you away

from your own creations

Something as small

as a poem

is a noise

with which to rend

all others

with bombs in their heads

See?

I am the king of crash

the wandering boom

from whom you flee

Only the ice that

falls from the eves

into a drift

is the Aztec knife

ripping open my chest

sending me where

even friends want

me to be silent

Silence is my destination

all I ever knew

all I ever will know

will be lost in its library

Here is my ticket

to an empty shelf

no one will dust

My silent cough

attests to its reality

its gold-less beaches

filled with unknown beauty

illuminated by a cold sun

on a tumbling rock

that watches itself slow

as the light recedes

across its expanding years

which cannot count themselves

Barry G. Wick