The Poetry of Barry G. Wick: gay and lesbian poetry

Showing posts with label gay and lesbian poetry. Show all posts

Monday, November 4, 2013

Not a Prayer as Such

Do you see me in the sky

I am on the ground

trying to catch your eye

I'll wave my arms

and scream a lot

but I wonder if your angels

are against my plot

to just talk to you

to get your advice

on what to do next

and pay the price

for all my foolish ways

and goofy days

when I was human

and quite perplexed

I can't call you god

or some other name

because from those

you've taken blame

for all the bad things

on this earth

and while I nod

and poke the air

in hopes that you are there

I've grown to believe

you might not care

even just a little

or a jot and a tittle

So it goes

my invisible friend

I've run out of ways

to get you to attend

to the chores

you once were famous for

creation and all it's glory

I'm fairly certain my simple problems

can't be cured

if you just hear my story

Back to your room

as magnificent it might be

but I suspect

you are as gloomy as I

with all your creation here

that's never correct

and from what this stems

we suffer we cry we cannot act

so where you live

is as dark and dreary

as what I'm assured surrounds me

So there I said what I've felt

blurred and bleary-eyed

dry of all the tears

I once shed

and if you heard this soul

turned toward me or not

I got it off my chest

the rest is just the same old thread

you hear most every day

from folks like me

the lesser of the tribes

you put to wander here

Saturday, November 2, 2013

The Click of a Lock

The spots on my skin

begin to form

as feet ache

and grow numb

My joints aren't in their twenties

anymore

will there be anymore

as my father used to say

old age is not for sissies

but I am a sissy

at least to that generation

and perhaps

a few here and now

My eyes must have

their reading lenses installed

pulled from their black case

whenever I can't see

the wrinkles on my hands

to remind me once again

that anymore

is this day

with it's sun

as it creates trapezoids

on the green carpet

While winter approaches

I listen to music

only I hear

as it passes through my heart

my empty heart

that ages with each

empty day

as I wait

for the only moment

that will complete it

the sudden note

of the lock on the door

through which I can't return

Monday, October 7, 2013

On this moonless night
after wind and snow
a hunter steps
over the mountain top
His sword and kilts
hide all worlds behind him

He pauses

His distant lanterns
help me gather wood
to raise the fire
His slow pace shows me
his hunter's patience
I learn what it means
to see the moment

As the fire grows
jagged-toothed predators
turn away

On the shadow of my breath
The huntsman smiles
We have seen each other
always from far away
both of us lonely
for homes
full of memories
of arms and comfort

Though his heart is empty
he continues to trudge
over endless trails

Tonight's gameless hunt
in his eyes
Orion is visible now
to one vagabond
who wants to share his fire

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

Saturday, April 20, 2013

The New Spring

“I have never considered a difference of opinion in

politics, in religion, in philosophy, as a cause for

withdrawing from a friendship.” ---Thomas Jefferson

My old friend is no longer my friend.
It was going to happen.
It's happened before with others.
I have been in winter with my country
and the people around me
since I was frozen just out of the womb.

You cannot support the north winds of hate,
those who freeze me
from my human rights
and expect to get my warmth,
my inner sun.
I've read enough about
my homosexuality
to know others haven't.
They prefer to maintain
their ignorance of my reality,
my being,
while they hold on to a few lines
from a two thousand year old tome
that has wrapped the tombs
of millions who were denied and died.

The new books know something new.
The Sunlight of the Universe
has made revelations
to us, to me:
that I am what I am.

To keep me from my flowers,
from the budding of my branches,
is to follow an evil season
to maintain an ignorance
that light, the Power's Light,
has difficulty penetrating.

I shall be the last generation
to hold the hatred inside of me.
It breaks up even now
like old ice melts in the spring
in shaded areas
when after days of warmth
a few sheltered shapes
end their cold, impenetrable dominance.

My friendship is not for sale
with a smile or a memory
of what we were as children.
This is now. This is me.
I am forever changed.

What I have wanted and needed
was denied to me even when
I thought I had found it.

I gave my love
and found the cold,
this world built around those I loved
and around me.

The walls melt.
The dams of ice now belong to the few
who remain stuck in their frozen beliefs.
I am thawed in a new spring,
the kind that never ends.

Copyright (c) 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved

Saturday, March 23, 2013

In Your Own Skin

((This poem spoken by the author))

Whose skin were you going to wear?

The prophet is no longer available.

There have been plenty of them

and most have grown much bigger

than the flesh they wore in life.

Poet has been over done

since so many made the ultimate

statement by jumping ship

or outliving their youth

when they were passionate.

Parent was given up some time back

when the word queer attached itself

to a torn psyche full of guilt

now past history of torn rainbows

but still it's what was learned.

Protestant seems to fit

without all the religious baggage

carried on a long train

full of previous nailers who now yell

something disrespectful in a crowded tomb.

So, now to run out of “P” words

means a start where the alphabet

separates itself from grunts

and gestures with means unknown

though some were wrinkled when worn.

To look at these hands that pound

out a simple language

with gaps that search

a forgetful noggin for the “right” dictation,

the scars belong here to no other.

So what is found is owned:

a cloth of memory that surrounds

all that has pretended and accepted

this year of simple messages,

this skin that passes its owner's test.

Friday, February 15, 2013

Another Storm Brings Dorothy

On this day

with its yellow brick sun

as it hides between

the puffy munchkin clouds

and behind the dark emerald hills

Suddenly

the white fliers

crystalline witches

on holly broom sticks

in a swarm that clothes the air

in this chill accompanied

by swirls and sudden shifts

of these lifeless crones

as they attack the old

on sidewalks and doorsteps

Upset trees wave their arms

in warning

Evil billions pile their magic

on the edges of sinless water

afraid of its goodness

though many are doused

as if melted by a pail

of trout-tossed water

The stored spring melt

flows in toto

passed the stones that scream

in this monkey-tail canyon

through torches of light

between winter and spring

This house falls

on its faceless occupants

who wear home bound slippers

their feet curling back

under striped blankets

with courage to keep

hearts warm

and brains from boredom

a snowy day

in the Black Hills

yo-ee-oh

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

A Note to Someone Who Doesn't Feel Loved

This is a happy day

because of this discovery

Laugh into your hands

then write

love is missing

on your onion skin soul

Perhaps love plays a childhood game

of hide and seek

Was the count

to one hundred completed

as all the little lovers

escaped into their hidden selves

or was love disguised

to the point of invisibility

a camouflaged bug on the bark

of a tree

or it crawls beneath rocks

swims in dirty water

ready to attach itself

a leech

You face New York City

with hope to make

it's world see you

when it's blind

to pictures you take

to show you are

what it wants

You might be better going home

to the small town

from where you came

The nightlife will be horrible

The people more than real

each digging their cisterns

ready to catch

your love as it falls

from the cloud

you live on

Soon

these drops

will nourish new growth

in the soil of your dreams

something concrete and steel

never could

and who knows

I might just pop up

from this cracked mud

ready to kiss your feet

your sequined feet

Monday, January 21, 2013

The Cocktail Party

The hour is late after mother

is put to bed

Windows reflect this room

where the conversation

turns into buzz and laughter

spent here away from the world

This imagined is a cocktail party

with others in conversation

about their stumble in love

success at work

the political topics of this cold day

how to make palatable chip dip

The other guests sip their daiquiris

the advertised beer their fingers

unconsciously harvested

from a liquor store cooler

Martinis olives pool at the end

of Soviet flagged toothpicks

Soft piano melodies rinse the room

of any darkness

Then a trumpet plays familiar notes

this handsome crowd notes

with a nodded head and gestures

of green blue and red stereo light

This imagination is still work for me

since my ear is cocked

towards the dark hallway

and her bedroom

These invisible guests surround

this silent observer who just listens

Individuals could be described

a blue turtleneck hopelessly

out of style

mustachioed black leather jacket

with worn elbows

a younger man receiving glances

But none of them are really here

despite my need to be with others

while mother slips

into darkened dreams

This is my party alone

in deep blue shallows

Friday, October 5, 2012

The Hard Fall

The hard fall is here

with its

alternating skies

switchblade breezes

tree-blown fruit

jaundiced leaves

perch-pecking turkeys

arcing squirrels

hesitant bucks

nervous snow

Away you summer furniture

checkered tablecloths

candle-lit breakfasts

to be covered with plastic

Time for boredom's chores

And now the words open winter

with desiccated thoughts

when libraries become shields

from the revenge

of poor sentences

The Bradbury

labels October

a rare month for boys

from his lake shore

Waukegan cubbyhole

me at sixty

wishing I could lay in leaves

with a pen

and a crackerjack line

for each detached parchment

that floats to my desk

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

