Lists

 Lists

In my lonely rooms

A song on the radio

Reminds me of you

And how the silence grew

The pain is beyond me

As it stares from all corners

Of where I am today

It won't be long

And I'll put it aside

Like I did with alcohol

The memory of you

Came on strong today

Brought on by music

I won't stop listening

Just that tune less and less

To the time when I won't hear

My present to me also came

After realization I'm not included

I knew it in depth

Then that view of a list

How it all goes 

Quickly or painfully slow

Every day I review

All your faces and

How I hurt my list

I'm awake

In these lonely rooms

As I deal with the wreckage

Of halcyon days

I float here like the bird

That charms the waves

Into calm

All these waves will soon

Be still

Nothing will be said

Nothing will matter

Exactly what I created

With my nest

On a rocking ocean

A list full of wrongs

Like notes that return

At the first musical measures

Barry G. Wick

Poem

Poem

A bud has made a thud

It's fall again

When oh when

Will I elope with spring

To sing my hope and then

Ring the bell

Oh hell soon winter

Will disinter my blue face

An always pent-up thing

Bent on places green

To tell the world I've seen

Ropes of tangled leaves

That race from ground to sky

To try the sun's most precious light

Barry G. Wick

Passing Out

Passing Out

I am dead now

But I still breathe

It's an addiction for which

There's no group

No weighty book

To give strength and tips

On how live with death

I chat with friends

Watch their stories

Stay connected 

From my dead world

To their lives

This isn't ghosthood

Though close

My grave still makes

The sound of dishes 

As they are raked

By the arm that rotates

With pressured water

There is a buzz 

of a finished wash

For my shroud

It won't load itself 

Into the dryer

In Egypt the dead lay

Out to dry

My coffin needs a vacuum

The dust on the furniture

Is the dirt on my grave

There are no tears yet

I'll hold my breath

For them to start

Would that fool you?

I feel light headed

Barry G. Wick

The Monster

 The Monster

When did this enter

To sit in its corner

A Longing from Rain

A Longing from Rain

Is there time left for love

Or just the sound

Of rain on a metal roof

Unshared

Belonging to only one

With no arms wrapped

Or lips touched

To that sound

Could be laughter

As dreams spread

Through the gaps

Of conversation

Ah not a chance today

As my thoughts

Echo in an empty bed

Barry G. Wick

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