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, May 20, 2022

The Fat Imp

The Fat Imp

At the edge of bed
Gathering phone in moose skin pouch
A new tablet with cords
Then remembering to brush teeth
Wash eyes and hands
To the kitchen
Fill water jugs in the fridge
Take first two pills of the day
Test for sugar
Test for pressure
Take temperature

The imp sends a photo
Since imps are mostly thin
Able to move quickly
Joking and playing tricks
Certainly not hobgoblinish tricks
They are mean
Like knocking the measuring cup
From a hand to break it in the sink
The hobgoblin plays mean
With the imp
Locked as they are in the home
Unseen and invisible to everyone
Except each other
The gob is seen by the imp
Imagined really
Since the imp is alone often crying
Over spilt flour and tea
Tomorrow is bread day
Tonight the fish dipped in batter
Fried to the imp's strict recipe
Meals planned days in advance
Since he's fat and hungry
To play a trick on himself
His mind mixes the tartar sauce
As an old horn concerto
Mixes notes with Chopin
How strange for the imp

Who will call this familiar 
Spawn of Satan today
Something that sounds common
In his life
Since his friends are also
Unprotected from words that wound
He feels them in others
A failing of this life
That should have covered him
In alligator skin and tank steel

And so the imp begins his emptiness
Today her Majesty the broadcast baroness
Filters room to room
The couch says
The tea cools
Batteries charge
A dark day with rain
Is the shade of Satan
As is every sunny day
The old fat imp
Presses forward in lockstep
With the phalanxes of other imps
Killing silence
Shredding a lonely day
With questions 

Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, May 18, 2022

Hidden Baggage

Hidden Baggage

We bring baggage on these trips
Even when we're alone sitting
In an old person's room
With spider webs hanging
In the corners

I bring the Black Hills
With my own thoughts
Of Mt. Rushmore.
Plus all the people
We took as guests there
Through old days years
People expect their local friend
To act as tour guide
No it's okay I'll wait
I've been here hundreds of times
I don't need to hear or see
The hypocrisy again
It's tattooed on my body and brain
Invisibly with nothing ink

Then a satchel full of stories
Spread each time we visit
The poets house on the far hill
On the curb with the view
That's ok in the waves
Of chipmonks and noisy children

Off to the buffalo
Stay in the jeep cannot
Yeah he's two feet away
Thinking he'll horn your face
Hanging out the window
A hundred degrees in the shade
Nice crop of sage this year
Pick it and get caught
You'll pay your fine
Before the college loan
Leave the rock
Public property
Fingerprints are traceable

Now the flight back to Rapid City
Or Deadwood or Sturgis
The headline reads
Tourist Gored by Buffalo
I remember that lady behind
Us on the Harley
No update on condition
But I know the buffalo
Is smirking once again

Barry G. Wick

Sunday, May 15, 2022

Going Nuts

Going Nuts

It's soon time to go completely nuts.
It's important to be remembered
As the member of the family
Who was completely on the bizarre
Side of existence when a person
Crafts bow ties for bees
Puts lipstick on flowers
Massages trees with baby oil
Cuts the lawn with a scissors
Rolls naked down grassy hills
Wanders dark streets in top hats
All decisions are made with
The yes-no-maybe wheel
And ends every sentence with +
As if to signify there's more +
Then coming to the thought
That's how life should be lived
Every day+

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, May 5, 2022

The Treaty

The Treaty

When childhood is over,
When the parents push you out,
Even for the world of work,
Or higher education,
A treaty is made with the world
That says you belong to you,
Unless you elect to stay
Close to the family.
Major decisions belong to you
As do mistakes and goofs
And all matter of wrongs
Against the others who live
In the town.
There are those who believe
You owe your government
Whatever the government says you owe.
If you get pregnant
The government's say you owe
The product of that pregnancy
For paying taxes
Service to society
As a soldier in war.
Only women no longer
Belong to themselves ever.
If a man wants to use
A woman's body 
the precedent has been set in stone.
Women can be forced to have babies.
Which means men can legally force
Women to have sex.
Never mind anti-rape laws,
Kidnapping laws,
Raped and pregnant
The man owns the woman's body.
It's his treaty with society.
The baby and all children from his woman
Belong to him.
This includes the girls he brings
Into the world.
Forget their mothers.
They have no freedom for anything.
So says thirty states
And the Supreme Court.
The men voted.
They own the law.
They own the women.
Even the women they convince
To be their slaves to their law
I thought we rid ourselves of slavery.
I thought people belonged to themselves.
I guess I don't and the women I've known 
Don't own themselves.
That is so, so wrong.

