As Close as I am to You

Here is a sofa to my right

I sit in a soft chair

to his left

Am I drinking

surely

for those were the days

when I thought all one had to do

to be a poet was drink

smoke some weed

and splatter any ol' words on paper

No question about it

I was a fake then

and not entirely certain

that I am not a fake now

The color of the sofa

is light brown or dirty yellow

in my memory

but I am there

not aware of what the future

will bring for me

or the man who sits to my right

being ever so gentle

with a younger man in the prime

of growth

Today I only wish

some of his teacher

had rubbed-off on me

as if Theodore Roethke

was pollen floating around the room

falling on little poets who will

flower in many hues

I am asleep sitting there

in that time of the past

not even waking slowly

or in any state of a being dance

though I try

sitting next to Richard Hugo

who teaches me more now

whose teacher makes my head

butter it's brain across the language

These warriors accost me

to go back into that past

to remember what it was

that made me grow into now

Richard I am 62

when you died at 59

with a small shelf of books

for me to recreate on my own

And there you are

living in my memory

surrounded by others

who have similar dreams

to take them into the pain

of Life magazine pictures

where you looked so hurt

The smear of ink on paper

from your arteries

the ball turret gunner

on the runway

of poetry

So I can only dream

in the shade recalled

of your girth

and smile

me now

not having any books

to prove

the youth of my years

me older now than you

beyond the moment

when all you left us

were the recordings

I made in a workshop

given now away

to where you taught

plus

so many sculptures

in a language

which one day

in ten thousand years

will not mean as much

as they do to me today

and your ridiculous assignment

to live longer than you

to weep for both of us

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

The Nuisances of A Day

Within the last hour

pollen from the spruce trees

flew in clouds

above the back lawn

It coats any surface

brazen enough

to face the sky

Summer heat returned today

for the first time it seems

since this year began

Mother's range of comfort

must be maintained

so we pay for electricity

to warm her too much

in the winter

and cool her down in summer

I could live in both

goosebumps or sweat

my choices are simple

Laundry lays in baskets

to demand organization

What I do

can't be called folding

Woman folds

and man organizes

Yes, this thought seems sexist

but since I play the role

of both man and woman

in the house as I care for Mother

I decide the words I live by

Dust accumulates

always dust

somewhere here are bits of China

that find its way across the world

There must be words for dust

in Mandarin or Cantonese

either way it speaks to me

with unknown vowels

the remnants of dried-out bowels

The kitchen floor

speaks to me in bits of this and that

that fall as I cook

or move the groceries to their

appointed nests

Onions are the worst

always flaking from their nets

to what I think is a clean surface

They shame me as I make breakfast

Stay away from my raisin bran flakes

I scold

my tastes are much too simple

Now a dozen projects stare at me

as they demand some mental attention

this and that

here and there

I shake my head

to wonder what I can do today

beyond my comfortable place

next to Mother

where I protect her

from herself

I tell her what to eat

She forgets she has a left hand

Her right hand holds the tea

I know I shall have to tell her

to take a bite

Of what she'll ask

the banana in your left hand I'll say

It's been there for 20 minutes

while she sorts through

her breakfast items

A lonely banana cries

in her wilderness

with hope to be eaten

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

Asleep in Her Chair

Beside her every day

I sit to watch and keep

the world spinning

while she sleeps

after breakfast

Today I play

Glenn Miller's Moonlight Serenade

and wonder if an old memory

now keeps her in tune

with a time she and Dad

lived in New York

during war

And the future asks of me

which war was that

and even though I know
let her have her memory

as the saxophones and clarinet

climb through tall buildings

It was a time

when she was happier

before children

before her Nanny died

before her brother and father passed

when the world was engaged

in the great project

when she and my father

were in the great city

where they felt like winners

at the end of the war

couples kissing in the streets

I won't tell you who fought

It's enough that her dreams

of Flushing Meadows

the library where she worked

her singing lessons

cross the darkened room

with Glenn in charge

of the war

trombone in hand

a great weapon that tolled the moon

into the lives of lovers

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick  

The Watching Lots

What is this place

Publix Cub Foods Safeway

Ralphs A and P

or any of a thousand stores

where the old sit

inside the cars of their wives

sons daughters

the caretakers of the challenged

in their later years

with Alzheimer's or just

significant white matter disease

that pulls the sitters away from

the rest of us

who pass by with our shopping carts

the ones who do not notice

that an old person is in a car

on a hot day

Now if it were a dog

we'd check to make certain

the windows were down

or a child where police

would be rushed

to break the window

or fish the lock open

to save the young one

But it's just an older person

we assume to be an adult

capable of all the adult decisions

we have for ourselves

as the heaps of Cheerios

flavored yogurt

household goods

sail by those empty eyes

Are we even in thought

when we park across

from another car

that maybe the tired one

is inside to buy the necessities

for the one inside the far stare

who wears the Depends

and spends most of the day

in front of a television

