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Thank you to those who support me via my Paypal account: rikwrybac@yahoo.com. 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.

Monday, April 22, 2024

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

Wednesday, April 17, 2024

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

Saturday, April 6, 2024

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



Sunday, March 24, 2024

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

Saturday, March 23, 2024

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


Monday, March 11, 2024

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

Friday, March 8, 2024

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

Thursday, March 7, 2024

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



Friday, March 1, 2024

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


Sunday, February 25, 2024

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

Sunday, February 18, 2024

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







Thursday, February 8, 2024

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


Wednesday, January 31, 2024

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

Tuesday, January 30, 2024

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

Monday, January 29, 2024

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



Sunday, January 21, 2024

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

Saturday, January 20, 2024

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

Tuesday, January 2, 2024

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