Barry G. Wick

Sunday, April 10, 2022

The Well

We sang a song at summer camp
About a boy who falls into a well.
I am still falling
Into the well of memory.
Upon its sides are shards
Of glass that cut me as I fall.
The well has no bottom
That would stop the pain
Of everything I remember.
I awaken from my dreams
Only to find I'm still falling.
This is my punishment
For all the hours 
Of useless life I've lived.
When I discovered
The memories I have
Of all these years,
I cringe as I pass
Another sharp piece
Slices the shreds of skin
On what is left of me.
This is my punishment.
I am where I belong.
It is dark.
It is painful.
I am shamed.
Others may fall in front
And behind me.
Of them, I am unaware.
I have been unaware of others
All my life as I ran over
So many.
Be assured I suffer
Every mistake
Now that I am alone
As I fall through the memory
In a dark and dangerous well.

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, March 10, 2022

The Adventures of President Gluppot


The Adventures of President Gluppot

President Gluppot sends his greetings

by chance of all these meetings

from the nation of Retainia.

Another war, another mania.

“I'm happy you have joined us,

You're in a deep, purloining fuss.”

This has all happened much before

like a knock on an ocher door.

“You can stay as long as you like,”

As he casually stabs all with a pike.

So begins another sticky situation

in the somewhere of another nation.

“You cannot dream of freedom, gents,

just dig deep for gleedom's pence.”

Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, February 15, 2022



Greet your mirrors, boys.
No more looking at the smooth
Surface of an ancient pond.
Now, your smartphone camera
Preserves every oil-coated
Muscle on every anatomical
Part of your well-tanned body.
Your pride shows beneath
A black thong or nude
What the heck, why not?
We all look and compare.
There will never be perfection
Until an old man believes
As he sips the wine of youth.

Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, February 8, 2022

Life Goes On

Life Goes On

Life goes on

Death goes on

Eternity goes on

The remembered go on

The forgotten go on

Eventually everybody goes on

We live for the living

We live for ourselves

We live for our families

We live for the moment

We live with our guilt

We live with our shame

We live with what we built

We live with our name

Barry G. Wick

For Ira Laney

Saturday, January 15, 2022

A Broken Branch

A Broken Branch

My son no longer talks to me
Just as I no longer hear the crows
On the flagged ponderosa
Next to Hangmans Rock.
His children know more about me
Than I know about a crow's breath.
It twisted down the hill to my face
As it flutters the fuzz on a young ear
That cannot fathom the confusion of
A son's first sounds just fresh
From his mother's womb.
My lonely hours inside this trailer
Beg for any voice to speak
One kind word that first
Came from his mouth. 
I am so proud of him
That he has thrown me away
Like a match that failed to strike.
I am no man to him
As most gay men are to their families.
We are men in name only
As we hold ourselves aloft
Our black feathers brushing worn bark
Our toes holding fast to dead branches,
Screaming unintelligible verbs
At loosely arranged north winds
Hoping other crows will find this tree.

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, January 13, 2022

A Time for Moats

A Time for Moats

It's no fun guessing.
You were there
Then you weren't.
I couldn't  know
What you were thinking.
You came to my place
Nicely dressed
Like you were going out.
You didn't call.
What could I know?
All these years now
Are bricks stacked
Against each other's walls
Ready to make new ones.
I say the wrong thing.
You begin to cry.
You won't get angry.
What can I know if
You say nothing
Along with your tears.
I give up.
Is this the way it is
To be with everyone
I want to love me?
There is only one way
Out of this silence.
It's time to get concrete
Mixed for the bricks.
There are only walls
To build between me
And everyone else.
I'll open no doors.
I'll start no calls
And answer none.
In here must be
Some kind of happiness.

Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, January 5, 2022

Good Morning


Good Morning

The fan on the furnace

spins for longer and longer

as a horn on the radio

plays its concerto

of a cold morning

The machine on the counter

plays my dishes clean

Electric lights right and left

and over the stove

All this to disappear?

My fragile world

disappears imperceptibly

as it crawls through the hours

its low slung belly

drags upon the hard ground

There are no heights

for it has been the demon

of all lives

waiting for its time to bite

A simple breakfast

will make it disappear

if only for temporary seconds

Which will hide you more?

Eggs or bran

Coffee or tea

Butter or jam

If we give it choices

it will stray from its

muddy path

and lose itself in decisions

I send it to the stars

A few parsecs and it will

forget about me

Barry G. Wick