The Apples, The Turkeys, and The Election

In a good year

two varieties of apples

load trees on the south side

of our home in the Black Hills

The two trees closest to the creek

are spotted red even in this drought

the roots reach deep to the water that flows

This late September day a flock of turkeys

has attacked these trees with some

trying to roost close to the apples

turkeys in the apple trees

heavy birds on branches

twenty-five or more

on the apple strewn

ground excited

by the few

that fall

Much like the unemployed who queue

for jobs where jobs can be had

hundreds gather beneath

the greedy corporations

that only give enough

to protect wealth

and power

election

apples greed water

turkeys drought branches

election wealth jobs

Thursday, September 20, 2012

To Make Sense

It's dark with the only light

a screen across the room

upon which I type these words

The fans of the computer

The fingers pounding out words

The refrigerator in the kitchen

chugging out ice

and ice smashing back and forth

in a plastic container with a handle

You can't call it a glass

it's not a plastic glass

because it's not glass

it's a plastic

I must have spent 20 minutes

looking for the recipe

because I wanted to make

some sense

I know

trying to make sense

in the dark

when a yawn comes upon

and the stomach growls

I just have to wait

and go to the store

common sense

what is the price today

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Prisoner's Room

As the morning sun streams through dirty windows

the patches of sun reveal the cart of unfolded clothes

parts of the desk

the inside of the lamp shade

the top of the satellite receiver

hard to look at glints on the turntable

the front of the couch

a metallic camera next to batteries

the wooden table with a candle and snuffer

a Chinese miniature scene carved in wood

dust everywhere

All these things in this prisoner's cell

where the guard quietly sleeps

some 25 feet away

and yet I am the guard

and the prisoner both

who watches the branches slap each other

on a windy day

and the sun on things

never found in a real jail

So I am both

the split personality of elder care

who keeps the doors locked

the prisoners fed

the uniforms washed

the beds made

and the floors scrubbed

and all for what purpose

to someday walk free

to explain why I didn't have a job

for so many years

to end all this

to go to someplace else

and some other life

all unknown to me now

as if I'd just walked outside the walls

from the darkest cell

in the deepest canyon

that man creates for himself

we are our own wardens

unlocking the doors

for ourselves the prisoner

the sun on our faces

as if it were the first time

pushed out of the womb

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

In the Breeze

The birch is either green

or mirror

The spruce is either blue

or pipe cleaner

The woodbine is either orange

or screen

Light of sifted leaves

Dust of melodious sandpaper

Fingers of tense air

Spider silk

Water stains

Dirty windows

Hand on throat

Body on couch

Feet on floor

Reflections

Shadows

Barriers

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

In Chicago, not at Home

There is no sense of home for me here

and I'm not even there anymore

except for now in my memory

as I wind through the streets

going from here to there

in the Green Mill

underground downtown

waiting for my love around the corner

The sense of home comes to each of us at birth

otherwise we are tumbling

through the waves of an electrified field

we are unfamiliar with

imprinted on us at the moment of conception

or perhaps the moment of our birth

or learning to sail through it as we grow

and from then on it is everything

This reminder came to me listening to Metheny

ask if I was going with him

and for that moment I was

standing on a train platform

heading for a studio downtown

to record a commercial for a furniture store

inconceivable to me now

that I would follow him into the city

But there is the power of music

the piper pulls you through another life

just listening to a melody or a beat

that passed through your world

a long time ago in another life

and suddenly you are transported

into the sights and feelings

the pain of not being at home where you are

But I can pull myself away now

and I'm back in the Black Hills

surrounded by my magnetic field

so comfortable and warm

and hearing another city move through my mind

I move back and forth

swaying between home and hurt

the pain of a city where love went away

Thursday, August 2, 2012

The Justify Sonata for Brain and Colon

What I bought I now sell on Ebay

to gain a few bucks for what

I no longer use

which I used to justify

my existence

and the string of bullshit

to which I attached myself

Now I realize

the manufacturer

is bidding up the price

on my used item

against the great unwashed

in order to keep their new product

valuable in the marketplace

so that snobs will keep buying

what they probably make

for pennies on the dollar

They bid on my thing

to keep their thing posh

(It's like tattooing your cock

with the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel

instead of a barber pole)

