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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, April 19, 2019

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




Tuesday, April 9, 2019

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