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Thank you to those who support me via my Paypal account: rikwrybac@yahoo.com. The government doesn't read my poetry. You do. Out of over 370 poems here on this blog by me, I hope you find one or more you like.

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Friday, January 25, 2019

Age


Age

I'm old enough
to have failed more times
than I succeeded
yet
I believe I'm a success
It's the little lie I tell myself
to keep me going

I made it to old age
despite narrow escapes
in car accidents
a few infections and surgeries
thoughts of suicide
the triple icebergs
of stupidity ego and asininity
using the same washed pots
dishes glasses stainless ware
everyday

The occasional runny egg
drips into my beard
or onto my shirt
A needed vacuum
of every room
is delayed just as
a change of sheets
I made it to my mess
in which I think I live
with no one but gODD
to keep me company
He she or they listen

I made it to the age
where I have a separate
briefcase for my medicine
and a small box
filled with supplies
for testing my
well you know
that stuff that runs
through my heart
I learned
that mentioning it
is a turn-off for readers
Some people wonder
if I have a heart
I'm old enough
to have a crowd behind me
that wonders that very thing
but they don't come to visit
or phone me to yell
or write letters with threats

I'm old enough to wish
I had one person
a loving person really
to look cross at me
over breakfast
because I didn't kiss
them first thing
or help with laundry
It's all just me and my years
full of memory and regret
There are no comforts

I'm old enough to have
odd habits and old clothing
knees bad enough to walk
inside a cage
that little portable prison
with bars between me
and anybody who could
love me enough
to sleep next to
a gray old man
with a beard full
of crumbs and egg
Living in a mobile home
ain't like living in sin

I've made it
I'm a success
in my loneliness
just happy to see
a spider has woven
a new web

Barry G. Wick


Tuesday, January 22, 2019

First Thoughts


First Thoughts

The ice of mornings
separate a prison of dreams
from a word
planted in my mind
The fire of my life has been
a series of mistakes
in blackened rows
leaving me a field of ash
awake to cultivate more


Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Omnivore


Omnivore

Ich habe angst
for an Angus
who provided
the rib-eye steak
I cooked
along with baked potatoes
petits pois
(that's little peas
in that Frenchy lingo)
with everything swimming
in butter
which means I likely
violated some Old Testament law
Ah, but I'm not Jewish
in fact, I'm as religious
as a post...post something
post this or post that
Vegans and vegetarians
will hate me
Cattle will fart at me
and make global warming
worse for my fellow humans
Peas scream when I pass their field
Shove my pod up your ass” they say
Potatoes are just plain stupid
which makes their caring impossible
still
I thought I heard a faint scream
when I mashed them with my fork
and salted
everything on my plate

With blood pressure rising
by the minute
I chew slowly and deliberately
since this is the first steak
I've eaten in Iowa
in five years
I'm sorry Iowa Beef Producers
I'm really poor
and some Senator or Representative
in Washington
will scream that I used
my S.N.A.P. Benefits
for expensive things
Nope
A surprise check
from a Rural Electric Association
ownership retirement
came
bringing tidings
of great joy
Angus beef
and the depth
of understanding
of my habits as an omnivore
Praise beef from whom all
blessings and juices
topped with butter ad nauseum
flow
on the plate
down my chin
on my shirt
whereupon my shirt
even tasted beefy
enough to make me think
I could eat the shirt off my back
which I won't wash
so that I could drool
first thing in the morning

Praise be to Drool
in whose image
we are all created

Barry G. Wick


Thursday, January 3, 2019

A Visit with My Father

A Visit with My Father

The legs are slower
covered in support socks
that turn his white legs beige.
His hands are a varied mass
of liver spots and wrinkled skin.
On this face a bump or two
looks to be new from the last time
we talked four years ago.
His obvious pride for the brother
who stepped into his professional shoes
no longer strips me of myself.

Father, the song still plays
even though you're tone def,
never could sing all that well,
we'll manage not to follow you.
There's nothing we can do
from day to day to stop the fate
we felt at the grave of your parents.
You said you didn't like graveyards
We didn't linger long to say goodbye
it was our private moment
for me to say I'll watch over them.

Did we talk of my children?
Not one word.  There's no reason to open
that kettle long since boiled away
And did we talk of my mother
in whom part of you is still in love
and long since departed from the scene
enough to say she was fine,
though age begins to tell on her
and every pill doesn't do her well.
Here I am the walking love
you had one early spring evening
in a Dakota blizzard run wild in '51
So did you not expect a howl from me?
I'm full of them and more to come.


Barry G. Wick  (written in July of 1995