Medical Shine

Medical Shine

The days speed up

agreed to by my pillbox

full pockets of time

and time-released

joy and sorrow

it dispenses daily

as if some lead-footed driver

moonlighted as a dealer

modern moonshine

that rushes on the highways

which creates this new sport

for the masses at racetracks

Hopped-up vans 

with delivery drivers 

who toss secret packages

to the aged and infirm fans

as they round the track

at broken back speeds

full of those little rainbow

enticements to feel better

feel good or feel normal

delivered to the pharmacy

No need for hidden tanks

No worries for revenuers 

waiting in the dark 

No moonless shootouts

in the deep mountain hollows

shouting epithets 

from behind the trees 

I watch the cheering thousands 

from the stands

waiting for their meds

the tiny miracle cures

promised by great pharma

who live gloriously behind

legality guaranteed 

by government

cheated for the pleasure

of fat kittens of industry

their yachts swaying

in warm waters

Barry G. Wick

February Loss (for Kelly)

February Loss (for Kelly)

February loss hangs

in mid-air

It refuses to fly on

A frozen kestral

Which thinks of voles

Asleep in their grass beds

Deep beneath the frost

I yawn with them

In dark hours

To pass long nights

With little to calm my

Thoughts of this month

That took a friend

Who gave me

Ripples of memory

To long passed days

When his love held me

In his arms

Those endless nights

I want back

His life now flies

Frozen in my mind

As warm as ever

Barry G Wick

The Vacant Hills

The Vacant Hills

Too often dream hauls me back

in it's old yellow truck sold

to someone who will fix it

It sat outside the house until

rust became an issue or

the battery failed to spark

Somewhere beneath me are farms

from the distant past with corn

never to poke their giant stalks

toward the sun they love

The land rolls unlike the steep

rock-covered crags over us then

We shoot imaginary antelope

at the park fifty years ago

on a license of special qualities

after we crawled over a mound

that shielded us with high grass

only to Winchester it dead

Then there is the pine tree

when the bark gets pulled

with young hands on the way

to an old school over the hill

behind the rock through sand

that blows down in south winds

The rain could be seen coming

one range after another blocked

by sheets of drenching summer

lighting striking the west side

seen from the redwood deck

on the home left behind

All this disappears and more

as people forced idyllic places

into hatred and discrimination

crating humanity inside law

written from their ancient books

that ends youthful dreams in fear

Barry G. Wick

Smartphone

Smartphone

Nearer my godd to thee

oh smartphone

I walk the halls

of your great palace

with my head bowed

bumping into your believers

falling at the curbs

as you help me

towards death of brain cells

the last of my intelligence

approaches

as playful cats

and flop-earred doggies

assail my eyes at the edge

of chemical traffic signs

inside my skull

their dim assault

prepares me for the next

instant message

about the bosses' latest

design of stupidity

in search of the almighty

dollars leave my bank

as the latest useless

geegaws pile up 

in dusty corners

may I truly be worthy

of the one use

I grace it with

now send me my underwear

so that under my pants

I can feel naughty

in deference to my misery

as I twist my ankle 

missing a step

failing to grab the bar

as I hold you in my hand

securing my pack in the other

oh small glowing godd

pretend with me

that I shall win the lottery

as I select the six numbers

you insert into my thoughts

from the seventy or so

designated to guarantee

I steer my yacht 

from this cubicle

this mental collapse

I so richly deserve

banging my knee 

into the bumper of a taxi

of which you dear Lord 

failed to notify me

as my worship of you

diminishes my field of view

may I forever sit with my dearest

as we search your bright horizons

with our coffee-trembling fingers

listening to your banalities

as we index punch you 

in the star-bright face

in the hope you'll deliver

another life-altering message

of self-worthlessness

Barry G. Wick

Tonight

Tonight

The old embrace

Their place

Slumped in soft chair

Or on the edge of a bed

The only reminders

Of what was once

The wrapped arms

They held

Or held them

The starting furnace

Footsteps in a hallway

A flushing toilet

None are the air

Rushing through trees

Bounding in youth

With joyous screams

Through grass

All the minutes

Must be now alone

As an old head

Strains to blot the past

Away

Like blue ink spilled

On a white plain

Changed forever

Where clouds and sky

Imagined for seconds

Bring joy and pain

In remembrance

Barry G. Wick

