A Time for Moats

A Time for Moats

It's no fun guessing.

You were there

Then you weren't.

I couldn't  know

What you were thinking.

You came to my place

Nicely dressed

Like you were going out.

You didn't call.

What could I know?

All these years now

Are bricks stacked

Against each other's walls

Ready to make new ones.

I say the wrong thing.

You begin to cry.

You won't get angry.

What can I know if

You say nothing

Along with your tears.

I give up.

Is this the way it is

To be with everyone

I want to love me?

There is only one way

Out of this silence.

It's time to get concrete

Mixed for the bricks.

There are only walls

To build between me

And everyone else.

I'll open no doors.

I'll start no calls

And answer none.

In here must be

Some kind of happiness.

Barry G. Wick

Good Morning

 

Good Morning

The fan on the furnace

spins for longer and longer

as a horn on the radio

plays its concerto

of a cold morning

The machine on the counter

plays my dishes clean

Electric lights right and left

and over the stove

All this to disappear?

My fragile world

disappears imperceptibly

as it crawls through the hours

its low slung belly

drags upon the hard ground

There are no heights

for it has been the demon

of all lives

waiting for its time to bite

A simple breakfast

will make it disappear

if only for temporary seconds

Which will hide you more?

Eggs or bran

Coffee or tea

Butter or jam

If we give it choices

it will stray from its

muddy path

and lose itself in decisions

I send it to the stars

A few parsecs and it will

forget about me

Barry G. Wick

Hosing It Away

Hosing It Away

I rinse the night

As one might wash a driveway

Dreams flow to the gutter

Of morning

On their way to the sewer

Their life is better than mine

Full of people with no purpose

Unlike me who moves

From unfocused room

To blurry staircase

Shifting panels

Of relentless triptychs

Their liquid paint

Drips from my sleepless sunrise

Steel yourself sir

This prison and it's fears

Awaits your decision

Cereal or pancakes

Two or three eggs

Potatoes or leftover biscuit

Coffee or tea

All the important choices

Behind the scrim

That hides your shadow

From this audience

Barry G Wick

poem

Twisted brown ghosts 

Swirl in the street

Then one direction up

Then down to the corner

Some jump around

The railings of the ramp

I sit waiting for their message

A few dance up to me

Who wonders what they think

Of a man who enters

His 71st year

They only had one summer

Each screaming their green joy

In the sun whose trip

Brought warmth to this town

Now life bent them

Into dry curved phantoms

That haunt me in a fall wind

There is no moaning

Or distant vocal tunes

They have no mouths

But speak to me of days ahead

When they will crumble

Like my old bones 

In coming years

Around whose porch will I be blown

Barry G Wick

Grateful

Grateful

For what I am about to receive

I will truly be grateful

For what I have received

I am truly grateful

For those who raised me

I am truly grateful

For those who befriended me

I am truly grateful

For those who taught me

I am truly grateful

For those who endured me

I apologize

For those I wronged

I am sorry

For those who love me

I love you more

For those who hate me

I have changed

For those who pity me

I have everything I need

For those who fear me

I am no longer what I was

For those who come after me

I am forgettable

For those who question me

I no longer have answers

For those who remain

I saw a different world

For those who explore

I prayed to the universe

Barry G Wick

Racing Thoughts

Racing Thoughts

And coming to the straightaway

It's a memory in a bar

from year 21

Followed by saying no

To a family friend

Parked in an A&W drive in

They are neck and neck

Speeding to the finish line

When now streaks in front

And makes them crash

Just before the finish line

Now does that all the time

It should be banned

From the speedway

The race is over

Now takes us back

To the studio

Atop my fantastic bed

At just after five in the morning

Barry G.Wick

Importance

Importance

I am an old photograph

In a closet

Passed around electric

Torn upon the floor

In an old building

Filed in a discarded book

That slowly decays

Nothing can bring me

Back to life

By the time

You see me

Everyone will have forgotten

The way I laughed

The sound of my voice

The list of my loves

Or what I'd eat for breakfast

I wrote this already dead

My bones became dust

When the title was written

I'm sorry I can't touch you

Or caress your skin

With my rough lips

As we share our beds

I neither care about

Or listen to news

On the radio

In a video

I am not heard

I am not seen

I claim no grave

Nor space in the minds

Of my descendants

My dreams are all black

Printed on failed atoms

Split for new stars

Come here now

I call for you

Be nothing today

Evaporate into meaninglessness

We will be happy together

Barry G. Wick

Banned in Texas

This poem

Will be banned

In Texas.

It was written

By a person

Who has read

A book,

Seen modern art,

Hoped for alternative energy,

Can spell in American,

Has drunk wine,

No longer owns guns,

Thinks there's hope

For Hispanics,

And worst of all...

Has had sex.

I'm certain I could

Offer up some other

Shocking life experiences

That someone in Texas

Could find offensive

Such as having ribald

Dreams on occasion.

Mice in my home 

May also have had sex.

My neighbors might be

Lesbians.

I have electricity that's

Reliable in winter.

That alone will

Get this poem a

Triple X rating

In Dallas and Houston.

Far worse,

I write letters and poems

And have family in Texas

Who are literate

Just like me.

They might be

Sesquipidalians.

Thank you, Texas,.

For banning this poem.

You have boosted my career

To the emperean.

I expect to have,

At the very least,

Attracted one more reader

That doesn't pay me

For anything I've written.

I also put ketchup

On hotdogs.

Shit.

Now I'm banned

In Chicago.

Barry G. Wick

Black Time

Black times shine through 

Out from the days

Into the empty nights

Bragging their nonsense

With dreams and colored visions

That never can be possessed

I am tears that wait

To be brushed away

By a welcome finger

Not my own that reap

The sorrow of golden days

That never came together

The descent into this morning

Of promises begins lifeless

Seeds of caution expect

Their blooms of change

Overloaded with pillars

Of racing sun caught wild

Barry G. Wick

Before Long

Before Long

When was that?

Or when will that be?

I stand in awe

Of the colors I see

In those two words.

The yellow of the fall grass

Where I'd sit on the knoll

South of my childhood home

On Hangmans Hill.

What dark green ponderosas

With black and gray bark

Torn to rose by finger nails

Stands in the way of my eyes

As I spent time thinking

Above the town where I grew

With no plans or dreams

Of my own.

I satisfied the dreams

Of others hoping I could

Feel a love for which

I searched and still do.

Did the radioactive rock

Deep beneath my chosen perch

Burn the drive out of me?

I'd look down upon the town

The descending path

Behind me with its curves

From the skyline above

Ends here with the redwood house

On my right and my future

On my left where the rain

Would cross the bands of hills

I could see in summer.

Is it long now, as my mind

Goes there to rest

In these lonely years?

Is it before long

When life's longest rest

Takes me to the edges

Of the universe?

This reverie in limbo

Has me dreaming

Of sitting here

In a past where my mind

Was blank of everything

That was important

Or could be.

I'll never really be

There again,

Alone, so alone,

Watching all that tiny life

from above

As if I were a godd

Unable to control anything.

It is the same now,

Without the browned grass

To pluck and place

On youthful lips,

Or tiny stones to toss

To the edge of this gentle mound

That comes to me from memory.

Barry G. Wick