Seven Rules from Thick Air

If you have to protect yourself

then you have created the enemy

If you have to love yourself

then you turned away all who could love you

If you have to feed yourself

then you have taken food from others

If you have to go somewhere

then you have never invited enough people to visit you

If you feel surrounded by uneducated people

then you have never told them what you know

If you have no one to touch

it is because you have refused to be touched

If you cry when you are lonely

it is because you never dried the tears of lonely others

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick all rights reserved

The Communal Campfire

The night surrounds us

and we are not alone

A mother feeds a child

A father worries over debt

Someone has pain

in their back

in their legs

in the emptiness of their soul

The enemy is just over the rise

Workers fulfill their duties

or ignore them
 

This darkness

might as well be a cave

water drips

bats fly

insects crawl through slime
 

The fire just started my refrigerator

burns inside four bulbs

and sends me across the worlds

to where you are

I wish you'd finish

decorating my loincloth

I'm feeling a bit chilly

sitting on this folding rock

listening to Vivaldi
 

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

The Windows

I'm likely to move

and don't care at this point

what the world shows

on these two

dirty cave wall transparencies
 

Here the branches

of the crabapple

and the spruce

to the south of the house

with the sun behind them

an octagonal squirrel

cast shadows

through which

I can see better

to the outside.

Yes, the shadows

help me see

though a window

mottled by grime
 

What will layers of shadow

do for you

my love

help me see inside of you

Does your soul wave

it's language at me

the leaves the branches the sun

Paste me up outside

and look at my darkness

I rain

even on sunny days

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

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

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

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

Two Hunters

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

Wide Eyes

The door opens

then a short step through

the clap of thunder closes it

In front the multi-tides

wash away the shore

beneath invisible feet

Floating becomes drowning

drowning becomes dying

Dying is a vision of the surface

in final eyes

a glassy stare of amazement

perhaps shock

this always:

the small surprise

at the end of this box

of Crackerjacks

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

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

The Speed Of Life

[My great-grandmother, Gertrude Bertelsen Gunderson, wife of South Dakota Governor Carl Gunderson, was a well-known poet in South Dakota, founding the state's poetry journal “Pasque Petals”...still in existence. She wrote poetry for another time and every once in a while I feel her presence so much that words come to me like prairie lightning in an older style. This poem is an example of that.]

The Speed Of Life

I moved so fast I could not see

the best the world had offered me.

Now, windows give me outside views

Not one thing seen will come in twos.

Each part of what I see unique.

My gaze, my interest at its peak.

You think pine needles just the same,

But each is different I can claim.

When I can leave I hear all sounded;

The creek across the rocks all rounded.

And sometimes smells to me exclaim:

I am alive, I have a name.

So turn your car to greener land,

Remove the key, on grass now stand.

Take all inside, leave nothing out,

You'll find yourself, what you're about.