And that's the point isn't it

to build a stack of shit so high

that people will feel good

they've hired you

or bought your product

and you thought this

was going to be a poem

filled with rare Amazonian orchids

and nectar drool snot droplets

with rare and phantasmagorical fauna

enough for ten expeditions

and one-off high-buck phrases

to make you feel justified

to spend this time

to absorb what I write

when a poem is only a piece of shit

sticking out of the poet's colon

able to make that musical splash

in the toilet of your imagination

So how is that a sonata you ask

(the poet references the title

of his majestic creation)

hey it's a musical term that makes

you think I'm edjikated

and trying to pull

images from various encyclopedias

of human experience

when all I am

is another corporation

to be sure a poor one

trying to game you

into a purchase

at a price that will make you

believe you have something

of value

Thank you

dear reader

because my share

of your unconscious mind

is now assured

Saturday, July 21, 2012

The Crib

Awake in the dark hours

staring at a bright screen

when I

refuse to go back to sleep

this is my inner child

as defiant as ever

even now to me

as an adult

younger I would have

been spanked once

and dragged off to my crib

by one arm

and the lid tied shut

in more than a dozen knots

by mother who knows

how many to tie

to keep me busy

until she's ready to get

me up

and now I have

untied all the knots

to care for her

nearly 94

tied in her own knots

not sure where she is

in a desparate effort

to get out of the crib

she fell into

the crib she made

all by herself

the older I get

the more I understand

the concept of karma

and wonder what awaits me

for all the trouble

I caused my children

It is a knot in my brain now

that keeps me awake

and even lucid as I am

can't untie the last one

wet with my tears

held fast

by my fingers that fumble

in the early morning

before the bright screen

this child cannot leave

these fears of the dark

future of my childhood

as I wait for anyone

to untie me from my prison

that I made for myself

Friday, July 13, 2012

The Boiling Mind

Too much sour stimulation

images, text, video

and I physically start to heat

then looking out the window

toward the secrets

of the back yard

I see the moving water

of the creek that roils

by our house

every minute of every day

ten thousand mirrors

in seconds to calm

and I know that I was

never meant to let

my brain boil away

on the stove of my computer

so I turn it off

with just one glance

that removes the pot

to make a cup of tea

soon, it's cool enough

to sip my own

lightly-sweetened thoughts

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

A Man Alone

"A man alone is obviously crazy."--Paul Goodman

here at night

I look at the dark

and edit the instrumental

parts of a song

not unlike

snipping pieces of my memory

and pasting them

forwards and backwards

in my mind

as I try to come up

with something that means

anything to me

the visions of the past

youth and growth to manhood

the sparks of a past life

create lightning in my closed eyes

and all the while this music

echos through the house

trying to find its way

back to where it came from

these notes are lost

to the new generation

who have their own revolution

to pretend they can win

and no matter what I do

I want to race into the street

and scream for the world to change

for wars to dump their arms at sea

for hatred to change into hugs

for hunger to slink away starving

as the gaunt turn into the chubby-cheeked

All this time alone has turned to years

and I can't decide

if what I feel

are the sharp edges of sanity

instead of the smooth curves

of a happy day

filled with what I once wanted

flowers, peace and love

Sunday, June 17, 2012

The Darwinians Eat Steak and Salad

for Mike and Jacqueline

As the engine of life

ripples across its stones

friends share a meal

and conversation

a blue jay flies by

and disrupts my thoughts

about last night's dinner

This is typical.

I try to honor something

so simple as an evening

meal with friends

from Colorado

and a colorful bird

takes me through time

to now

and what I wanted this morning

was to write a special honor

for a visit

only to be interrupted

by the spreading blue and white

wings of a dinosaur

yes, we believe in evolution here

we believed in evolution last night

damn us liberals anyway

Friday, June 8, 2012

Quintet for the Confused Mind

I am flying through

Antonin's mind

perhaps some European scene

or Iowa

when nearly 94 my mother

says this isn't very good then

your trees are blowing outside aren't they

they aren't my trees

you own them

they belong to you

those trees?

Yes

they don't look like anything I ever had

Perhaps Dvorak owned them

as his piano glided

like Dakota air

through the branches

of these spruce

and the Box Elder

beside the creek

Patron