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

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

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