entertained by everything

the family cannot provide

For the minutes they are alone

on a cold or hot day

you are the watcher

who makes certain

nothing happens to the ones

who tossed a child on his knee

or carried the shopper to term

because now

the child has become the parent

the child who is the only one

in a large family who cares

or loves

and can't leave the wanderer

at home

to fall down the stairs

to forget the walker

to imagine they go off to work

or hear a party down the block

you provide the respite

as you in thoughtless hurry

park to buy a salad or a sandwich

So this is the watching lot

full of old people sitting in vehicles

not quite with us

and yet alive inside the years

that you see on their faces

their lonely faces

as they wait for the one

who gives them a bath

feeds them some chicken

who makes peas far too often

the one who wakes up in the middle

of the night to any sound

their parent makes

the tears of a dream

the shouts of a happy child

remembered in the dark

the tired son

the exhausted daughter

away from their father or mother

to get a bit of life

as they shop for a break

you now give them

for five ten or fifteen minutes

the only time they have away

or are a part of the world

outside the home where

mummy or daddy

provides an absolute rule

often in silence

the kings and queens of emptiness

as their last golden moments

tick away in a lift chair

or a ten year old Chevy

in the parking lot of a grocery store

Copyright (c) 2012 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

Rules to Guarantee a Short Life

((Author's Note:  This poem/rant has been written in response to many Christian conservatives claiming being gay is a culture that worships death....despite the fact that Christianity is a middle eastern death cult in itself promising life after biological death.  This poem/rant contains unsettling images and is recommended for mature audiences.  The author hopes to live a long, full life to old age in good health and suggestions contained here-in are not  what he really believes.))
This poem read aloud by the author

Please remember

you are likely to wind up

in a toilet before you

are big enough to be born

If this is your goal

you will have succeeded

in not having a life at all

Acquire and wear make-up

prior to birth to look

like a different race

from your mother's husband

so that when you are born

you are guaranteed to be hated

by at least one person

Put cellophane tape on your eyelids

to look Chinese

unless you're Chinese of course

Stay in your mother's womb

eventually someone will force you out

kicking and screaming

often with sharp instruments

Try running into one

Start smoking just after birth

and request daily contact

with drugs and hazardous chemicals

though some call it eating

Since you are likely to be human at birth

these substances may have already

given you flippers

which means

you'll be given sympathy

making it difficult to find

an early exit from life

About circumcision for boys

try jumping just as it's happening

assuring you of ambiguous genitalia

everybody out here hates

people who don't know their sex

You will be hated for this immediately

Speaking of food

don't eat much

food has become poisoned

with all sorts of bad stuff

if you insist

eat nothing but butter

and raw pork sausage or better

eat nothing but uncooked hot dogs

Don't drink the water

or the milk

instead concentrate

on convincing your mother

to give you martinis when you cry

Immunization can be a good

or bad thing

Ignorant parents will

eschew shots for you

Be sure to give them

intelligence tests

before you are born

Better still

be born in a Taliban family

Never go to school

instead read books

without pictures

or learning

any alphabet first

Education often guarantees survival

which means Sesame Street

is a big no-no

Stay naked

The older you get the more

fun you will have walking

into religious meetings

where you will discover a power

greater than yourself

Draw and post

pictures of a middle-eastern

prophet who shall remain

nameless

playing American football

and eating bacon

A significant number

of people will be unhappy

with you for even thinking

about it

Collect pets like

rattlesnakes

funnel web spiders

grizzly bears

and powered tree chippers

Fall in love

with cliffs and tall buildings

eventually you may find

one that will reject

your romantic advances

Remember that

green means go in China

and stop in the US

Have gay sex in broad daylight

on any corner

in St. Petersburg, Russia

or at Robert Mugabe's birthday party

though if you've followed the

rules to this point

you're not likely to have

achieved sexual maturity

If you live in a democracy

don't vote

if you live in a dictatorship

run for the highest office

if you live where

there is no government

suggest forming one

this will guarantee

some kind of hatred

that might provide an early exit

from life

if somehow

you've grown up

to be a productive

member of society

you have failed

Ropes guns pills and skydiving

were invented

for your particular problem

even then these things

can fail

Lastly, if everything has failed

to this point

to provide you an exit from life

and you are now

late middle-aged

divorced

living at home

and paying child-support

try caring for an elderly parent

This will likely kill you

before the parent dies

Failing even that

refuse Social Security

buy a tent and live

in or very near a forest

or a tall mountain

Pray for a dry year

and lightning

If you've completely failed

to heed the intent

of all these suggestions

you're wondering if there is a gODD

The answer is no

These rules have always been here

They've always been written for you

and

you

citizen of the universe

are a complete fuck-up

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

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

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick
Follow this link to hear the poet read this poem.



