Flash

Flash

This feeling

Is gray smoke

Just enough to notice

A faint odor of something burnt

The way my lover left me

Invisible flame extinguished

Just waiting for the pain

To last this many years

Barry G. Wick

Alone

There is nothing you can give yourself

That is superior to time alone

To appreciate the universal gift

Of life.

Barry G. Wick

I Am A Monk

I Am A Monk

(for my children who are confounded by their father)

“Be still with me....you know where I am...keep breathing...”--Imogen Heap

I am a monk

without chanting sutras,

without simple robes,

or affectatious langot.

There is no exact word

to describe the faith

I practice. Some are close.

Ranjung sangay?

The self-enlightened?

Pratyekabuddha?

The path of self-enlightenment?

I would be a poor choice

for such great words.

My study wat

is an old trailer⁰

where I cannot kneel,

where there are no devotees

to help with my simple needs.

There are no attachments

or so I think

as I examine everything within

or attempt to suspend the world.

Unlike a real monk

I cannot walk my city with a bowl;

I need and sometimes carry money.

In this obsessed society

it is not begging to accept money

since cooked rice and vegetables

rarely come or survive in the mail.

Those who give to me

practice their faith in generosity

and reveal truth in charity.

For the few who serve me

I give what I simply can:

a poem,

a caring ear,

a kind word,

my time,

confused attempts at love,

a smile.

I wasn't always on this path.

It would be impossible

to explain my life to others:

the silence of selflessness,

the study of what's inside,

the walk inside a cage.

I fail every day to match ideals

of monks around the world.

I do aspire to a higher way;

to answers that complete me.

I claim no awareness or

enlightenment.

Normal clothing will cover me.

It's not important for others

to recognize me by my exterior.

Many will judge me

with or without robes

and the trappings of a religious.

As a teen,

I once told my mother

I wanted to live in a monastery;

the undiscovered truth I later found

was to get away from her.

Not being Catholic, Thai Buddhist,

our own Congregational Christianity,

some other religious group

with monasteries, I never

found pantheists who share

in communities. Some may exist.

My back on a lawn

in the starlit dark of night

is a way for me

to partially glimpse gODD.

I have achieved the basic

requirements of such a life

without the company of

other monks.

I contemplate and pray.

I read lessons that come

or are presented before me.

I learn from everything

what it is to live striving

for an ideal I'll never achieve.

My monk's name

was given to me by my parents

and those who came before me.

Out of respect for their paths,

right or wrong,

I now keep the name

in reverence for their sacrifices

that put me here,

unable to walk the road

or to visit those who need me

in my advanced years.

My service is simple

without desires for fame or wealth.

What I create is free.

What I take comes freely to me.

I spent much of my previous life

failing at everything I touched.

I was greedy, egotistic, glutinous,

foolish, caddish, and more.

I am accepting now

that I've found where I belong.

I am alone;

with or without

friends and family,

sitting with my experiences.

While I listen for a priest

ringing a bell,

here it becomes birdsong,

squirrel chatter,

wind rippling the metal roof,

the frozen noises

of the siding that complains,

falling icicles, thunder, rain,

voices in a dream or on radio,

music of every student,

even the professional ones.

All sounds come from gODD

in a vast spectrum of the visible

and invisible.

Sometimes a person becomes

what they once thought they

wanted to be and never expected.

I am a monk.

Barry G. Wick

The Poet's Strike

[Florida Governor Ron DeSantis has vetoed $32 million for the arts in Florida]

