Word Stringer

“Any great poem is one you wrote anyway.”--Richard Hugo

Those who put words

together

one after another

are not writers

image manufacturers

poets

whatever is believed

the occupation

or avocation may be

the real creators

are the readers

who bring their own

mental images to the paper

the pages

the screens

to the voices aloud

bouncing wall to wall

or dancing across the prairie

like light rain

No

rich and often poor words

bring thunderstorms

drop hail and tornadoes

inside heads

to flash their lightning

across inner eyes

the ones that cannot be

examined by an optometrist

until after brains

have exploded from heads

when they become invisible mush

for the dead to digest

To enjoy them

stay alive

to prepare for the apocalypse

when dictionaries are burned

sending smoke aloft

unreadable by everyone

except Indians in the movies

or destroyed by noon-day cannons

their loud utterances

demanding rest or nourishment

The King proclaims

only what is accepted

by those who are woolly caterpillars

in line for the next bush

unable to see anything

except the next crawly butt

Stop that at once

search all the words

being fed by the spoonfuls

to find the depth

of the gift of creation

Now blow that up

Mr. Hubble

Barry G. Wick

Recollection

A poet awakens from his dream

Before the paper records it

he wanders to his toilet

to let the night's words drain

He checks his underwear

for poetic skidmarks

Yes his dreams are written there

The fog of darkness hustles him

to the kitchen where he takes

his first medicine

a pill of words prescribed

by poetic doctors

Dishes from a poetic dinner

sit in the sink

so he draws the water

into his well of words

adding soap to billow

over its edges

He wants his poem to be clean

He rushes to feed more words

to his fish who are hungry

Sitting

he tests his blood to see if

he is still worthy enough

to record the memories of the dreams

that sleep has stored

He presses buttons to open

the paper on a screen

The pens on the tips of his fingers

splash ink where the clouds lift

as the sun enters

his drifting storm of letters

that create the gibberish

that poets always recollect

This poet's dream has him rushing

to his mentor to retell a story

that never happened

of a gathering of poets along a river

where they spilled their words

in a distant land of mountains

The senior poet nods

at his student's progress

deciding to give him a radio

full of his poems

attached to a window sill

by a separate base

wires piercing the wood

into this poet's collection

just as empty as a gathering

his student organized in the backyard

of his past life

The instrument is separated

and given to the student

who beams with pride

at the gift

that can never replay

the voice of the man

who gives it

No matter how many watts

the student poet applies

to the tubes and speakers

the words of his teacher

cannot appear in the morning haze

as the poet drools more words

onto a glowing screen

while he watches the bubbles

disappear in the sink

to the sound of bubbles

where his fish swim

to the bubble of memory

that pops in his head

He is ready for the day

surrounded by empty words

popping everywhere

a sonic bubble bath

that keeps his dishes clean

his fish alive

and his poem

empty of voices

Barry G. Wick

To Space and Beyond

Whatever empty space is

I think about it

and it doesn't seem to notice

my thought

That empty place is locked

inside the wrong of me

that I see every day

Those who are pleased

I suffer

are rewarded by it

It is an expanding emptiness

certainly not black

for something to be black

there must be something

to absorb the light

but inside the light fades

an empty jug

deeply empty

atoms of thought

pushing farther into nothingness

and I'm spread out

until the edges aren't just thin

this toast has no butter

this music has no vibration

this painting has no color

no frame

no canvas

I hang it on my wall

to remind myself

of its memory

which is nothing at all

sprouting into the distance

a growing plant

unable to gain sustenance

from its impossible growth

without a root

pushing deep

into a dirt-free soil

Barry G. Wick

A New Coat

To whom and in what do I fit

raised by a lonely woman

who had second thoughts

after her marriage

of three decades

her second husband

tossed away at the wrong time

for poor reasons

when she could have had

someone to share a few more plays

concerts and parties

then ostracized by his circle

deserved or not

She was never very physical

never full of hugs

or just a simple touch

It felt so odd to hug her

as her runaway dementia plowed

though her hole-filled brain

mowing down memories