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

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

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

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

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

Love in the Internet World

There is a light breeze

through the spruce

The apple trees droop

laden with ripening fruit

that only the squirrels and deer

will eat to keep away

the cold of winter

that approaches in just two months

From far down the wires

there are tentative notes

from those who want friendship

perhaps more

Their world is desparate

for a real touch

a message that will stir them

into heights of emotion

the sense that someone cares

I feel no such need to raise

the heat of my heart

It is enough for me to see

the first sun painting the tops

of the trees to the south

as darkness receeds to the north

in this canyon

the last darkness of a cool night

The mountain rises across the creek

where trees begin their pirouette

into yellow and reds

The words can be sent

but not the feeling

of the twitches in my muscles

from the chill of a fall morning

And soon I shall return to sleep

with another day of the same

day after day and the repetition

of the same words the same smiles

the same questions

from the aged head I guard

It is not love from distant souls

or readers of the lines that tumble

across the streambed of my life

I tell the world

peace is what I need each day

in moments all by myself

when no one wants me

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Blunders

The Blunders are guests in this house

who live all around me

They touch my hair

They stroke my hands

but mostly they just rattle around

like a marble in a tin can

alerting my soldier mind

of their forage into my territory

Often, they come in the dark

in dreams

strange allegories blended

with the pinpoints of stars

and wisps of smoke and dew

as hard as I might try

I cannot get them to leave

They are embroidered on my clothes

and often sneak beneath my skin

The older I get the more annoying

they become

all of them are the child's mind

I once possessed

when I'd just as soon forget

them at the side of a country road

an unwanted pet wandering

without the love of family

Oh, don't think of me as cruel

they have taught me morality

patience of thought and deed

the importance of passing time

and distant colors I'd thought were gray

but come back to blaze

through my thoughts

fires burning out of control

I only want doused

but no, they don't put out

they put me out and I am annoyed

by their constant caresses

Copyright 2012 (c) by Barry G. Wick

Of Oaths and Darkness

I remember when I signed

my oath

oh not a signature

because I did not know

how to write

it was what I saw

bright lights

the first feel of hands

the vague images

of first experience

they come to me now

from 60 years ago

remembered visions

from what I believe

was my birth

in a hospital not far

from what would be

my first home

on a gently rising street

first memory

of a promise to live

in the light

and away from the darkness

and yet life has a way

of showing us those first visions

though the darkness

that surrounds us in the years

that follow

the haze of the foggiest bridge

the dull closeness of a wet rubber glove

things seen and felt

and yet somehow eclipsed

surrounded by a halo

through which we stumble

not drunk yet inebriated

with an overwhelming sadness

as if one is walking

through a cemetary

filled with family

it is the oath we who live have signed

to go on through this field

to return to the doorway

of the closed room

from where we came

to which we promise to return

enlightened aware bemused

filled with laughter and sadness

a giant tank filled with beads of life

blended into the fullness

of debilitating age

whose promise has been fulfilled

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G Wick

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

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Empty Life

I've been wondering all my days

why I haven't found you

and why the ones I find

are always wrong for me

in some overt or secret way

You're always with me

I always know you're there

but every street is empty

when I check on every face

and look through passing hearts

Did I forget the time I sensed

you nearly touched my hand

or driving down an empty road

you head-on drove towards me

and my headlights gave you form

And when I talk with others

I always wonder if I've found

your voice that's heard inside

the emptiness I've come to know

sweet music in each word

With verdant flowers of spring

I've decorated our painful lives

because I know you feel the same

the emptiness of rising daylight

half dark half light half life

I'll keep my vigil though this hour

searching through every minute

for you I've never found

and send my every thought

my deepest love for you

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Obituary of a Gay Man in a Small Town

Narlo Titian Schmederlickenberg, age 27

passed away suddenly

from a work related accident

in the family home

in Yayferbville

on Plowday, the 4^th of Whadember.

He is remembered

for having established the need for and fondled

the local theater group eight years ago.

He especially enjoyed children,

as they were of him,

or so his neighbors thought.

Narlo was an exceptional cook

always challenging Grocer Fatts Germainski

to find piqued oysters and morose beef.

When not working on the family farm,

he would sit for hours creating costumes

for the productions at the Yayferbville Opera Auditorium.

His long, family illness prevented him from being seen

as he wore a large ox mask at their insistence

on his daily rounds of Yayferbville and

the Gillbenfurfer County seat of Hoof City.

He always talked of leaving Yayferbville

for unknown reasons, but just never got around to it.

He is survived by his numerous friends and large family

that includes his parents,

Mendro and Yerka Schmederlickenberg,

brothers Bedot, Kerfit, and Synoshish,

sisters Colvae and Opplolly,

plus numerous aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins,

many of whom refused to talk with him
alone
without all his happy family around
to celebrate his presence.
He touched them all
or so the family thought.

He will also be remembered

by his special male friend, Herty Wahndertut,

who had recently

moved far away to Malcrington on the coast

and didn't leave a forwarding address.

Services for Mr. Schmederlickenberg will be held

10 RD, on Grubersday

at Our Savior of the Unforgiving Prairie

with Father Axy Marfcob officiating.

Services are being provided

by the Yayferbville Funeral Home.

Miss Gelvina Flaaharty will play with his organ

at the church which he never

did himself until he donated it

several years ago

to the church he barely attended
only when Father Axy was there
since he was a child.

