Poem
I am not alive now
I breathe
I move though less
I hear my radio
I feel pain
My home is a prison
My thoughts don't end
My memories are grief
My life is failure
My feeling is shame
This second is endless
This air is stifling
This noise is ugly
This being is nothing
This is joyless dark
Barry G. Wick
Whatever you sign up for, there are consequences.
.
Paraphrasing Lincoln: some yawn, some cheer, some scream
Newton N. Minow called television a vast wasteland. The internet is all that and more. It's a dead planet. And yes, what I write is part of the dead planet.
The greatest causes are freedom and democracy whether you command a weapon, a camera, a keyboard, a pen, a brush, paint, a musical instrument, tools, the body, or just your voice.
Hopefully, you will wake up from sleep everyday. Then, one day, you will wake up, not from sleep but from the slumber of a false life. Everything will be changed and you will have to navigate a new life in a new world. This awakening may happen many times in your life.
I write many bad poems. I've written roughly 3500 poems in 50 years. Most stink. 1 out of 10 is acceptable. 1 out of 100 is okay. 1 out of 500 is good. 1 out of 1000 could be really good and 1 out 3500 I'm hoping is great. In fact, I don't know. My readers are my editors. Oh, I do change my poems often removing or adding words. Nothing in the boxes or online is written in stone. If I allowed publication, I couldn't change anything. That's why I don't try to publish. I've sent out poems. But even with a SASE I don't hear back. Also, if published in a small or moderately sized or famous publication, it's locked there forever.
Also, mailing submissions is expensive. If I put everything online, I can make changes. Also, when poems get more traffic, I know poems have been shared. More sharing means, I hope, a better poem.
If you find 1 poem you like. Thank you. If possible, help me out by sending something to my PayPal account: rikwrybac@yahoo.com. If you think I'm getting rich doing this, far from it. I squeak by on Social Security mostly. Medicare. Part D meds with "extra help." Yeah, I qualify for that. Thanks if you do send something, and thanks for reading. I just write. It's an urge.
If anything, tell someone about my blog so they can read my bad poetry...or 1 or 2 good ones they might like?
Barry G. Wick
(Poem September 2020)
I thought I was important
The joke was always
On me
I don't think this now
I'm convinced my importance
Encouraged by my stage mom
Was so misplaced
And inappropriate
I should apologize
My mountain top now
Is an old trailer in Iowa
In a park filled with
Good people
And a few bad
Like everywhere
So I pontificate to the walls
My smartphone is convinced
I'm a genius
My day starts with oatmeal
The rain is heard as I slurp
My cheap coffee
A few eggs go into a pan
Unwillingly
I hear violins on a radio
My fingers brush fabric
On the bed sofa towel
Just to feel
And my clothes
These will decide
To abandon my body
For a dollar rack
I shall return to dust
Just as dust covers
My furniture
Whose dust is this
I know but I request silence
Of the spirits I've tracked in
Barry G. Wick
Sold Pangaea!
"It pays to advertise"
Business aphorism
Unbeknownst to Agmunha
In his narrow skin
Loincloth
His customer's benefits
Are seen
That eventually create
Dale Carnagie's
Attention
Interest
Conviction
Desire
And close
At a quantum speed
Naughty Agmunha
Revealing his
Substantial assets
The original
Salesman
Barry G. Wick
The Binge Watch
You think of
Your favorite video program
I do that
I'd change those hours
If I could watch
My babies sleep
Someone I could love
Walk through the door
A dark green forest
Of ponderosas
A garden full of new growth
The top of my desk
In my grade school
Small mud dams
Made in spring
With friends
The view from the top
Of the hill of my town
The angel Michael
As he steps
From a rock-ringed lake
Those were my favorite
Moments on the binge
Some were thrown away
As easily as I clicked
Off the video unit
And now I see the fool
I was on a stride away
From those hours
When the binge burned
All those memories
On some fatty cells
Inside the skull
Full of less important
Hours that never mattered
Barry G. Wick
Eternity's Cookware
I went forward into obscurity
For the same reasons most
People enter their finality
Everything is behind in life
Rotting pears collecting wasps
Memory isn't pleasing anymore
Photos have all been seen
All that's wanted is the blank
It is not controlling depression
It is not a repetitive mind
Simply put its the metal bowl
Struck with a handy can opener
That sounds a ring of a bell
From a monastery overseas
The monks gathering in a hall
The bowl echoes with itself
Of countless loaves of bread
Meatloaves filled with oats
Bits of onions spilling outward
Timelessness as it strikes
The hour of a last supper
Drink up and taste the dirt
Eternity cooks your universe
Barry G. Wick
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