of everyone including me

at the end of her autonomic gasps

silenced by drops of morphine

Here the violins crescendo

in dark hours

months past those tears

when I still talk to her

across the chasm between

her chair and my sofa

the same stations

that brought calm to her sleep

Even in the years I cared

she always shouted

to a flameless room

filled with family shadows

in years that didn't

include me

never once falling

over the syllables

of her children's names

Her ashes in the ground

beneath the pines

far away

in what seems light years

across the galaxy of states

I am buried in my mobile home

quiet until the dawn

when I can no longer hold

the emptiness at arms length

only to jump into a cold bed

trying to still a vacant mind

akin to pulling a boiling pot

from a glowing stove

the liquid boiled away

to cause rainbows of heat

in the steel

Yes all the colors

anyone could want

except the one color

of you in my heart

whoever you might be

I hug the ceiling with my eyes

doused in minuscule shadows

from the acid street

curtains always drawn

to keep away my dreams

that always end with you

that always awaken to sorrow

much as she opened

her crusty eyes to empty days

You are not my mother

you always an imagination

of your face and hair

reflected in the polished pipes

of her empty funeral dirge

or the mirror of tarnished imagination

I don't know your eyes

the touch of you beside me

in these days of punishment

spiking memories mixed

with the burn

of never having met you

my invisible love

as I try on these age-filled years

a new coat made

from the wooden shavings

of my last breath

Barry G. Wick

The Bread on My Stove

Pending a visitation

to my local big box food

pharmacy clothing garden store

you know the place

where bread

appeals browned and airy

in the plastic socks

tied neatly with a length

of papered wire

red blue or green

butter and jam awaits

the smell of end season

violets onions and oranges

that boost the odor

of unscrubbed

or tar-fingered patrons

the beep of the oven timer

in its high-pitch regularity

announces that a poorly crafted

inadequately covered

in the rising phase

pile of crusty dough

not really a loaf

in a loaf pan

but on an oaf pan

dough slammed onto a flat

blistered and mottled cookie sheet

forged incomplete

through a heated cycle

to the point

where it might be edible

across the kitchen it cools

in its appearance of a pillow

cased in pale protuberances

a bread sandpaper

only slightly brown

at each end

just enough to rake a tongue

with its cheap flavors

of salt and olive oil

that's it

any more images

and I'll be forced to eat

that crappy loaf

Barry G. Wick

The Chosen One

My Valkyries are joining the party

they bring glitter and poppers

swords and spears

disease and damnation

love and lust

Upon the clouds they ride

dark and demonic

wearing sensible shoes

for they travel far and wide

They choose who lives and dies

in battle

I am surprised by their decision

I am chosen by them

Go about your business, ladies

For I must immortalize you

in all your Wagnerian thunder

I don't have time to fulfill

your requests of me

It would be more exciting

to see you in the clouds

above a fjord that descends

into a deep sea

full of dark monsters

but this is Iowa

at the end of summer

and the only monsters here

are talking about taxes and banking

poverty and riches

snakes and angels

Of course I'm half Norwegian

which is why I am able

to see you in the clouds

before all my neighbors

who peer out of their mobile homes

wondering what is going on

So I add more trumpets and tympani

chorus and cannon

flame and fluster

It's all for you

the women of my dreams

with at least one named Bob

Barry G. Wick

Peace in Our Time

The only gold George Custer and his troops

should have seen as they traipsed

through the Black Hills in 1874

wouldn't have been gold but the light blue

of the spring crocus

They might have convinced him

to throw out any prospectors of the hills

and given him incentive

not to fight anymore “Indians”

He would have announced

to a waiting world

“I found the crocus and nothing else”

Then there wouldn't have been any greed

any Mount Rushmore

tourists in their whale-sized RVs

nor motorcycles rumbling by the millions

passed Bear Butte

near an unfounded Fort Meade

no Sturgis or Deadwood

Hickock would have lived longer

No Rapid City or Ellsworth Air Force Base

No broken treaties

No reservations

My parents would not have met

and I wouldn't see any crocus

on my hike over 

an unnamed Hangman's Hill

to an unbuilt Lincoln School

or take them home to Mom

by my little handfuls

Barry G. Wick

Publish This Poem!

Hello my name is

Juan Feng-shi Apollinaire-Washington

My parents are a combination of

German Scottish and Norwegian

I concocted my MFA

at the University of Southern North Dakota

where I teach 22^nd Century Poetry

I write poetry that never gets published

Soon this will change

because I have a name

the covers all the bases

I know you'll take this poem

into your deep publisher's heart

swirl it around a bit

get to know me

and put this poem

in your monthly magazine

I shall become famous

My poem will be translated

into thirteen languages

Italian but not French

Swahili but not Urdu

and some others

You will seek out

other poems by me

and my mysterious photo

because I have such

a important-sounding foreign name

You will call me on the phone

to invite me to read at the Y

or the Brooklyn poets

for a slight fee or let's just say

a ghastly-large honorarium

I will wear colorful clothing

and shoes

that do not match

My hair will be soaked

in a brand name shoe polish

I will say a few words

in my religious tongues

that no one will understand

and fake an accent

that sounds like a Native American

who grew up in New Delhi

I will be brilliant at this reading

and will chat with all those

who will fawn over me

at the rich man's apartment

after the reading

What a beautiful view

I'll say

while sipping my single malt

with a splash of cranberry

Barry G. Wick

Isolation

I don't understand

all the complaints

about people

with their heads bowed

and their eyes

on the screens of their phones

Man's long-term dream

is isolation

We treasure the stories

of Daniel Boone

Jim Bridger

and those who

lived in small cabins

at the edge of a mirrored lake

built over their first summer

to trap the beaver

on dammed streams

in the wilderness

The screens show us

the great wilderness

that is humanity

as we search for beaver

buffalo and elk

all by ourselves

on the L to the “Loop”

Someday a passenger

will shoot an elk

near the CTA Blue Line

We'll call her

Elk Megan

since

Buffalo somebody

is already taken

The Chicago SWAT Team

will show up while she's

beading her elk-skin shirt

and yell for her

to put down her needle

Cell phone by her side

with complete instructions

and color illustrations

Barry G. Wick

Three Drops

On the floor they appear

in the light from my rechargeable

like planets on the page

of a childhood book

See here is the sun

with two planets circling

though these planets are immovable

and are not really planets at all

The largest

farthest from the entry

to the small room

with wash and dry machines

The smallest in the middle

with the mid-sized

closest to the kitchen

Now mottled brown

appearing almost as if

these had been struck by meteors

Closer inspection would reveal

dead worlds of tiny things

that had once been a part

of a larger life force

These planets show

because the blade of a hatchet

had been carelessly replaced

among other needed tools

which ever so gracefully

put a half-inch slice

in a right index finger

deeper than first thought

from where these planets

would form on the floor

from the drops carelessly

created by the sudden pain

more like a paper cut

than this dripping wound

So here these three show

themselves long past the minutes

of anxious footsteps

to the first aid box

crafted in the wood shop

some years ago

for just such an occurrence

that never happened hundreds

of hours and miles ago

Here was the bottle of wash

to treat the cut to move

what might have stayed

inside the skin now dripping

cells of many kinds

into the tiny sink

The first attempt at a bandage

failed from skin being too wet

and again the drops

were swirling down the drain

as the sting returns

to remind how carelessly

was the search for a screwdriver

The second held longer

but again failed to stem the flow

and now a third

between attempts to dry

the wounded digit

of the dominant hand

Now it closes the thin line

that caused so painful a drain

that the pad was not soaked through

that the adhesive held this skin

together to seal the skin closed

So now forgetfulness becomes

a need to put the air conditioner

into the window when the central system

had failed on a hot day

A second attempt to procure the right tool

to remove the screen

Could the machine be lifted

Could the window be sealed

So quickly it was in place to cool

So the night progresses though phone calls

through life attachments to friends

who suffer more

to video to radio to type

to all the things that take away

the pain of creation

billions of years ago

before the galaxy

the solar system

before this fragile planet

before these sudden creations

dripped reminders upon the floor

of all the atoms

of all the cells

of all the chemistry

learned in hundreds of years

of war and study

from more than

three drops of blood

Barry G. Wick