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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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Saturday, March 30, 2019

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

Tuesday, March 26, 2019

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

Sunday, March 24, 2019

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


Tuesday, March 19, 2019

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



Sunday, March 17, 2019

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