The Poet's Strike

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ABarry G. Wick

Traveler

Traveler

I know parts of this nation

On its roads and highways

In some shaded forests

The paths were not beaten

Except by me often alone

This desire to move there

Here and there any there

Is strongest when movement

Is no longer possible

When age’s match just smokes

Roads rattle me even on trips

To get groceries from a store

Just a short mile away

Then the urge to go farther

Belittles these baby steps

I think of South Dakota

Where I was born

Only to leave over issues

Cloudy and full of lightning

Prairie worms easily pass

Surprised as the flash

Strikes the far hills

Ì dream of riding that

Stalk of light and noise

In it's short and sudden life

Barry G. Wick

In the Dark

In the Dark

Coming and going, coming and going

The sound of engines and tires I'm Knowing

In the dark of the night as I lay on my right

They comfort me some out of dreams that are done

Pitched high or pitched low the traffic will go

America moves night and day don't ya know

Cross Iowa's land that's growing your food

As I lay on my bed in a fitful dream mood

Down in the dark these words make a mark

My fingers I tap with my hands on my lap

The sheets at my back this glow on the map

Unseen and unheard as I type my next word

Barry G. Wick

A Pattern for Silence

A Pattern for Silence

There is a pattern for silence

In the way I walk through

A hair stand of ponderosas that

Blocks the sounds of the world

At five thousand feet

Above sea level

Unimportant sea level

With the sound of the creek

Clacking boulders in the night

The sliding door open

To the lower lawn

A yawn fighting the shake

Of shoulders 

Barry G. Wick

The Three-sided Coin

The Three-sided Coin

Deep in my pocket

Lays a gilded dream

Two distinct faces

That fill an invisible third

It's no secret that I lived

In three places at once

Three dreams

The love of words

Came late to me

After music after boys

I could not openly caress

Three sides are now evolved

Into the one that forms

This creation

It is my hope to leave

The simple thoughts I have

After my years upon

This miracle of life

In awe of the heavens

I decided not to explain

Unknown Godd

There were many times

I prayed to all the affections 

Created by others far above

The simplicity of my being

I imagined answers

Came to me which

Escaped me

Beyond this moment

Lies the deepest black

Unfiltered and unnoticed

As it slipped into that day

Spending this Coin

I am with it

Shopping eternity

Barry G. Wick

The Doorbell Rings

The Doorbell Rings

If I had a doorbell

My eleven year old self

Would ring it while I was reading

A book by a Buddhist advisor

What do I do with the feeling

Of being interrupted

I'm expecting a visit

I discover the doorbell 

Doesn't work

Graciously inviting me

To knock hoping I'll

Come open the door

Or should I just turn

The metal know to find me

Opening I instantly recognize me

But I squint turning my head

Back and forth

Up and down

I've seen my face my whole life

But I've never seen my old face

From eyes at eleven years old

I'm fourth or fifth grade

Old me is seventy-some grade

There is instant fear

I tell him to go back only

To return tomorrow

Neither of me

Knows what to say

He/me walks down the ramp

Head lowered just a bit

I/him close the door

My eyes wide and stunned

The couch finds my back

My eyes find that book

Thus endeth the lesson 

Barry G. Wick

Somewhere Godd Sits

Somewhere Godd Sits

Somewhere Godd sits

On a clump of galaxies

As if they were flowers

In a meadow

He looks across the valley

to see another hillside

Where the photons sparkle

He's crumpled this area

Far too long 

This glow of bright petals

Could dim under his weight

In the distance He hears

A flute sing

Perhaps this player

Will write more of these notes

Than Mozart did

Godd is hope

For great composers

On all living planets

He creates the creators 

Turning hand-like powers

This way and that

Even He fails perfection

Every so often

So He leaves some music

For his varied populations to discover

That's His generosity

His Wife looks at the chasm of stars

Knowing She allows His ego

To think it all belongs to Him

He'd be surprised at who plays

This flautic melody 

She returns to Her garden

A bit cross she has to fluff

These stars again

On His favorite pillow

Now she hums a simple tune

This time He doesn't hear

Her soft music

He's creating planets again

Barry G.Wick

Rejection

Rejection

It's important to feel

The pain of rejection

Because it's the only way

I can control my thoughts

And feelings

I reject myself

I don't belong

Being is punishment

Barry G. Wick

Exit

Exit

“There's only one life and this is it.” --Allen Ginsberg

You got yer exit here

You got yer exit there

You dance all around

Until yer body's found

Barry G. Wick

Rain Sound

Rain Sound

Who needs sound

Besides the deaf

For whom any sound

Becomes love 

Even explosions

First heard

would be an orgasm

The resident of the city

Listens to prerecorded rain

To fall asleep

The lonely rancher

Needs the occasional

Bellow from a steer

That makes its sounds

Knowing it's missing

Parts of anatomy taken

When just prancing prairie-ful

In the hills I heard the creek

At night shoving boulders

Thumping in argument

With the water that demands

Respect for its ability to control

The shape of the canyon

That sleep differed from the city

Where I learned to sleep

With traffic and drunk screams

At midnight as I tossed in the heat

Rain on the roof 

of my home In iowa

Makes me wonder

If a hidden tornado

Will toss me as if 

I was a spark from a camp fire

Flying upwards ready to burn out

The distant sound of tires

Against hard concrete

Sings to me at Night

As America falls asleep

Waiting for delivery

Of a pillow that yells

At a sleeping head

“Wake up, I hear rain.”

With me tossing and adjusting

As I calm its fears

Barry G. Wick

Dredge

Dredge

On this river that drains

From the port where we dock

To the old ship once prowled

There is a way to sail through

With help for a berthing

It is the dredge that clears

A channel for ship on the sea

Even now a sail cannot be seen

To be certain rough hands

Will do their digging 

Nobody wants to see the truth

Brought up from the bottom

For everyone to see it's colors

Deposited on the shore

They just want a clean channel

Our ship raised a flag to say

What it believes in the waves

And while the waters try to fill

What was hidden in the depths

The channel is open for all

Barry G. Wick

Paradise

Paradise

“In Paradise, roasted pigeons fly into your mouth.”--Werner Herzog in Fata Morgana

A fly once flew into my mouth

I think a bee or wasp

It's been long ago

Since then I've been

Able to keep my mouth shut

Only my fingers slam out words

That I can't retract

Some I chew on for years

Some actions also

Its those pigeons I worry about

Are the bones soft

Is there any lead shot

Hiding in the wings

And feathers

We're they plucked before cooking

Is Herzog watching me

Or is he throwing those pigeons

At people who made it to paradise

But the first thing is a bird

Slammed into my mouth

I'm against forced feeding

Especially when I'm dead

Or about to be

Let me go someplace

Without the rats of the air

And just who besides Herzog

Thinks force feeding pigeons

Is an elegant action in paradise

Is paradise a place to eat

I want to read the review

In the Times or Tribune

Is there only pigeon

Or something else on the menu

If godd controls this place

What's he got against pigeons

That he has to kack and roast them

Woo, this place might not be for me

I come from beef country

Imagine getting hit in the pie hole

With a twelve hundred pound

Barbequed steer hooves and all

More sauce please

Barry G. Wick

Glowing Paper

Glowing Paper--(a really stupid poem)

