We Go

(for Erin Wagman and all who knew and loved her)

When there is no more room

in our mother's womb

we go to meet our fathers

because it makes no sense

to stay in comfort

when we feel adventure

pull us forward

When we feel the pull of the world

it is often at the hand

that helps us cross the street

for the first time

It may be only a finger we hold

and when we reach the other side

we let go for a second

until the familiar voice

says to come

take my hand

come with me

The older we get

the less the hand is there for us

we've learned to walk to school

to see our friends

the other adventurers

with whom we grow

and get to know

their smiles

their happy voices

their worlds beyond

the houses where

comfort kept us safe

Soon adventures become challenges

some we conquer

and some we cannot

some have no end

These put clouds in our minds

the fogs at the edge of thought

at the edge of reason

across the street

wider than any street

we dodge monsters in traffic

where we never seem

to find the next curb up

or any hand to hold

This is where some of us

find ourselves

reach for broken hands

only to let go of all of them

We reach for anything

that will give us support

or reach for something

that often might be

cunning, baffling, and powerful

that won't let go

when we want to go

then

we just go

we just go

where we have not been before

to seek a respite

from the journey

to no side of the street

when we no longer want

our feet on the ground

any hands that help

and an end to the darkness

we go

where we cannot

feel the tears on our face

where we no longer

want to voice our pain

where we imagine

a comfort that surpasses

everything

we cannot understand

We go

even when we know

that all we leave behind

is the empty space

where others loved us

here and now...

we

go

into each others'

empty spaces

where you left us

with tears and doubt

where we try to fill each other

with a higher power

we cannot understand

and hope you've found

on the corner

across the street

is the playground

filled with stars

from where you once

came to us

and now return

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

ownership and publication rights

granted to the Wagman and Vickers families

in perpetuity.

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 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

On the Beach

Her glazed eyes

to the gray sky

stared at clouds

as if they

were pinned

to the horizons
 

The Spanish Olive face

with pimentos in her nose

there on the sand

days later

dead as the minute

she died

beneath the wheels

of a truck

by a teen boy

out for joy
 

her chest turned to yuck

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

(note: I seriously don't know why I wrote this...but it just came to me in a Hill City restaurant...not based upon any true story or picture I've seen. Perhaps I received a thought, an image or something from someone somewhere.)

Familiar Music

“When the music's over turn out the light”--Jim Morrison

Often the music is the same

a few tunes that express

this constant mood

repeated

like the stuck records of old days

that would regurgitate a single word

or phrase as many times

as possible

until the finger slaps

the needle to stop it

bad needle naughty record

except now

it's possible to have

one or more

musical moods play

until either the gun goes off

or something breaks

the concentration of the player

two songs today

repeated ad nauseum

were it possible to end

all this

the music would play

as the soul slipped

into the expanding universe

until the electric was cut

or someone found

the remnants of a final act

that can never happen

who would even call

or check to see

months perhaps

until a concern revealed

the truthful corruptions

of an evacuated head

its dessicated last thought

upon the wall

what chance

that the exploding brain

creates the written score

in blood upon the wall

of music heard

the final second

as the universe

repeats itself

this scene might play

again with theme and variations

or create

the greatest symphony

this self-possessed victim

would never write

or go unrecognized

as a musical score

by crime cleaners

in protective white suits

lost greatness destroyed

by chemical swipes

so somewhere this orchestra

that you cannot hear

plays on unknown instruments

the music

of desperate love that soars

through an audience

so suddenly come to grief

by the story of this piece

the entire house is gassed

to end the shrieks and sorrow

the flood of instant tears

that flows through the aisles

the symphony of suicide

plays

only one performance

where even the orchestra

sees the music for the first time

and despite its vast creation

five movements with a choir

no performance has ever made it

to the second movement

or passed its initial

8 bar reading

it must be difficult

to populate so depressed

an orchestra and chorus

surely someone just had a baby

got a new job

bought a few new recordings

to play over and over

over and over

over and over

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick


{{It's an unusual poem.  The question was asked if I'm alright.......and no place within the poem do I suggest that am the potential victim....it was a train of thought based upon some listening I was doing this morning...that turned into a dark, albeit morbid examination and surreal set of images....after I wrote it I was assisting mother in her bedroom and since we had no internet this AM....I had put on a large playlist that included The Doors....and the Morrison line came up...almost as if there was some sort of muse working here. I am quite alright and have NO intentions. I have much to live for...much. So I appreciate the concern....there are dark corners of my mind that must given light during creative times. They are examined and tossed away as easily as one would toss away a used tissue. NO basis in reality.   I'm quite fine. I write...I am a writer. Not famous, never likely to be famous....but one could also ask the same question of Steven King....}}

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

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.