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.

Thursday, December 29, 2022

On the Porch

On the Porch

The winter sun is low
In the warmer afternoon.
I think about
What I sew.
Wispy clouds hang overhead,
The sky's tangled thread.
Snow melts to send
Rivulets of water
Down sides of the street.
Slight wind damage to the home
Next to me has peeled
The skirting down half the side
Which faces me with a reason
To call the office to complain.
No no no. I'm not that sort.
My complaints are about me.
They cover my eyes before sleep
To wonder about all my poor choices
And the basics of my gay life
Or lack of it now.
Old men need partners that began
In the warm days of life
When porches never needed me.
Sunny life follows those days
As two men should follow each other.
I lived in fear of everything around me.
Every thought was a question.
Then the day came I stood for myself.
It was just a minute.
Those seconds have guided these years
Into the quiet and alone.
I make my peace with those I hurt
Many mostly in silence.
There's no one to call.
There's no one to help with dishes
Or to share the handle of a vacuum.
Now the breeze gets colder.
The sun is deep in the West.
So I am needing to find some warmth
Off the porch to be forgotten.

Barry G.Wick

Monday, December 19, 2022

Evolutionary Tears

Evolutionary Tears

Behold!  Oh stop with the religious angelisms.
To the future I listen from rhombic speakers.
I float in the air like Caesar's thirty molecules
Brushing through your veoli in search
Of mushroom seeds and rabbit turds.
I am still a being in the time of solar dawns
That tear at atoms releasing their contents,
A bag corn chips scattered on pavement
Trampled by oxen that pull covered wagons
Made of glass and unknown metals.
My descendants settle in cracks 
In the concrete of black holes and super giants.
I disturb all conventions with a dedicated thought.
Monster of Motion, be not still at the end.
Your fight against the calm goes on
As it screams for me to hear its familiar octaves.

Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, December 14, 2022



This is a time of confusions
When people are full of delusions
Their freedom is all
They want a tall wall
Between them and other's conclusions

Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, December 7, 2022

The Piano Man's Money

The Piano Man's Money

I know the song. The words didn't click for me when music was the Empire State of mind.  I did play piano before these dwindling word-soaked days.   A synth in the middle bedroom has 64 keys.  Good enough for sensual Bach.  I wish I had a piano with 88 writhing keys, hot and loose.  There are many free. I can barely move groceries and know few muscled lovers.  There's hire it done, but wealth escapes me faster than honey scooped by a greedy remover attacked by bees.

Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, December 6, 2022

First Base

First Base

The calling to an old 
Form of paranoia
Has me suspicious
Out of my day
And having conversations
In my mind
With people I hardly know
Who are you
I say to my imaginary nemesis
There is no answer
Because he doesn't know himsf
Inside my head
Which probably says
More about me than the person
Who occupies my imagination

So I travel.though all the possibilities
As related to my own history
With other paranoid people
Who studied me in another life
I had been lassoed by circumstances
I couldn't say no to
I grit my teeth realizing
The mess I'm in now

I can't say no to the new attacker
Who is likely just as lonely
Why would anybody
Want to meet me in this state
This magic of love will defeat itself
In a whirlwind of dust and smoke
From neurons rubbing themselves
That starts fires in the heart
Or wherever emotions
Lay at the bases of mind.and body

Barry G. Wick

Sunday, November 20, 2022

Where Seldom Is Heard

Where Seldom is Heard

There are tears
Where only laughter
And smiles should live
People who believe
Love is love
Already know
Hate is hate

There is a search for answers
With deep sighs
And momentary shaking
Does this ever end
For everyone across the world

We are at war with every person
Of every belief
And every status
It is so easy to find something wrong
With the other we do not know

We live in our corners
Where we think safety's wall exists
It's not there
The dead are not there
With death on a classroom floor
At Sandy someplace
In a library at a high school
On a street in a protest parade
At a supermarket
In a tall building
In a nightclub

The names are not vocalized
At the next act of hate
Hundreds are forgotten
Except by those closest
To the grass and dirt

The moment of deepest anger
Or when we think we know
What is best for someone
Bulldozes another garden
For weather beaten stone
To wear away 
To disappear in ten thousand years
Only hate 
and maybe a little love
Is remembered

Barry G. Wick

Sunday, November 13, 2022



What I am now is what
Guys in my college dorm
Called someone seldom seen
A ghost prefers no company
A university phantasm
May actually want to graduate
And go into higher degrees
I wanted to party
Despite that I barely graduated
Now my party days are over

I learned to ghost
After years of care for my mother
Who was a ghost for years
Social with a few neighbors
Aging and defects stopped her

A pandemic halted any contact
No diseases gonna deghost me
Pork roast in the oven
Dishes in the countertop machine
Microwave oven beeps potatoes done
What I sew is nearly done
čhegnáke the Lakota word for loincloth
A train horns its way through Iowa
Electricity charges this thing
Jim Wright never had

