Wide Eyes

The door opens

then a short step through

the clap of thunder closes it

In front the multi-tides

wash away the shore

beneath invisible feet

Floating becomes drowning

drowning becomes dying

Dying is a vision of the surface

in final eyes

a glassy stare of amazement

perhaps shock

this always:

the small surprise

at the end of this box

of Crackerjacks

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.

Upset about links

I'm very upset that some of my poems now have links on certain words.  I didn't put them there.  And I didn't approve of them.  They were there on 5/26/13...and are gone today in my poem "I Dreamed of Carl."  I agreed to have ads on my page because I know these blogs are free.  But I didn't agree to have links in my posts.

The Day of the Leaves

It's been an unusual spring

colder than some

heavy snow

long days of rain

and here today

I look out the window

as if I've never seen this before

leaves

in every view

from where I'm

locked with mother all day

she still in bed

and yet I sit here

in my own time now

before I must attend her

the bloom of the crabapple

every bush and tree

as they seem to have pushed

leaves into my face today

the warmth of this spring day

an eraser of everything before

of everything that troubles me

of fears and worries for tomorrow

certainly an oxymoron

but here goes

leaves

returns

It's plural I know

but there are so many

I cannot see them all

and some hide behind others

from me

as if embarrassed

they were late to my party

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

Unfulfilled

It is said that

we are all the characters

in our shimmering dreams

I've often wondered

if there are connections

with other sleepers

long threads of gold

spun between those

in beds on couches on buses

worlds apart

because I can't explain

why I always awake

disappointed

in humanity

not getting the job

or the break I've always wanted

so I could feel successful

not dissatisfied with results

after walking

through an unfriendly city

where pigeons eat a drunk's vomit

on a gray sidewalk

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

The New Spring

“I have never considered a difference of opinion in

politics, in religion, in philosophy, as a cause for

withdrawing from a friendship.”  ---Thomas Jefferson


My old friend is no longer my friend.
It was going to happen.
It's happened before with others.
I have been in winter with my country
and the people around me
since I was frozen just out of the womb.

You cannot support the north winds of hate,
those who freeze me
from my human rights
and expect to get my warmth,
my inner sun.
I've read enough about
my homosexuality
to know others haven't.
They prefer to maintain
their ignorance of my reality,
my being,
while they hold on to a few lines
from a two thousand year old tome
that has wrapped the tombs
of millions who were denied and died.

The new books know something new.
The Sunlight of the Universe
has made revelations
to us, to me:
that I am what I am.

To keep me from my flowers,
from the budding of my branches,
is to follow an evil season
to maintain an ignorance
that light, the Power's Light,
has difficulty penetrating.

I shall be the last generation
to hold the hatred inside of me.
It breaks up even now
like old ice melts in the spring
in shaded areas
when after days of warmth
a few sheltered shapes
end their cold, impenetrable dominance.

My friendship is not for sale
with a smile or a memory
of what we were as children.
This is now.   This is me.
I am forever changed.

What I have wanted and needed
was denied to me even when
I thought I had found it.

I gave my love
and found the cold,
this world built around those I loved
and around me.

The walls melt.
The dams of ice now belong to the few
who remain stuck in their frozen beliefs.
I am thawed in a new spring,
the kind that never ends.



Copyright (c) 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.

The Speed Of Life

[My great-grandmother, Gertrude Bertelsen Gunderson, wife of South Dakota Governor Carl Gunderson, was a well-known poet in South Dakota, founding the state's poetry journal “Pasque Petals”...still in existence. She wrote poetry for another time and every once in a while I feel her presence so much that words come to me like prairie lightning in an older style. This poem is an example of that.]

The Speed Of Life

I moved so fast I could not see

the best the world had offered me.

Now, windows give me outside views

Not one thing seen will come in twos.

Each part of what I see unique.

My gaze, my interest at its peak.

You think pine needles just the same,

But each is different I can claim.

When I can leave I hear all sounded;

The creek across the rocks all rounded.

And sometimes smells to me exclaim:

I am alive, I have a name.

So turn your car to greener land,

Remove the key, on grass now stand.

Take all inside, leave nothing out,

You'll find yourself, what you're about.

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

The Voice

Somewhere between

the unheard beep

of a bat

and the low rumble

of the elephant's roll call

the human voice

plays through the silence

of dictionaries

or sitting at desks

in the habitats

of darkness

dreams tossing words

through oblivion

Across the sea by cable

or the alleys of the old

the voices betray

everything we are

though strange

to the rest of our companions

we walk with

yet the dog may know

the meaning through repetition

the chimp by sign and ear

But what does the crow

across the creek

think of this yell

to leave my sleep undisturbed

by the racket so many create

Whatever they say to each other

I'm damn mad

and by their continued bird rants

I'm diminished

to the level of stupid humanity

who can't even fly

without some idiot's contraption

strapped to my back

as it sputters and spews

a smell the ass of a crow

could never fart

So off they fly

in a laugh

at me who thinks

all the world is mine

as I stand on a balcony

to squeak at crows

as the resplendent unseen letters

of this unknown language

explode from my mouth

upon their bothered conversation

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

Another Storm Brings Dorothy

On this day

with its yellow brick sun

as it hides between

the puffy munchkin clouds

and behind the dark emerald hills

Suddenly

the white fliers

crystalline witches

on holly broom sticks

in a swarm that clothes the air

in this chill accompanied

by swirls and sudden shifts

of these lifeless crones

as they attack the old

on sidewalks and doorsteps

Upset trees wave their arms

in warning

Evil billions pile their magic

on the edges of sinless water

afraid of its goodness

though many are doused

as if melted by a pail

of trout-tossed water

The stored spring melt

flows in toto

passed the stones that scream

in this monkey-tail canyon

through torches of light

between winter and spring

This house falls

on its faceless occupants

who wear home bound slippers

their feet curling back

under striped blankets

with courage to keep

hearts warm

and brains from boredom

a snowy day

in the Black Hills

yo-ee-oh

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