Banned in Texas

This poem

Will be banned

In Texas.

It was written

By a person

Who has read

A book,

Seen modern art,

Hoped for alternative energy,

Can spell in American,

Has drunk wine,

No longer owns guns,

Thinks there's hope

For Hispanics,

And worst of all...

Has had sex.

I'm certain I could

Offer up some other

Shocking life experiences

That someone in Texas

Could find offensive

Such as having ribald

Dreams on occasion.

Mice in my home 

May also have had sex.

My neighbors might be

Lesbians.

I have electricity that's

Reliable in winter.

That alone will

Get this poem a

Triple X rating

In Dallas and Houston.

Far worse,

I write letters and poems

And have family in Texas

Who are literate

Just like me.

They might be

Sesquipidalians.

Thank you, Texas,.

For banning this poem.

You have boosted my career

To the emperean.

I expect to have,

At the very least,

Attracted one more reader

That doesn't pay me

For anything I've written.

I also put ketchup

On hotdogs.

Shit.

Now I'm banned

In Chicago.

Barry G. Wick

Black Time

Black times shine through 

Out from the days

Into the empty nights

Bragging their nonsense

With dreams and colored visions

That never can be possessed

I am tears that wait

To be brushed away

By a welcome finger

Not my own that reap

The sorrow of golden days

That never came together

The descent into this morning

Of promises begins lifeless

Seeds of caution expect

Their blooms of change

Overloaded with pillars

Of racing sun caught wild

Barry G. Wick

Before Long

Before Long

When was that?

Or when will that be?

I stand in awe

Of the colors I see

In those two words.

The yellow of the fall grass

Where I'd sit on the knoll

South of my childhood home

On Hangmans Hill.

What dark green ponderosas

With black and gray bark

Torn to rose by finger nails

Stands in the way of my eyes

As I spent time thinking

Above the town where I grew

With no plans or dreams

Of my own.

I satisfied the dreams

Of others hoping I could

Feel a love for which

I searched and still do.

Did the radioactive rock

Deep beneath my chosen perch

Burn the drive out of me?

I'd look down upon the town

The descending path

Behind me with its curves

From the skyline above

Ends here with the redwood house

On my right and my future

On my left where the rain

Would cross the bands of hills

I could see in summer.

Is it long now, as my mind

Goes there to rest

In these lonely years?

Is it before long

When life's longest rest

Takes me to the edges

Of the universe?

This reverie in limbo

Has me dreaming

Of sitting here

In a past where my mind

Was blank of everything

That was important

Or could be.

I'll never really be

There again,

Alone, so alone,

Watching all that tiny life

from above

As if I were a godd

Unable to control anything.

It is the same now,

Without the browned grass

To pluck and place

On youthful lips,

Or tiny stones to toss

To the edge of this gentle mound

That comes to me from memory.

Barry G. Wick