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
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