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-

The Composer, the Critic and a Saint

Johannes Brahms in his mind

at two pianos

playing variations

on a theme by Joseph Haydn

on a path in the forest

with Saint Anthony sneaking

about someplace.

Saint Anthony whispers to Brahms:

Being a composer is not as complicated

as being

gODD,

who makes a tree and

then says, “i'LL have another,

only different,”

in a variation that only hE understands.

gODD hopes the second tree

will swing along with the original,

so, hE knows the trees

have to practice daily

in order to know

how their branches

will sway in the breezes together

to end on the same note;

the same beat.

Imagine the entire forest

as each tree grows and sways,

as each tree pulls water from the soil

to push out leaves:

an orchestra of trees

under one cOMPOSER

who also conducts

this green orchestra.

And then fire:

the critic in the first row,

wiping all the notes from the page:

dissing the cOMPOSER.

“yOU had a chance to make it rain.”

says the critic.

which is why gODD

refuses to read reviews

about the trees hE makes

“Stupid critic,”

grumbles gODD.

“I was in a mood to try

some dry humor

and you could not feel

mY creation:

absurd and funny.”

so the critic walks from the theater

with ashes on his coat

and fire for his words

printed in the daily

to admonish gODD

for destruction of a forest

Brahms

with just two pianos

balanced between his ears

fully understood

the relationships

between fire and forest,

between critic and creator,

and

between ashes and empathy,

as he walked through the trees

hands clasped

behind his back

listening to the Saint

rustle the leaves

ever so gently.

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



xxxx

The Boiling Mind

Too much sour stimulation

images, text, video

and I physically start to heat

then looking out the window

toward the secrets

of the back yard

I see the moving water

of the creek that roils

by our house

every minute of every day

ten thousand mirrors

in seconds to calm

and I know that I was

never meant to let

my brain boil away

on the stove of my computer

so I turn it off

with just one glance

that removes the pot

to make a cup of tea

soon, it's cool enough

to sip my own

lightly-sweetened thoughts

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



xxxx

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 Darwinians Eat Steak and Salad

                                     for Mike and Jacqueline

As the engine of life

ripples across its stones

friends share a meal

and conversation

a blue jay flies by

and disrupts my thoughts

about last night's dinner

This is typical.

I try to honor something

so simple as an evening

meal with friends

from Colorado

and a colorful bird

takes me through time

to now

and what I wanted this morning

was to write a special honor

for a visit

only to be interrupted

by the spreading blue and white

wings of a dinosaur

yes, we believe in evolution here

we believed in evolution last night

damn us liberals anyway

Copyright 2012 by Barry G. Wick

Quintet for the Confused Mind

I am flying through

Antonin's mind

perhaps some European scene

or Iowa

when nearly 94 my mother

says this isn't very good then

your trees are blowing outside aren't they

they aren't my trees

you own them

they belong to you

those trees?

Yes

they don't look like anything I ever had

Perhaps Dvorak owned them

as his piano glided

like Dakota air

through the branches

of these spruce

and the Box Elder

beside the creek

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Green Nurse

The light is limited

by clouds and rain

yet

bright green spring

stands between the hill

and me

across the creek

only last week

clouds of pollen

obscured the view

from where I sit

most every day

I've been in pain

for several days

from a back

the twists me

like a private earthquake

so I seek comfort

in this view today

from this damp nurse

of leaves that fills

the emptiness

I saw all winter

He doesn't take my temperature

or cuff my arm

nor feel my head

and change the sheets

instead his comfort

leaps into my eyes

to fill me with desire

to take the first steps

to wish myself better

The colors of this season

sit near me

in green attire

to pull me through

another day

to hold my hand

and say

“There, there. It'll be alright.”

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Empty Life

I've been wondering all my days

why I haven't found you

and why the ones I find

are always wrong for me

in some overt or secret way

You're always with me

I always know you're there

but every street is empty

when I check on every face

and look through passing hearts

Did I forget the time I sensed

you nearly touched my hand

or driving down an empty road

you head-on drove towards me

and my headlights gave you form

And when I talk with others

I always wonder if I've found

your voice that's heard inside

the emptiness I've come to know

sweet music in each word

With verdant flowers of spring

I've decorated our painful lives

because I know you feel the same

the emptiness of rising daylight

half dark half light half life

I'll keep my vigil though this hour

searching through every minute

for you I've never found

and send my every thought

my deepest love for you

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Obituary of a Gay Man in a Small Town

Narlo Titian Schmederlickenberg, age 27

passed away suddenly

from a work related accident

in the family home

in Yayferbville

on Plowday, the 4^th of Whadember.

He is remembered

for having established the need for and fondled

the local theater group eight years ago.

He especially enjoyed children,

as they were of him,

or so his neighbors thought.

Narlo was an exceptional cook

always challenging Grocer Fatts Germainski

to find piqued oysters and morose beef.

When not working on the family farm,

he would sit for hours creating costumes

for the productions at the Yayferbville Opera Auditorium.

His long, family illness prevented him from being seen

as he wore a large ox mask at their insistence

on his daily rounds of Yayferbville and

the Gillbenfurfer County seat of Hoof City.

He always talked of leaving Yayferbville

for unknown reasons, but just never got around to it.

He is survived by his numerous friends and large family

that includes his parents,

Mendro and Yerka Schmederlickenberg,

brothers Bedot, Kerfit, and Synoshish,

sisters Colvae and Opplolly,

plus numerous aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins,

many of whom refused to talk with him
alone
without all his happy family around
to celebrate his presence.
He touched them all
or so the family thought.

He will also be remembered

by his special male friend, Herty Wahndertut,

who had recently

moved far away to Malcrington on the coast

and didn't leave a forwarding address.

Services for Mr. Schmederlickenberg will be held

10 RD, on Grubersday

at Our Savior of the Unforgiving Prairie

with Father Axy Marfcob officiating.

Services are being provided

by the Yayferbville Funeral Home.

Miss Gelvina Flaaharty will play with his organ

at the church which he never

did himself until he donated it

several years ago

to the church he barely attended
only when Father Axy was there
since he was a child.

Narlo loved flowers, dogs and cats.

You may dissect any of them to the funeral home
before the service.

Large knives and cutting boards

will be provided
before the wake.

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

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