Thank you to those who support me via my Paypal account: The government doesn't read my poetry. You do. Out of over 400 poems here on this blog by me, I hope you find one or more you like. Thank you for my readers. Thank you for your comments.

Friday, February 21, 2020

Medical Shine

Medical Shine

The days speed up
agreed to by my pillbox
full pockets of time
and time-released
joy and sorrow
it dispenses daily
as if some lead-footed driver
moonlighted as a dealer
modern moonshine
that rushes on the highways
which creates this new sport
for the masses at racetracks
Hopped-up vans 
with delivery drivers 
who toss secret packages
to the aged and infirm fans
as they round the track
at broken back speeds
full of those little rainbow
enticements to feel better
feel good or feel normal
delivered to the pharmacy
No need for hidden tanks
No worries for revenuers 
waiting in the dark 
No moonless shootouts
in the deep mountain hollows
shouting epithets 
from behind the trees 
I watch the cheering thousands 
from the stands
waiting for their meds
the tiny miracle cures
promised by great pharma
who live gloriously behind
legality guaranteed 
by government
cheated for the pleasure
of fat kittens of industry
their yachts swaying
in warm waters

Barry G. Wick

Friday, February 14, 2020

February Loss (for Kelly)

February Loss (for Kelly)

February loss hangs

in mid-air

It refuses to fly on

A frozen kestral

Which thinks of voles

Asleep in their grass beds

Deep beneath the frost

I yawn with them

In dark hours

To pass long nights

With little to calm my

Thoughts of this month

That took a friend

Who gave me

Ripples of memory

To long passed days

When his love held me

In his arms

Those endless nights

I want back

His life now flies

Frozen in my mind

As warm as ever

Barry G Wick

Friday, February 7, 2020

The Vacant Hills

The Vacant Hills

Too often dream hauls me back
in it's old yellow truck sold
to someone who will fix it
It sat outside the house until
rust became an issue or
the battery failed to spark

Somewhere beneath me are farms
from the distant past with corn
never to poke their giant stalks
toward the sun they love
The land rolls unlike the steep
rock-covered crags over us then

We shoot imaginary antelope
at the park fifty years ago
on a license of special qualities
after we crawled over a mound
that shielded us with high grass
only to Winchester it dead

Then there is the pine tree
when the bark gets pulled
with young hands on the way
to an old school over the hill
behind the rock through sand
that blows down in south winds

The rain could be seen coming
one range after another blocked
by sheets of drenching summer
lighting striking the west side
seen from the redwood deck
on the home left behind

All this disappears and more
as people forced idyllic places
into hatred and discrimination
crating humanity inside law
written from their ancient books
that ends youthful dreams in fear

Barry G. Wick