Lost in the Music

Lost in the Music

On the radio

Two musicians

A violinist and pianist

I grab my violin 

An orange rocket I will play

Along with the Stradivarius

He bows powerfully

And tenderly

The Strad responds

My bow is sharper than his

As I attack my instrument

Over the boards

Of this small stage

I denude it's.flesh repeatedly

As stripes of notes

Fall on to the  audience

Between the movements

Each phrase is clipped

As if to shorten this great piece

My violin passionately reveals

It's inner glory

The steamy pot reminds me

I have carrots to cut

Oh but we made such 

Beautiful music together

Bon appeftit

Applause fills this aromatic air.

Barry G. Wick

Poem

Poem

All of this has never happened

So if you recognize someone

Don't be stuck up

Say your first name

They probably don't remember

Your first name

Last names are for business cards

Or when bowing to Japanese 

I never met those people

Except Bill who was half

Though remember I always acted

Like I had a fence post

Up my ass so

This is all something I never learned

But gladly share with you

Barry G. Wick

Who's There?

Who's There?

The door has opened

To let myself be with me

Too often I was forced

To hear other voices

Trained to let them

Control my thoughts

This isolation has created

The mind I was suppose

To have from the first

I say hello in greeting 

To someone I never knew

It is myself as an old man

Barry G. Wick

Take Flight

Take Flight

It's spring

The mother robin

Can only feed worms

To her chicks

Because worms

Were what she'd been fed

When she was a chick

If robins understood advertising

They'd feed M&Ms, Fritos, and Coca Cola

To their chicks

Then there would be fat robins

Laying around unable to fly

I wish my mother had fed me worms

Then I'd have been able to fly

Instead of just getting by

Believing everything I see

On glowing screens

Then going into advertising

Telling everyone I'd never met

Believe what I say

You can't fly

You can't fly

Barry G. Wick

The Fat Imp

The Fat Imp

At the edge of bed

Gathering phone in moose skin pouch

A new tablet with cords

Then remembering to brush teeth

Wash eyes and hands

Sandals 

To the kitchen

Fill water jugs in the fridge

Take first two pills of the day

Test for sugar

Test for pressure

Take temperature

The imp sends a photo

Rare

Since imps are mostly thin

Able to move quickly

Joking and playing tricks

Certainly not hobgoblinish tricks

They are mean

Like knocking the measuring cup

From a hand to break it in the sink

The hobgoblin plays mean

With the imp

Locked as they are in the home

Unseen and invisible to everyone

Except each other

The gob is seen by the imp

Imagined really

Since the imp is alone often crying

Over spilt flour and tea

Tomorrow is bread day

Tonight the fish dipped in batter

Fried to the imp's strict recipe

Meals planned days in advance

Since he's fat and hungry

To play a trick on himself

His mind mixes the tartar sauce

As an old horn concerto

Mixes notes with Chopin

How strange for the imp

Who will call this familiar 

Spawn of Satan today

Something that sounds common

In his life

Since his friends are also

Unprotected from words that wound

He feels them in others

A failing of this life

That should have covered him

In alligator skin and tank steel

And so the imp begins his emptiness

Today her Majesty the broadcast baroness

Filters room to room

The couch says

The tea cools

Batteries charge

A dark day with rain

Is the shade of Satan

As is every sunny day

The old fat imp

Presses forward in lockstep

With the phalanxes of other imps

Killing silence

Shredding a lonely day

With questions 

Barry G. Wick

Hidden Baggage

Hidden Baggage

We bring baggage on these trips

Even when we're alone sitting

In an old person's room

With spider webs hanging

In the corners

I bring the Black Hills

With my own thoughts

Of Mt. Rushmore.