Up from a nap my brain not refreshed
A simple name escaped me
It's almost as if it was never caught
Behind the neuronic bars
Some things are never prisoners
In that aged fat gael in my head
One day everything will break out
To wander this universe I call
The ultimate sheriff whose badge
Shines bright even to days beyond
Until it explodes or gets
The thumb and forefinger
Slowly twisting up the wooden match
To extinguish it's flame
Big damn flame

To the future
This was never written
If found lore will create my story
Full of professorial lies
Created by people who claimed
To know me even as a ghost
Those people are lying

What to remember
Is that simple failures
Became these faithless words
Tippy typed across a glowing screen
Barefoot words covered in sandals
Of letters strapped with aches
Cracked heals so dry
Capital letters deceive you
To render meaninglessness
A language full of sand
Swepted with brushes
By ghost students who seek
Degrees of redemption
Over here over here they scream
We found his skull and blunted finger
Wow he typed hard
Boo I will say as I look over their efforts
They aren't listening
They were out drinking the night before

I've learned to dance in my ghost life
Open the doors to the buffalo
I'm accepted because I'm a ghost
Who no longer colonizes
Or owns chunks of land
All ghosts are one
Even if those like me are suspect
A thief of words now
Soon silent dancers let me join
Bless them because I was always
Life is forgotten
Air is forgotten
Mother is forgotten
The beep of a microwave is forgotten
Dinner is done
Time for meds that make me disappear

Hells bells I'm a sinner
And not kosher
Nothing of this may survive
Spare change anyone
This ghost needs a cab
To another universe
Even godd agrees

Barry G. Wick

Ungrateful Little Shit: A Prayer

Ungrateful Little Shit: A Prayer

Oh mighty universe to whom I pray
Upon my birth I had not learned
There would be no memory of me
Since discovery that I've always
Been ungrateful until recently
Not all to whom I should be grateful
Will know how much I regret
The ingratitude that greeted them
Upon first contact with me

So to my children and their mother
I apologize for my gigantic shithood
More could be written to assuage
The guilt I've felt for years
Yet this will have to suffice
I am grateful that we've met
And your gifts to me are beyond
My ability to repay your kindness to me
And the suffering you have endured

My parents were generous and true
To the point I'm uncertain I never thanked
There was food clothing shelter 
Presents travel memories education
Hopes dreams thoughtfulness
And all the trappings I'm certain
I never fully gave to my own children
That which they should hold a grievance
For their father their entire better lives

For my lifetime friends I can never say
How grateful I am for their holding me
When they all knew how weak and useless
I always was from before grade school
To the years I finally retired to be myself
I'm not certain why I became this ungrateful
But now that I've realized the depths
Of my failures to support your lives it's all
I can do to give thanks to your fulfilled selves

And finally to myself I expressed gratitude
For waking up from a wasted life to do
The proper thing by being far away from all
To no longer submit this weak being
To all the glories and amazing people
Who are so much better than I am
Though now I have risen one tiny notch
From the bottom where I failed to share
Thank you one and all for this awakening

Barry G. Wick

Saturday, November 12, 2022



To the bus with wide seats to be
Filled with middle age members of
The Chamber of Commerce blue hairs
Smoothe roads south then north in western
South Dakota prairie for promotional
Visits to ranches where Angus cattle
Spend their limited grass fed lives
In preparation for the plates
Of my home when my sales improve

Breakfast of steak and eggs
South of town paid for by a worried rancher
I don't know but he's a friend's father
Who also has town business and money
I just saw his face in conversation
More wrinkled than just sun
More wrinkled than just age
In his Stetson hat and Tony Lama boots
Where did he rent all this seating

Outside the bus parked on gravel
The prairie doesn't care for what trods it
Or about business or coyotes
Prairie chickens puff their gullets
To attract females for bird sex
Mammal claws dig for a small meal
Deeper in the sun hardened sod
Prairie dogs scurry for the other exit
Only for eagles and hawks to swoop

Breakfast over we return 
In a que to the bus with tighter seats
Full of coffee and fried potatoes
Dead Angus and scrambled ovums
Oh I'm impressed with this generous rancher
There's nothing more I can stuff into me
Now I wonder if the bus has a toilet
That doesn't embarrass when I walk
Back through the tall seats and staring women

Headed north we're told lunch 
at the next ranch almost North Dakota
Owned by a famous family
Part of the Little House heritage will be
After a ranch stop outside Belle Fourche
Or was that other ranch first
Years past remembrance of detail
Everything is black cattle and clones today
Pot roast on the hoof with scalloped potatoes