-30-

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

flowers, peace and love

Copyright 2012 by Barry G. Wick
Follow this link to the audio version of this poem read by the author.


xxxx

The Old

It is darker than normal

on this windy day

stone wears grain by grain

even new leaves are ripped from branches

as the air sneaks through tiny cracks

forced by invisible fingers

that sing in ghostly moans

the fireplace flue squeaks

as even here something tries to get in

it is The Old

that pries the gaps

between the outside and in

it comes for us

laying some extra fat here

a wrinkle there

a forgotten set of keys

god knows where

cracks open in the finish

of the furniture

a bit of paint peels unnoticed

and this lessened light

is pondered by a murky brain

to suggest that cataracts

begin to form on drier eyes

on these days The Old prowls

to scratch its grim messages

across this place

where even the water

slows its acheful meander

as its joints creak

through a rocky canyon

On such days I am cranky

enough to think I can

argue with this vagabond

that splits the ages

into torn down walls

and roofs that sag

The Old laughs

as it turns

hopeful into hopeless

I am your future it says

in a voice filled with chasms

and featureless plains of sand

I am what you fought to get

away from in your mother's womb

I am the torn skin of your first cut

I am the regret of lost friendships

from senseless words

I am the given on days

of sadness and rankor

I am The Old who tears your pages

and turns them to dust

I am these words

whose meaningful gaps

widen into the misunderstood

And as my wind sings to you

you close your eyes

for the last time

for the very last time

this is my victory

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick
Follow this link to a recording of the author reading the poem.



xxxx

Three Hundred Words

for Clifford Abbott Dodd 1952-2012

and Kitty Tyler, his wife

The husband of an old friend passed away recently,

younger than I am now, which stuns me just a bit

and while I never met this bearded man

who played Santa and served his nation,

I think about what the world knows

about him from the words of his obituary

sent to me by his wife, my friend of 50 years.

And what do our lives boil down to when the kettle

is turned on high and we are rendered mute

by the ages that follow our brief visit to this planet.

For Cliff, the eyes of his neighbors will read

just under three hundred words that describe

his life, his loves and his family

word that speak to millions across the future world.

Many who have shared this air with Cliff

will never even have that many words, if any,

that prints their stamp upon the earth

in the language of their people to tell where

their feet took them across the variegated surface

of this mostly blue planet we call Earth,

a place from which a rare few will step away.

And in these lines we read, we are to fill

in the blanks and the pauses between the letters

with what we know of this life,

the birth and all the happiness of his parents,

and their struggle to keep a roof over his head,

food in his mouth and clothes on his body

during all the weather that played through his growing years.

So too, the first day of kindergarten and all the years

he learned and breathed the measures of life

into his youthful mind, dreaming what and wheres

he would make a mark and do the bidding

of his soul, to stand with all the others

who swirl around him as he walks each day.

What of his service and his generosity

and all the good he did in the smallest moments

when he forgot himself and pushed another

forward into a better world with a kind word

or the effort of his life with a gift of money:

we are the benefactors of the time he learned

to be human after all the growing days

If we are to read between these lines

that so many will know today;

his mother's sleepless night when teeth

became her nemesis, when his tears

and screams kept the night awake,

when she imagined horns growing

from his little head to haunt her rocking body.

What of forgotten playground fights

from sass of youthful swagger and fist

that started with a piece of candy

or the first love shared by two young boys

who each felt it necessary to defend

their love from the other's advancing

ardor that surely could not stand the test of time

We know all this and imagine more

that is common to every man and woman,

where through this path of words

must come an end to what is told: a place

where we exchange our thoughts

with those he loved through all the years

where tears become a knowing smile.

So to Cliff we say so long

and I thank him from afar

for his care and love for my friend

returned to me through wires and glass

qwerty keyboards and glowing screens:

its up to us to support her now

our Kitty of new memories and ready smile.

Here now is the end of what I write today

about these moments we all must face

when wonder begins to stir my 60 years

of what will be written for others to read

and if I shall measure up to Cliff's three hundred

a man I never met who sold books

and spoke to children through their sugar plum dreams.

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

with permission for his immediate family

to reproduce as they see fit.

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

How Rude the Eagle

A blue sky above

a yellow checked tablecloth

where Mother sits to face the creek

for breakfast

above

a bald eagle makes circles

above the eastern slope

of Norris Peak

when the sun is right

we see the flash of white

from its tail and head

first several circles one way

then several in the opposite direction

a quick turn away to the north

to seek some other space

where it can't be seen

by an old woman in her wheelchair

and her son who nears 60

who both dream of such freedom

she from her age and many infirmities

and me from daily chores

that make the knee and back

feel like they've broken

when mother asks if the eagle

would like to use her handkerchief

and have a piece of her granola bar

And all I can think about is a snot-nosed

American bald eagle

about to munch on a whitetail carcass

and needing to wipe it's bloody beak

on mother's handkerchief

No Quaker Oats granola bars for thee or me

The nerve of that bird

when it's got all those flags

that flap in the breeze

just ready for eagle boogers

red white and blue

Copyright © 2011 by Barry G. Wick