Books get wet

Bugs eat books

People burn books

Books go to the trash

The mail loses books

Paper books turn to dust

Special paper may save books

I write on glowing paper

And am perfectly happy

To have the bomb make

All that I write disappear

In a white flash

Like what I write on

Only brighter

The shadows I create

Lose their meaning

Once the fingers 

Go on to the next glow

And the next chemical brain plug-in

Where the finger never gets wet

To turn the page with its tiny

Electrical charge detected

I disappear for my reader

Turning into an invisible character

In a video distribution

Of words that I make now

With my muscles

From brain to finger

What will you collect of me

The skin cells that fall from my organs

On the carpet of my mobile home

My shoes and breechcloths

The greatest prize for collectors

Will be my two jockstraps

That could never make me

Look like a Bob Miser model

It's time to yawn enough

To pull the comforter over

My body in bed where

Everyone is headed with

Their phones and tablets

Filled with glowing paper

Barry G. Wick

The Sky at Night

The Sky at Night

At best 

A comfortable bed leads to

Thinking of a thousand questions

For whomever lives on a planet

Revolving around that star

Stared at for hours

Laying on the grass

Of a small observatory

At its worst

A religion is formed

After which the spreading

Of an insipid pile of mental dung

To the tribe in surrounding tents

Builds a worldwide following

Each tribe changes the story

To suit their own creation

Every question founded

Forces another question

To the surface of this puddle

The answer is the same

Absurdity prevails as paddling

Pushes every thought

Farther from the edge

Of a home that's warm and simple

Even these words have changed

From the first inspiration

That created the dawn

That breaks sleep upon this grass

The door opens the car starts

As the highway to a temporary home

Clicks with a familiar tone

Adding music to confusion

Barry G. Wick

Hidden

Hidden

All that I sense becomes a memory

From the past

Dipping in and out

Of the present just as

The sun finds a hole

In grey clouds

That makes the future

Worth the hope for which I pay

This comes from the pandemic

When I sealed myself away

Inside my home

Draping myself in silence

Entombed in my own words

Like a man in a small town

who yelled at a street corner

No one stopped to listen

People have real problems

When others just talk at

Each other in monumental halls

Nothing gets solved

I could but I'm tired of all sides

Who also hide in themselves

From what they really want

In the open and alone

Barry G. Wick

Striped Sky

Striped Sky

Over Iowa now

High aircraft put long stripes

In a cloudless sky

Six or more at a time

I come to the porch today

Hoping it's the special day

I'll see polka dots

Is it too much to ask for them

To stitch me a blanket

Of clouds

To drape my home

In flowers

In colored needlepoint

For spring

Barry G. Wick

The Scars

The Scars

As an old man I have

Memories of life and adventure

In this new age of instant visions

I've seen a photo

Of a naked twenty-something

Peter Hujar running

In his photo from the Met

An unprompted artist

Like me

His beautiful body should not

Be my desire

Because I know the truth

With a capital T

As age, isolation, and failing health

Can't entice any friendship

Such a sudden image delivery

Only reminds me of the travails

Of my youth witnessed by the scars

Both outside my empained frame

And the ones unseen

That I carry to remind me

How I must live now without

A careless walk through 

Mental jungles and those dangerous

Smooth lawns throwing and hitting

The balls of game and competition

Surely an old man could love

Though an older man 

With his own scars of battle

Would be more appropriate

As I review my own marks

Upon my aching physique

And a soul whose thunder

Is rolling away hectare by hectare

In remembrance of storms

No longer sending me

To seek the shelter of known

And unknown gods and spirits

A young man will find his own

Scars

Many years in the future

If he's careful to value every gift

I will continue the last crawl

Only searching for a worthy end

Another image comes to mind

I think how lucky Whitman was

To have the help of Bill Duckett

Who posed for Thomas Eakins

In the same natural clothes

I have seen today

Old Walt was closer to a dream

Than I will ever be

I only have to sit granite still

As memory's attack begins

All the marks are gently reviewed

I am their victim and joyful subject

Filled with life that continues

To massage my scars

From a cloudy sky

To a bright blue morning

Barry G. Wick

Blind Clocks

Blind Clocks

Don't remember me

Take me off the books

There is nothing to believe in

Hold onto something in your world

I was not worthy or excited

About anything beyond my 30s

Our lips never melted together

As the heat of youth dissipated

Don't be sad

Nor shed a tear at my end

I was just another in a long line

Of forgettables

Stones sit above the graves

Until the weather wears them

No one will understand the writing

Of this dead language

What did I do for you

Ah I mourned you in my days

Your gifts were so simple

As I was falling in love

But we missed each other

In this psychotic life

Passing through a few years

When our faces were closer

We didn't see each other

As the swirl around us took

Our attentions away from

The important things 

We needed them less so

Losing moments that surrounded