Narlo loved flowers, dogs and cats.

You may dissect any of them to the funeral home
before the service.

Large knives and cutting boards

will be provided
before the wake.

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Great Soul Glows from the Body Electric

Who could hold the wings of these wingless butterflies?

As they flutter through the air to Great Souls unknown,

When the words ceased in that long ago,

We knew that everyday begins another year,

And every word you wrote begins another tear.
Through wars and peaces yet unknown
We feel the rocks beneath this water,
With feet that once walked across your friends
Now floating in the air and in the deep.
O Walt, my Walt! You sing today across the wires.
O Walt, my Walt! Your body lays upon my desktop
Full of life for all the cheers where my screen is docked.

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Big Lie

when I first started my education

the morning began

with the pledge

the indoctrination of the young

when all is fresh

and christmas is still believable

just so the words

that later begin to take on a dull chill

giving myself to a piece of cloth

covered in three colors

that flood the sky

and the walls of gymnasiums

hanging in classrooms

from the form of government

that has surrounded my daily life

since I began to see and breathe

cloth that rips and tears in high winds

cloth I'm suppose to worship

as if it were the promises it can't fulfill

we stand claiming we are united

believing in an invisible being

who overlooks our classrooms

to give us stars for spelling

and smiles when we've raised our hands

to say something that correctly follows

the question we've been posed

then the promises end our little speeches

when we know we're all the same

expecting everything from this static symbol

two words that lie each time we say them

liberty and justice

liberty and justice

liberty and justice

when awaking 55 years from the first time

the words were asked to be repeated

in Miss Knutson's kindergarten

when asked to believe in a lie

and we are no different

from the one

who grows up proud of his uniform

playing his drum

and thinking others are less than he is

that he is superior

that we are superior

for all

above all

who are neglected

who stand next to me

in their first day's dress

or starchy jeans

proud mothers and fathers

who bought this lie and pass it on

to their children just as they were passed it

a sagging pigskin

that has lost all its air

that won't make it to the 30 yard line

when kicked from the 20

a red, white and blue

gasbag of a nation

sagging at the front of my classroom

with little lungs trying to fill it

like the holey sail

on a sinking stick

we play with after rain during recess

oh, these colors don't run

except from the words

unsure children are expected

to repeat repeat repeat

in an endless mantra of of illusion

that forgets

some of these little voices

won't be allowed

won't share

won't have

its last six words

to eat today

in the meal of promises

it exacts from their innocence

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

I Am Hansel

Winter sun lays upon these south windows

unwashed for years

upon which tree shadows make it easy

to see through the filmy dirt

if the shadows were not there

the windows would be a mottled white

opaque to all outside or inside

seeing though air is the same

the shadows of tree or window frame

even others hide what is beyond

what is beneath

unlike the shadows of tree branches

that make the window dirt invisible

we have no such luck

when it comes to shadows that fall

upon the interior walls of our eye

so we must do our best to create

an understanding of our world

inside of minds

quickly, someone flash a light

through all these illusions

and give me what I want

a chance to see beyond what is here

even if only for a minute

so that I may know

the difference between what I see

through dirty windows

and what my eye tells me

is in front and beside me

because I do not trust

anything I see anymore

and even less of what is inside me

or at the end of my arm

fingers probing for something solid

in a dark world

where photons

are the magic of witches

and every wall is made of poisoned sugar

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Echelons

As I get older I see the dreams

that soared through clouds of mind

the daily hopes

turn into a lemon's tart

that no amount of mental sugar

can sweeten

These moments aren't bitter

just soured at the edges

I see no chance to celebrate

with my own days of dance

My freedom to look up

and sense the sun of my life

has been submerged in the dark

of another's closing door

While I continue to be

the light along that edge of darkness

I dim into a visual whisper

These bandages of buffoonery

surround me in a binding

that is no longer loose

over old wounds and sores

the smiles and jokes that hide

the sour and sorrow

It is as if I see a hierarchy

of self-inflicted pain

the echelons of failure

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick