Conundrum

Conundrum

The Buddhist chef says

"When you wash the rice,

Wash the rice."

Mindfulness of task.

I brush my teeth

In a mindful way.

My nose says "Hold on!

I'm dripping now. Mindful this."

No, I'm brushing my teeth.

"I'll drip through your mustache

And into your mouth," it says.

What can I do? I'm brushing.

"Mindful of my needs, please."

Throughout my day

Nose interrupts.

Obviously nose hates

A student Buddhist

Who hates nose.

Hate does not appear

In the Buddhist student handbook.

Barry G. Wick

A Memory

A Memory

This morning colder as I sit

At an old plastic sink

Brushing my graying hair

The man in the mirror

Looks at strands in a comb

Pulled from his thinning head

Across the room a radio

Plays a piano trio

Adding to the age

Of the moment

Someone listens to hip hop

They don't miss or know

This piece from an olden time

Just as I don't know theirs

Now there begins a sweet thought

Given to the time of day

A change in the eyes annouces

Both at the same time

Just minutes from the dreams 

Reflections meet each other

In a tear of a better past

That happens more in these days

Barry G. Wick

Three Years

Three Years

Three years in my home

To hide from disease 

That has killed more than a million

In this nation

It is a plague to be so isolated

This house is kept noisy

With music and videos

From the internet

A great gift from someone

Whom I love more than myself

Yet at the start of breakfast

The simplest comment or tune

Will set off the only images I have

The past years of my life

The people I've known and seen

Situations that angered and thrilled

Though often paid me in guilt

Often sad and painful

Here I am I say

To push away the memory

That intrudes upon this space

For some of these moments

I am grateful yet push them aside

As eggs and toast fall 

Upon a simple.gray plate

Coffee sugar milk

Butter scraped on crumb

The day begins with plans

That change from day to day

This or that simple creation

That won't last to inspire emotion

In anyone I love

About these lonely years

Full of dreams that frighten

Or give me laughter

Here I am Lord

As I refer to the majesty

Of the universe that surrounds me

Small and alone

Untouched for many years

Though I am not sorrowed

It's gratitude to have finally found

Myself

Barry G. Wick

Empty Spaces

Empty Spaces

If I had to think about it

The first was love

The first two weeks in life

Alone in the hospital

Except for visits and nurses

Mother left me there 

So she could get stronger

The list of fillers

Started to grow

Visible and invisible

My canyons were wide

And empty

Then there was pleasing her

Starting at age four

Though maybe before

Practicing piano

Only to please her

Because it didn’t come from me

I hadn’t developed my ear

A few more years at seven or eight

And I’d have heard what

I needed to hear

Then came food

I stole food

Opening cans of food

When nobody was home

Or when others were in other rooms

Then there was sex

Oh yes sex

An early interest of photos

Just two

Of guys that excited me

Though in junior high

I became obsessed 

With one or two boys

Who weren’t interested in me

I tried to be interested in girls

It just never happened

I was too formal

There was nothing natural

In my personality

It was all forced

I married and tried

But I couldn’t be natural

I couldn’t be the real me

And after that

Came alcohol

Despite my mother’s warnings

About her father

And my father's drinking

My forays here and there

Into booze were joined

By marijuana

Then sex again

And now years later

I just want to be alone

I just want to be me

In my own world

Imperfect

Fat

And lonely

But I’m me

The empty space is still inside

Like a next door neighbor

Who borrows a tool

Never bringing it back

I'd need that tool

It's not there and I'd forget

What happened to it

So it's become a comfortable

Nothing

I'm used to the hole

The empty I sense

But don't know what's

Suppose to be there

I'll never know

So I walk through this world

Incomplete

An unfinished building

With stay out signs

Barry G. Wick

From Father to Son

From Father to Son

He was born in a small 

South Dakota town 

in the east of the state

It was late in November

He would die on the same date

Far away 

in California

He returns to me

In dreams where I hear

His voice and see his face

An only child

His mother American Norwegian

His father American German

I see him again on rubber boats

A fishing pole in hand

Sitting at the breakfast nook

With a pencil in his fingers

Talking to a circle of professionals

Speaking to graduates

Sitting in his office 

Stumbling drunk in our home

When drinking with his friend

Carrying a deer rifle or shotgun

Explaining his trophies

Roaring in laughter

In our last phone call

Where he speaks to me alone

His cancer has odd names

While eating him alive

Faster and faster it grows

Inside of him 

Each word is chosen

With our histories entwined

In the silence of daily life

He tells me I'm his son

I blubber at that line

As I know it settles

An argument with my mother

Of years long before

When he questioned my paternity 

that hit my mother as hard as any fist

He probably never used

Her words to me on that

Made me wonder why I felt

A washout between father and son

When I'm suddenly transported

To a place on a ranch near the Badlands

Where he plants me

With my brother's rifle

Looking up a small wash

To silence me as he walks

Farther ahead to put himself

Unseen by me

From where I hear his gun

Down a muley

You're my son he says

It's an apology to my mother

And to me about our separations

That often appeared

As I've seen him throughout

Our years as he walked away

On so many occasions

From an interest in my life

Now so many years away

From that phone call

I understand the canyon

Between my son and me

Where I have no rifle

Only words to slay

Only words to say

I'm sorry I learned

The wrong lessons of parenthood

Passed from generations

To me

Barry G. Wick

Not Me

Not Me

I grew up as a homosexual

Locked in a town and life

Where no one can be.

I turned away love

At every opportunity

To protect my parents

From the toxic shame

I felt for just existing

It's an all too common story.

I am not special.

In fact, I am and was useless

In the eyes then and now

Of everyone I ever met.

I could not allow myself

To love anyone out of fear.

Later in life I would try

But failed at every turn.

I think of the boys and later, men,

Who found my heart worthy.

As soon as that, I'd find a way

To reject them.

A person who rejects love,

Deep, central love,

Is not worthy for any acceptance.

Nearer the end of life I see

Who I am.

I said "not me" to so many

With whom I could spend

These last year's.

I deserve these last year's

Exactly where I am

In a 14x80 prison cell

Crying at the end of every day.

Barry G. Wick

The Poet"s Garbage Can

The Poet's Garbage Can

A famous picture of W.H.Auden

Visualizes him with a garbage can.

The lid held in his left hand.

He wears a neat suit.

The can has a metallic shine.

What does he put in that can?

Or does he represent every poet

Who throws out the garbage

Of the creative mind.

This garbage might represent

A great loss to the readers

Of poetry, words and thoughts

That might benefit another person

Teetering on the edge of loneliness

Or sanity in an hour of strife.

We'll never know the thoughts

Of Crane, Plath, or Rochester,

A poet I knew as a young man

Who impressed so many.

Now he is unknown,

except to his remaining family,

And friends who made mistakes

With their friendship.

Perhaps the garbage can represents

The loss of all poets to history,

All their poems trashed by unknown

Companions or humanity in general.

We will never know because

This poem will go the way

Of all poems eventually,

Of all poets eventually,

Of all strings of words

In search of meaning,

In search of another human

To feel what Wilfred Owen felt

Searching on those stairs

That lead him to the garbage can

Of world wsr

That was France and death

In November of 1918.

What poems had a bullet hole

In his tunic? covered in blood.

My mentor told me to never

Use the word blood in a poem,

But what are poems but blood

Coursing from the mind

Through the voice

Across the distance

As vibration heard or unheard,

Ultimately ignored in

The garbage can of time.

Barry G. Wick

The Begging of Nobody

The Begging of Nobody

I provide a major corporation

Something for you to read

Free of charge

In between advertising

To sell you something

To prove to their worth

And make their corporation

That's controlled by a few people

And those few people

Powerful and wealthy

I provide this free

Hoping you might send

Me two or three dollars

Or just one dollar

So I can pay my bills

That are growing

Beyond my ability

To pay them

All my life I bought

Into the system

That now provides

Crumbs for my daily life

Poets are allowed to starve

Because poets think

The great powers

Don't want you to think

They don't want me

To think

We are having fun

As we watch

All this horror

Right now I lay

In my bed as I watch

A glowing screen

To make me forget

The pain in my stomach

I worry

There is no reason to worry

But I do

I believe I'll be gone

Soon enough

And these poems will continue

To enrich someone

Or this giant corporation

Upon its glowing screen

You read these thoughts

Thank you giant corporation

For nothing but your

Great wealth and power

I love you

Thank you for keeping

My brain alive 

Here

I love you

Barry G. Wick

Pronoucements

Pronouncements

I dream I'm once again

Creating for radio

A commercial or morning jokes

Surrounded by station staff

As I gradually awake

I still speak to them

As if I really know something

As the ceiling comes into view

My mouth spills words

That have no meaning

To my waking mind

Nothing remembered or written

Please call someone to help

Wonderful dream people

Who listen to my sentence 

A prison cell for more years

Than even a judge would call

I cause them pain

In their imagined minds

Even if they seem attentive

Barry G. Wick

Sunlight and Bills

Sunlight and Bills

I awake

Rested and ready

The sun brightens the overcast

I lay listening to music

Soon the day names itself

What does this mean

And details become clear

This is the day that bills hath made

So begins the waves of webpages

Designed to make me

Credit worthy

There are no cheers

When a creditor receives their money

A small crowd cheering

An audio thank you…uh…your name

It would mean so much

But no

The world is vision touch and sound

Perhaps one day

Personal robot (yet to be named)

Will pat me on the back

Raise its arms

Sending up a cheer

When I pay the rent

Barry G. Wick

The Mystery (for Jon R.)

The Mystery(for Jon R.)

When a person knows

The depth of their failure,

I mean all the misses

And all the hits

That couldn't have been

More wrong,

There is a sense

The road has come to an end.

It's easy to think

The end would be easy,

Except, one always has

To see what's around the corner.

Everything has pain

Associated with every memory

How much pain

Can our victim stand?

Well, more than you know.

It's the self-punishment

That's the goal

Of this disgusting life.

Pain.

It's the least that should happen.

Every photograph,

Every situation seen,

Is a source of horror.

Should this be an end?

Nope. Box of spiders?

Gun to the head?

Rope?

All jokes aside,

A cloudy day is enough.

Be good to this poor soul

Who has no soul.

Your reward will be simple,

But I'm certain I don't know

What it will be.

Barry G. Wick

Last Poem

Last Poem

Will someone who writes

The last poem

Please turn off the words.

Barry G. Wick

The Old Bracelet

 The Old Bracelet

Though all the storms of these past years,

A small token of a mother’s love remains.

A bracelet sheathed in a thin layer of gold

With solid links that are hard to open.

It may have belonged to her mother

Though I am unsure of the ownership.

It could have been a start of  a charm

Or a gift from someone loved for years.

On this bracelet three charms hang

Attached to one end in combination.

Here a small crown less than an inch

Next, a gold plated wing and name plate.

All three tell some story I cannot surmise

Yet, I am drawn to this bracelet today.

On the back of the name plate,

Mother’s name in simple line inscribed

Perhaps others items were upon it

Charms that meant much to her mother

Or perhaps this was all that was there.

My wrist now shares this bracelet.

At the end of my arm before my hand

Three things simply hang in discord:

A striped sweatband of blue and white,

Rainbow beads on white cord, and this.

The significance of all this escapes me.

I’ll wear them for awhile to find

What they will mean to me today

Or tomorrow, time brought them all.

Barry G. Wick

Illusion

Illusion

Father makes a funny face.

Mother wears the best clothing.

Other children are friends.

The piano teacher compliments.

A recital audience applauds.

Young men become attractive.

A magazine tells their truth.

Another features exciting photos.

Food is given.

The weather changes.

Teachers select readings.

A first job pays.

So little lasts,

From generation to generation.

It is possible to watch

The changes over a lifetime

Provided with long life

And care for it.

The qualities diminish.

Less courtesy.

More violent language.

More hurtful words.

All mistakes return

Nearer the end.

Expectations wane.

Gradually the stare

Takes over all things.

Even with a bright mind

This all darkens.

There is no relief

From this final pain.

Children now will suffer.

None of their joy remains.

The old sit on benches

To watch their past

Come skipping by.

Barry G. Wick