Clocks ticked our seconds away

Their blind faces became ours

Barry G. Wick

Bugs

Bugs

Here we crawl

On our small world

Angry at each other

Eating our young

In war and uncaring ways

Should the universe

Reexamine its creation

There's no doubt

It's enormous mind would

Find a way to correct

These false directions

It will work in its own time

Or not

Best to ignore this mess

There are more important

Worlds to create

Where mistakes learned

Won't interfere

Time to clean my antennae

Barry G. Wick

Winter Sun

Winter Sun

Winter sun surprises me

In Iowa this year

February is not a time

To sun on the porch

Thoughts of summer

Come back to my world

Surprise is just days away

When we return to snow

Cold wind will blow

A natural confusion expected

Dear me

How long will it be

For another warm day

BGW

Mind-cuffs

Mind-cuffs

From birth you learn

How to control others

As they control you

With rules of everything

Who knows how many

Rules you taught others

Some will be free

To ride a bicycle nude

Some will be uneasy

Just thinking about that

Religion is a controller

With its black book

Nature can slap hard

With poison plants

Kicking and biting

Crushing in all forms

A thrown rock that hits

Is a lifetime remembered

The joy of music

Will swallow your mind

Or be a door to godd

Vibration is all around

Every atom shakes us

Or twirls it's cosmic baton

We spend our lives

In search of keys

To unlock answers 

That never will be known

The mind-cuffs grow 

In units of heavy time

Barry G. Wick

Black Malo: unrequited love

Black Malo: unrequited love

Between lives and beach

He wears a black Malo

With front flap to knees

A second in the back

With strap of cloth folds

Connecting to the knot

Which runs loose between 

The loaves of his buttocks

As he draws in a breath

Scented by thoughts of me

In drape of fundoshi flowers

With his arms as they wave

In red light at sunset

From his lonely dance

As play steps aside

When dream's leaves

Are my rough fingers that

Sail around his brown skin

Barry G. Wick

From the Closed Door

From the Closed Door

Nothing moves as fast

As the winter sun

Shadows on the porch

Race 

Playing a game of hide

Of which there is no seek

Until night wonders

Where they've gone

Suddenly lonely

And late for a feast

The line of darkness

Eats the screws by ones

So  tasty for gobbling shade

A seatless chair in and out

Ruined by wet snow

Where no one sits to explain

Why they won't fix it

Maybe in spring it thinks

“Maybe I'll be useful in spring”

Barry G. Wick

Just Missing

Just Missing

The trees sway

As my life slips ungracefully

Through the needles

To places where leaves

Caress me 

I am a breeze away from you

Yet my lips cannot touch

Their desire

Or say anything to join

Your flight 

Only now the rush of wind

Gets me close 

Then carry me far away from

The fields of waving love

Barry G. Wick

Disconnected

Disconnected

There's a bill to pay

Every day

In order to live

On some days

It's electricity

With dollars that came

From somewhere

Other days it's silence

Which are paid for

With mental games

Jerking the past

Forwards and backwards

Then there are friends

Who are rented with smiles

A cup of coffee

And open ears

There comes a day

When all these are disconnected

The lights are on

But nothing makes sense

And we turn them off 

There are no smiles

It's all silence

Full of chaos

Yet no door knocks

Coffee alone

Sitting in the dark

Nothing from the past

Is worth remembering

It is the time

When all the sins

Come due

There are no angels

There is no Jesus

Hiding in the wallet

Barry G. Wick

Why End Life in Fear

Why End Life in Fear

Why end life in fear

Of nothing

Or what is next you'll miss

Stand your ground in loneliness

Or surrounded by family

There is an opportunity

For gratitude

To thank all who helped

Get you to the same

Experience they faced

It's possible to look

At an empty ceiling

And whisper to the power

Of the universe

Of which you saw so little

Your final thoughts

Of gratitude

To repair all the sour feelings

That crossed your mind

To repair your confusions

To repair the anger

Thought in foolishness

Bless your body

Bless your brain

As they die

Pretend they were fish

Swimming upstream

Failing to see what 

Was behind them

Barry G. Wick

Pointless

Pointless

Michelangelo revealed

Adam getting the spark of life

From God in the cloudy heavens.

It wasn't life.

Adam was hoping for meaning.

“What's the point?” asks Adam.

“Here is the garden

Full of animals, birds, bugs.

There's fruit of every kind.

I got me a woman.

Yeah, you were mad when

Me and her bit the apple,

But I've come back to you

For that special spark.”

Now, notice the gap

Between Adam's finger

And his Supreme being buddy

(Or lover)

From whom or who

Which is it?

Anyway, that bearded guy.

Is he the one I see every morning

In the mirror?

Shit, I can't touch him.

“You, too?” asks Adam.

Barry G. Wick

Little Anthems

Little Anthems

Sing the song of day

We have no where to go

Taste all the wine you may

The winds upon your face will blow

To alleyways or streets of gold

We take our trade it's true

There's nothing here that makes us old

We're just the young our crew

9

Guitar and drum the trumpets blare

You can't forget we're here

Our style is this: clothes or bare

It's what you always fear

Plan now to let us through

These streets belong to us

Accuse us of a life that's new

We're bound to make you blush

Barry G. Wick