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.

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

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

The Second Snow

These flakes seem much more resiliant

able to stand the cool breath

this day breathes

upon the Black Hills

until time sends them

dripping through the canyon rapids

Certainly I know the words

Paha Sapa

but raised in the white bread house

those words were rarely uttered

unlike the homes

on the reservation

or the northside of my town

Rapid City

Hay Camp

and who knows

what the Lakota

called this gap and the grass

that filled two sides of it

It's hard to imagine

them coming into this area

in search of tatanka

buffalo

another word most learned

from a movie filmed

east south and north of here

My father double scheduled Lakota

people in his office for eye exams

and gave out watches

in the early days

because he said

“Lakota have no word for time”

how lovely

no word for time

no moviestar many moons

no measured distance

from here until tomorrow

just alive and surviving

the system that locked them

into the spaces where

we could tolerate them

separated from us

we who felt so superior

handing out five dollar bills

when the troubled family

struggled up the hill to our house

baby wife man

on a snowy day

much like this

no sense of time

except the empty bellies

that gnawed at their dignity

so much so they came

to my father for a handout

my father

telling me to stay inside

when I watched from his den

in our comfortable home

fearful that something might

happen to him

when all this family wanted

was food a place to get away

from the cold

this measured cold

that pulls the hunger

from a conquered people

I would barely know

and feel the shame

of my superiority

the day I shook hands

with Russell Means

in the downtown deli

near the piano store

where in “times” before I sold

sitting at my desk to watch him

when “times were slow”

and his friends

across the street

take AIM

at a thoughtless world

from the second floor

to shoot a message to the world

about dignity truth worth

about the people

who really own the land

where this house sits

where I watch the snow

and worry

where I'll get five dollars

to feed myself

after I'm forced to leave this place

by the system that forced

them

off their land

into servitude

to strange customs

of ownership

the destruction of families

the system of time

no snowflake

is white enough

to stand up to

the same system

that forces me to finish

this poem with these ugly words:

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved


((((Writer' Note:  A friend points out that there are many Lakota words for the passage of time.  Of course there are.  This is a poem about misunderstandings, misconceptions, lack of understanding, cross- cultural differences and stereotypes.  I understand stereotypes very well as a gay man because stereotypes have always been a part of gay life....sometimes we even acted them out becaus of our own ignorance....Ignorance spreads like wildfire until it often becomes hatred of others and self-hatred....which is just so stupid.   The greatest lesson we can learn is to take each person one at a time.  What was passed to my father was ignorant....and it was a story he repeated often...and to a few knowledgeable people....he looked very bad in some respects....but they said nothing to him as he was a man who genuinely wanted to help people see....and a large number of Lakota people had very bad eyes.  I am genuinely a man who has to communicate in order to stay sane which psychiatrists will probably inform me has no place in modern psychiatric discussion as "sane" is probably not a true definition or diagnosis of why I need to write.  While it's not OCD...it just might be close to it.   Instead of compulsive hand washing, perhaps it's my way of cleaning out the words and feelings in my brain so I can feel clean.  Oh no, the more I write the more my foot becomes either locked in my mouth or my head.  And as we all know, a foot in the head is worth two on the ends of your legs.)))