Shrine

Shrine

Behold!  This Shrine to me!

Put your hands together

As if praying to a deity

For I am something

I'm still working on, what?

But here's the Shrine anyway

It has been made

Of the rarest stone

In this country:

The Stone cut from

Mount Rushmore

Oh I'm not on the mountain

I just acquired the largest pieces

Of the rock fall

From the blasting

Think about it.

Some from Lincoln

Some from Roosevelt 

Some from Jefferson

Some from Washington

Pieces

All shipped to my crew

In Iowa

It's a shame it's been wasted

All these years

Assembled into this Shrine:

Tall columns

Looking like quilts of stone,

Glue dripping to their bases.

Every 10 or 15 feet:

A squished chipmunk.

I'll have a chat with the foreman.

Oh, but this holy place

Where I'd seen all this stone

Just laying below this ugliness

As a child growing into adult

More than once a year

We'd traipse as family 

With visiting, uninitiated guests

Unto the American “holy of holies”

Re-endoctrinating ourselves 

In the hatred of the poor,

Marginalized, former owners

Of this destruction

Honoring ongoing destructions

Of societies everywhere else.

In the name of our god

We praised these idols

And our god shook his finger

At us saying:

“Look, I published some stones

You've read about, and well,

You're not going along

With the program, commandment-wise."

So, as long as some of this mountain

Was wasted by a racist carver

What the heck, I'll use it.

Look.  Statues of great Lakota, Hunkpapa, Oglala, Miniconjou, Sans Arc, Blackfeet, Two Kettles, Brulé, Northern Cheyenne, and Arapaho

Chiefs who pincushioned Custer

And his merry band.

All surrounding this Shrine,

Where inside written in stone,

is my apology to native kids

I did not befriend in school:

Among others I rejected

As lovers.

This poem does not solve

My problem

Or THE problem. 

It just states the obvious,

Among which

Are soldiers who received

The Medal of Dishonor

At the massacre 

Of Wounded Knee,

Natives beaten, killed, or disrespected

By Rapid City Police,

South Dakota State Police,

Every white politician of the town,

And state including

Governors Bill fucking Janklow

And the last female mess.

There.

Now, I feel wonderfully relieved

Like a good, useless liberal.

Oh, there's a mouse-sized

Statue of Donald Trump

Carved out of buffalo patty

Coming out of his hole

In a non-conspicuous corner.

A tiny sign announcing

His presence:

“Here comes the Coward”

And everything the Epstein files

Have to say

On a flash drive jammed

In his tiny mouth.

