Thank you to those who support me via my Paypal account: 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 29, 2024



“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

Friday, April 26, 2024

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

Monday, April 22, 2024



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



“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