Plus all the people

We took as guests there

Through old days years

People expect their local friend

To act as tour guide

No it's okay I'll wait

I've been here hundreds of times

I don't need to hear or see

The hypocrisy again

It's tattooed on my body and brain

Invisibly with nothing ink

Then a satchel full of stories

Spread each time we visit

The poets house on the far hill

On the curb with the view

That's ok in the waves

Of chipmonks and noisy children

Off to the buffalo

Stay in the jeep cannot

Yeah he's two feet away

Thinking he'll horn your face

Hanging out the window

A hundred degrees in the shade

Nice crop of sage this year

Pick it and get caught

You'll pay your fine

Before the college loan

Leave the rock

Public property

Fingerprints are traceable

Now the flight back to Rapid City

Or Deadwood or Sturgis

The headline reads

Tourist Gored by Buffalo

I remember that lady behind

Us on the Harley

No update on condition

But I know the buffalo

Is smirking once again

Barry G. Wick

Going Nuts

Going Nuts

It's soon time to go completely nuts.

It's important to be remembered

As the member of the family

Who was completely on the bizarre

Side of existence when a person

Crafts bow ties for bees

Puts lipstick on flowers

Massages trees with baby oil

Cuts the lawn with a scissors

Rolls naked down grassy hills

Wanders dark streets in top hats

All decisions are made with

The yes-no-maybe wheel

And ends every sentence with +

As if to signify there's more +

Then coming to the thought

That's how life should be lived

Every day+

Barry G. Wick

 

The Treaty

The Treaty

When childhood is over,

When the parents push you out,

Even for the world of work,

Or higher education,

A treaty is made with the world

That says you belong to you,

Unless you elect to stay

Close to the family.

Major decisions belong to you

As do mistakes and goofs

And all matter of wrongs

Against the others who live

In the town.

There are those who believe

You owe your government

Whatever the government says you owe.

If you get pregnant

The government's say you owe

The product of that pregnancy

For paying taxes

Service to society

As a soldier in war.

Only women no longer

Belong to themselves ever.

If a man wants to use

A woman's body 

the precedent has been set in stone.

Women can be forced to have babies.

Which means men can legally force

Women to have sex.

Never mind anti-rape laws,

Kidnapping laws,

Raped and pregnant

The man owns the woman's body.

It's his treaty with society.

The baby and all children from his woman

Belong to him.

This includes the girls he brings

Into the world.

Forget their mothers.

They have no freedom for anything.

So says thirty states

And the Supreme Court.

The men voted.

They own the law.

They own the women.

Even the women they convince

To be their slaves to their law

I thought we rid ourselves of slavery.

I thought people belonged to themselves.

I guess I don't and the women I've known 

Don't own themselves.

That is so, so wrong.

Barry G. Wick

The Well

We sang a song at summer camp

About a boy who falls into a well.

I am still falling

Into the well of memory.

Upon its sides are shards

Of glass that cut me as I fall.

The well has no bottom

That would stop the pain

Of everything I remember.

I awaken from my dreams

Only to find I'm still falling.

This is my punishment

For all the hours 

Of useless life I've lived.

When I discovered

The memories I have

Of all these years,

I cringe as I pass

Another sharp piece

Slices the shreds of skin

On what is left of me.

This is my punishment.

I am where I belong.

It is dark.

It is painful.

I am shamed.

Others may fall in front

And behind me.

Of them, I am unaware.

I have been unaware of others

All my life as I ran over

So many.

Be assured I suffer

Every mistake

Now that I am alone

As I fall through the memory

In a dark and dangerous well.

Barry G. Wick

The Adventures of President Gluppot

 

The Adventures of President Gluppot

President Gluppot sends his greetings

by chance of all these meetings

from the nation of Retainia.

Another war, another mania.

“I'm happy you have joined us,

You're in a deep, purloining fuss.”

This has all happened much before

like a knock on an ocher door.

“You can stay as long as you like,”

As he casually stabs all with a pike.

So begins another sticky situation

in the somewhere of another nation.

“You cannot dream of freedom, gents,

just dig deep for gleedom's pence.”

Barry G. Wick