Barry G. Wick

https://agereasonmistake.blodspot.com

Paypal: rikwrybac@yahoo.com 

Out of the Way

Out of the way

Oh you were thinking

Of some little restaurant

With checkered red tablecloths

Surly but fun waiters

Or some highway dive

With truckers

And gravy drown

Hot beef sandwiches and mash

I was thinking of my life

That began at four

When my mother Jean

Started me on piano lessons

I hadn't heard enough music

To form an ear 

So my ego grew

And while my output was 

My fingers and vibrating strings

I was there and music was not

Here later

After long years of not playing

I'm listening to everything

Made by greats that filled

The radio and television

I never really heard

I'm out of the way

I'm not the center

Mom thought I should be

Music fills the early morning

Cab Calloway

Peggy Lee

Woody Herman

Willy Bobo

Minnie the moocher

Eats Fried Neck Bones

And some home fries

Loading Sixteen Tons

And

That's all there is

Barry G. Wick

Touch

Touch

When did this happen

The moments are remembered

Some in cars

Some in walled buildings

Somewhere noisy 

Some on far streets

Somewhere furtive and secret

Longing for a loving kiss

Longing for a hug

That squeezes 

Almost breathlessly

Longing for a touch

That belongs to two

Longing for conversation

Where life decorates itself

Perhaps it's age or separation

A kind of life some call

A recluse

Or hermit 

Not chosen

It just happened because

Of bad knees and

A painful shoulder

A wheel chair

Or disfigurement

And lack of enough money

There are rare knocks

On the door

There is leftover coffee

In the pot

When it's seen after breakfast

Eyes raised to the door

Silence here

Silence except from outside

Where others live 

Friendlier lives

There were talks on phones

That lasted hours

Now it's just business

The boring minutes

Designed to keep a breath while

Sitting on the edge

Of an unmade bed 

Closed curtains

The buzz of a fly caught

In the window

While a soul dies inside

Across a dark room

Across a mystical barrier

Barry G. Wick

War

War

A young woman hits me

With her car

Or did I throw myself

Upon it

Later I'm invited to a party

She sits at my table

Her glass of wine

Sits in front of her

I say I'd join her

With my own glass

But I can't drink alcohol

It's been 13 years

Since my last drink I say

It's strange how uncomfortable 

That makes me

This is not a meeting

Where I confess my sins

Or even wish to sin with her

As I scan the room for friendlies

In the flames of battle

Barry G. Wick

The Return

The Return

Sometimes it's just a picture

An image of family

But this morning

It was the name of a city

That shook memories and images

Uncomfortable moments

From years ago

Not unlike my whole life

Unpleasant uncomfortable

Wrong actions stupid decisions

This is the evil of old age

When a trigger presents itself

On a gun filled with echoes

That sends bullets through

A past dislodging the unpleasant

Reasons that cannot be understood

Why doesn't end the answers

That leads to more questions

And more

And more

Barry G. Wick

Interstate Highway 80

Interstate Highway 80

Through the fourth floor windows

Waiting for the doctor’s nurse

To fetch me into the sanctum

I sit in a wheelchair in an empty

Bright room I look to the north

To see the east and west traffic

Of American commerce fulfilling

Orders of parts and purchases

The trucks and cars give me hope

That one day I might join

Travelers somewhere different

Somewhere new like my old days

To and from a university

To and from visits to friends

And family beyond the horizons 

Of which I have limited vision

Fishing and hunting museums 

And music something to feel

The dull has eclipsed my world

I dream of being beyond myself

The trucks and cars have expectant 

Drivers thinking and dreaming

While I gave blood and wait and wait

For my dreams to peal like bells

Barry G. Wick

in the Beginning

In the Beginning

In the beginning

Was the first lie

There was no beginning

It has always been

Was the word

The second lie

There was no word

Words came from man

And the word was with God

The third lie

No word was with God

There is nothing with God

And the word was God

The fourth lie

There is no God

Was is and is was

Barry G. Wick

The Porcupine

The Porcupine

Needles drag yarn

Felt deep in hips

All love is careful

The stars’ miracle

Healed by a universe

It's an infection

A first bump

Risen from the earth

Across the Black Hills

Ponderosa pines

Across our hill

Dripping sap sticks

As I 

Chew the bark

I dreamed of

Slapping the porcupine

Barry G Wick

The Wish

The Wish

When the day is cold

When the moon shines

Into the bedroom

Or was it the neighbor's

Porch light left on

Disturbing my thoughts

Into some crazy story

An imagination of complex

Nothing so much

The blankets are warm

Just placed a little less perfect

Around the room these things

All touched by ownership

Of false hands that seem to beg

It's the old wish returning 

As if some giant screw

Is turned with elemental  tools

Just wanting just needing

An ache a silent scream

Fingers rubbing the scalp

Scratching at the eyes

Unable to sleep with legs