To the Day

To the Day

Six years ago

began the last month

of my mother's life

I get up from bed

steaming with memory

of that time in our lives

My life begins now

as I go to the kitchen

thinking of pancakes

and coffee 

with cream and sugar

the way she liked it

Headed towards 68

I've become 5

walking

into the livingroom

of the old house

with it's green wool

beneath my feet

Mother reads the paper

on a loveseat

by the floor to ceiling

bay window

her cup sitting 

on the round

mahogany table

I pick up her cup

she turns a page

I turn a page

to begin my life

with coffee

Barry G. Wick

Monet's Dog

Monet's Dog

In rare film

now turned to video

Claude Monet paints

in his garden

at Giverny

When he leaves his canvas

we see a small dog

follow behind him

To that small dog

Monet was everything

Perhaps somewhere the name

of that little dog

is mentioned

though Monet's painting

of the little dog

is just called

"Head of the Dog"

It didn't matter

to the little dog

that Monet was Monet

It doesn't matter

to us the name

of the little dog

nor the name Monet

We just see what Monet saw

after his paintings

became more than his garden

became to him

The little dog just saw

the garden and Monet

who stood there doing something

while the little dog panted

in the heat of a summer day

Monet likely held that dog

on that quiet evening

comforted by the company

of a small dog

I want to be comforted

by a little dog

to have that little dog

be everything

that Monet's little dog

was to him

and his paintings and my poems

to mean more to my children

than they do now

to Monet

and to me

Barry G. Wick

Checker Bored

Checker Bored

Invisible chains hold the woman

behind the register

She is not the daughter

of the original owner

who owns a multi-million dollar yacht

who plans to add another to her fleet

This woman has children

maybe a husband

maybe

for whom she scans and bags

until her mind is numb

on the little money

this corporation pays

Each little thing she does for me

I thank her

I'll compliment the “corn rows”

or the hijab she wears

I'll smile as much as I can

knowing well few will thank her

for her aching feet

the simple paper cuts

the rough skin of her fingers

If she puts the bags I provide

full of the food and products

I will use every day

into the basket on the electric cart

I will thank her as many times

as I am able

smiling whether she see it

or not

If she lives with her family

are they also burdened

with people who care so little

with long hours of repetition

unfamiliar operations she learns

as she grows into this job

she might leave in days from now

because the boss is strange

because a customer complains

because someone showed no respect

because a man was condescending

because someone told her

to go back to the country

from where she came

escaping the guns bombs and murders

escaping the poverty of the neighborhood

in the state next door

A thousand reasons will cross her mind

until I don't see her again

until she finds a place in this world

where the owner

will take less and give a living

to her and those with whom she works

Thank you for your help today

Thank you for smiling just a little

Thank you for saying hello

to an old man

who will only talk to you today

returning alone to his quiet house

Barry G. Wick

Poem

Poem

A Sunday at the typer

In a quick store

Watching shoppers come in

And go out

Thinking of where

I should go next

In a dream or with the wheels

This isn't the norm for me

Idle in public or indecisive

Even at home I'm active

Doing nothing

There is wind today

A chance of rain

I'll let the moving air

Direct me to a baptism

Sure of no belief at all

Aimless as this galaxy

Pointless as this universe

Controlled by god

With his explosive finger

Please don't pull it

It smells bad enough

As it is

Barry G. Wick

Narcissus, their son

Cephissus and Liriope

Were really hot for each other

Liriope had a thing for river gods

Cephissus had a thing for nymphs

They did it on the shore

Of still waters

Liriope was knocked up

And had a kid they named

Narcissus

His parents thought he looked

Too hot for his clothes

So he took them off

To go sit by the still waters

Looking at his reflection

Until a fish splashed his face

He got bored with that

Asking his parents for an iPhone

Nope no way

We don't have Zeus pockets kid

Narcissus went out and found

A sugar daddy who fondled him

Bought him an iPhone

Whereupon he's been standing

In front of a mirror applying make-up

For 3,984

Of the last 4,000 years

Looking at himself

Posting selfies

Covered in layers of Max Factor

He applies with a trowel

Hey kid, you look mah-vel-ous

You really do

(I don't have the heart to point out
His wrinkled canyons)

Barry G. Wick