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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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Sunday, June 23, 2019

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






Monday, June 3, 2019

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