That can't find their place

Yes the wish rides this old horse

Here are its reins

Just as a jump from the saddle

Announces by jostling it loose

Can someone please call this home

Barry G. Wick

Trauma

Trauma

Shut away from a world rage

Creates a place on your own stage

Where light is turned down dim

Breakfast cooks on a recent whim

There is no more incessant pain

As the joy brings sleep with simple rain

There won't be any touch or scratch

No hurt with mother's words that match

Careless children in a weakened state

As beans and salad flee the plate

Be alert to this simple sign

The lines that fall to page with rhyme

Behind them is a needed time

For rest and peace this home is thine

Barry G. Wick

Puer natus est nobis

Puer natus est nobis

My Latin is a little rusty

Where rust never formed

Not a dead language

Just parked in some corners

Designed to force

The less-than-catholic

Into translation frocks

Where we uninitiated

Wear a temporary collar

to pretend we are moved 

By such erudition

I had my own reason

To leave my church

Yet some still cling to theirs

To spray the world

With their Roman candles

Creating flame spewed

Over the rest of us

To grow the weeds 

That should have been sprayed

Sparked centuries ago

Filled with hate and stakes

For refuseniks of accepted lies

Barry G. Wick

-

The Deflating Balloon

The Deflating Balloon

There was a pressure

As I gradually put my lips

To the elastic nozzle

Inhaling precious atoms

To fill this old balloon

I held it's contents in

Until I could no longer

Tolerate my memories

Of how I filled it

Day after day

Hour after hour

Being cajoled by family

To fill the balloon

At every special event

Then every day after day

Tired of the pain of pressure

I let go and watched it

Zoom about the rooms

Deflating in a flight of fear

How will it look in the mirror

As the wrinkles appear

It's not a diet

It's eating less more and more

I have no one to please

Making their meals

I'd lived to eat

Now I die to feel better

To be me in my deflated body

Barry G. Wick

Jupiter

Jupiter

In the dark of space

Floating in the dark of my life

Is Gustav Holst’s bringer of jollity

A gaseous giant

Circling the only star

We two have known

He's been seen by every life

Here on our world

I also am mostly gas

But not worthy of a laugh

I am hydrogen and oxygen

Jupiter's helium keeps him afloat

Just as my gassy thoughts

Keep me floating

I see you great godd

Holding your twinkling throne room

In the power of both day and night

You may be the Roman godd

Of lightning and power

Though my life has been simple

Lacking the power to make changes

I see my dear moons my friends 

Revolving around me

Undiscovered by Galileo

Yet I discover their love of me

Which seems to make no sense

We two have large spots

Yours is red and mine invisible

Perhaps the visible and Unseen

Are the same as each gives us

Strength and uniqueness

Of all about our orbits

My years will be shorter by far

But unlike you dear Jove

I'm on fire and you will never be

Until our sun expands to take you

Both our atoms will share some space

We are neighbors in the Universe

Ready to join whenever that year

Decides we are ready to love

And be loved by the other

Barry G. Wick

Old Photo

Old Photo

An indigenous man

Of this continent

Turns to retrieve

An arrow from his quiver

The attached strap around

His neck and shoulders

His right hand fingers

Surround an arrow

While his left hand

Caresses his spring bow

The power of which 

We only guess

His dark hair wrapped

In leather on two long tresses

One tucked behind his right ear

That hangs across his bare chest

To the edge of his breechcloth

His face turned to direct his hand

The high cheekbone reveals

A smooth careful thought

At the end of his long hair

His loins covered in tradecloth

Reach just above his knees

Held by a braided cord

His left hip exposed

The warmth of his skin

Shows all the way 

to his bare feet

Thin moccasins almost visible

Behind him a stand of birches

Frame him on his hunt

For game he might see

Scared away by his movement

To notch his arrows nock

On the taught bowstring

His anticipation is not evident

Though his slender muscles

Have been fed by the meat

Of his previous kills

He found in forest

And on prairie

As he waited at the draws

For his prey to hesitantly walk

With care on grass and rock

He teaches me correct words

In black and white

To admire his concentration 

The feel and quiet of bare feet

On dry grass and small rock

His movement so slight

Noiseless on a gray day

I only wish were colored

For my heart to worship

This hunter’s stealth

The wealth of generations

Father to son

The soft cloth unable

To chafe him in summer sun

Or alert rabbit or deer

He's a quiet man

Used to few words

Scraping hair and remnant meat

Quiet hours spent tanning

The animal’s skin with its brain

Each day his thoughts calmed

By his careful respect 

for the whole of creation

That surrounds him

A quiet prayer unheard 

At the bright mornings

At the edge of dark

By a warming fire

Soft hides of his own creation

Each hour warming him twice

Barry G. Wick