Outside Faith named by Catholics or people
Worried how life on this open land
Will bring it's worst to the families settled here
Welcome find by rumor passing through the crowd
The ranchers new ten grand Bull 
Is tits up in a field after lightning the night before
I wonder if insurance will help
Or is the steak I eat too fresh for words
Yes bulls don't have tits so dick up then

The last stop is where gallons of semen
Last through the ages in liquid nitrogen
To take it's expected progeny through growth
Through a future of prairie and feed lots
To that magic number of twelve hundred fifty
Pounds of beefy barbeque layered in sauce
Smothered in human drool and buttered onion
The trip over its home to chicken with everything
But the cluck and beak a meal devoutly to be wished

Barry G. Wick

Saturday, October 29, 2022



In my lonely rooms

A song on the radio

Reminds me of you

And how the silence grew

The pain is beyond me

As it stares from all corners

Of where I am today

It won't be long

And I'll put it aside

Like I did with alcohol

The memory of you

Came on strong today

Brought on by music

I won't stop listening

Just that tune less and less

To the time when I won't hear

My present to me also came

After realization I'm not included

I knew it in depth

Then that view of a list

How it all goes 

Quickly or painfully slow

Every day I review

All your faces and

How I hurt my list

I'm awake

In these lonely rooms

As I deal with the wreckage

Of halcyon days

I float here like the bird

That charms the waves

Into calm

All these waves will soon

Be still

Nothing will be said

Nothing will matter

Exactly what I created

With my nest

On a rocking ocean

A list full of wrongs

Like notes that return

At the first musical measures

Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, October 26, 2022



A bud has made a thud
It's fall again
When oh when
Will I elope with spring
To sing my hope and then
Ring the bell
Oh hell soon winter
Will disinter my blue face
An always pent-up thing
Bent on places green
To tell the world I've seen
Ropes of tangled leaves
That race from ground to sky
To try the sun's most precious light

Barry G. Wick

Sunday, October 16, 2022

Passing Out

Passing Out

I am dead now
But I still breathe
It's an addiction for which
There's no group
No weighty book
To give strength and tips
On how live with death
I chat with friends
Watch their stories
Stay connected 
From my dead world
To their lives
This isn't ghosthood
Though close
My grave still makes
The sound of dishes 
As they are raked
By the arm that rotates
With pressured water
There is a buzz 
of a finished wash
For my shroud
It won't load itself 
Into the dryer
In Egypt the dead lay
Out to dry
My coffin needs a vacuum
The dust on the furniture
Is the dirt on my grave
There are no tears yet
I'll hold my breath
For them to start
Would that fool you?
I feel light headed

Barry G. Wick

Sunday, September 18, 2022

The Monster

 The Monster

When did this enter

To sit in its corner

Saturday, September 10, 2022

A Longing from Rain

A Longing from Rain

Is there time left for love
Or just the sound
Of rain on a metal roof
Belonging to only one
With no arms wrapped
Or lips touched
To that sound
Could be laughter
As dreams spread
Through the gaps
Of conversation
Ah not a chance today
As my thoughts
Echo in an empty bed

Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, August 31, 2022

Lost in the Music

Lost in the Music

On the radio
Two musicians
A violinist and pianist
I grab my violin 
An orange rocket I will play
Along with the Stradivarius
He bows powerfully
And tenderly
The Strad responds
My bow is sharper than his
As I attack my instrument
Over the boards
Of this small stage
I denude it's.flesh repeatedly
As stripes of notes
Fall on to the  audience
Between the movements
Each phrase is clipped
As if to shorten this great piece
My violin passionately reveals
It's inner glory
The steamy pot reminds me
I have carrots to cut
Oh but we made such 
Beautiful music together
Bon appeftit
Applause fills this aromatic air.

Barry G. Wick

Sunday, August 28, 2022



All of this has never happened
So if you recognize someone
Don't be stuck up
Say your first name
They probably don't remember
Your first name
Last names are for business cards
Or when bowing to Japanese 
I never met those people
Except Bill who was half
Though remember I always acted
Like I had a fence post
Up my ass so
This is all something I never learned
But gladly share with you

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, August 25, 2022

Who's There?

Who's There?

The door has opened
To let myself be with me
Too often I was forced
To hear other voices
Trained to let them
Control my thoughts
This isolation has created
The mind I was suppose
To have from the first
I say hello in greeting 
To someone I never knew
It is myself as an old man

Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, June 8, 2022

Take Flight

Take Flight

It's spring
The mother robin
Can only feed worms
To her chicks
Because worms
Were what she'd been fed
When she was a chick

If robins understood advertising
They'd feed M&Ms, Fritos, and Coca Cola
To their chicks
Then there would be fat robins
Laying around unable to fly

I wish my mother had fed me worms
Then I'd have been able to fly
Instead of just getting by
Believing everything I see
On glowing screens
Then going into advertising
Telling everyone I'd never met
Believe what I say
You can't fly
You can't fly

Barry G. Wick

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