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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 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.

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Thursday, September 24, 2020

Limericks with an Edge

 Limericks with an Edge


There now is a man named Trump

Who sent us into a slump

He killed off a bunch

While eating his lunch

And slapping his whore on the rump


King Trump rules nobodies with glee.

"There's nobody else," says he.

I'm the somebody you love,

I came down from above,

When God gave the apple to thee.


Washington is all atwitter,

As Trump sits on the white shitter

"I'm better than all,

I never will fall,

All my losers will vote for this quitter."


"Trump DEATH" is what they should call it.

This virus hits hard in the wallet.

The Senate won't budge,

They hold a huge grudge,

As voters to graves do crawl it.


Barry G. Wick




Friday, September 18, 2020

Poem

 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

Monday, September 14, 2020

Lil' Bits

 Lil' Bits


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






Friday, September 11, 2020

(Poem September 2020)

 (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

Monday, September 7, 2020

Sold Pangaea!

 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

 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



Tuesday, September 1, 2020

Eternity's Cookware

 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