(Poem)

Flying on a dream

Falling in love

With an arm around someone

Who pushes me away

To later see them talking

To someone else

Even in my dreams

I am rejected

My question becomes

Wondering if this is karma

Or me rejecting myself

Waking to sadness

The dream holds me

When no one will

Barry G. Wick

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

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.

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.

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

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....}}

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 

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

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

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

The Distance from Me to Me

Was it always this foggy

I remember crossing

the Bay Bridge years ago

unable to see anything beyond 10 feet

around the car

and that is what it felt like

as I grew into an adult

littered with the thoughts

of everyone around me

inside my head

I couldn't stand up for myself

direct who I was

into anything for me

I always heard voices like flames

and I was meat on the grill

No thing seemed right

no direction was the best

and so I wandered through

the cloud high above this world

and didn't even get wet

Now suppose you've reached my age

having tried so many paths

and none of them seemed right

there's no success in the modern sense

no feeling of accomplishment

And now I find the same cloud

hanging around me

some ghastly shroud ripped

from the graveyard of past lives

I now fight to keep from tightening

My friends move in their directed lives

filled with comforts of self

confident in their own worlds

their lives secure on single roads

they've chosen years ago

Why compare myself to them

I think inside this high cloud

full of unfulfilled dreams

It's only a matter of time

when all this fog will blow away

My suspicians begin to turn

to the sense of all lives past and present

to realize a fact

that what I feel today is what

all feel at different points of life

We circle in our clouds above

trying to see the ground

that has never been beneath us

and no matter what our comforts

they all shall disappear

So what I did to take as many paths

to breach the distance

from me then to me now

is what I did with what I am

all other voices silence in this peace

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick