Their Time

Is this what we wanted: a self-absorbed youth
parading on camera in their mirrors
in whatever their suit of the moment may be
the tight fitting jeans or the colorful undies
they faun over pop stars and cover their walls
in pictures of people they might never meet
they film every minute of their sexual delight
and pause before all of their seen in the scene
so we must answer the question begun
as war rages everywhere and others are dying
the youth never sees beyond himself into the dark
the rest of the world creates in the light of his star
we answer yes this is what we want to see
whatever it is they want to be in blue or green
or lavender on the screen of a faraway tv
not hindered not edited not voted away
by the popular hate of the day religious intolerant
or bully of the neighborhood with scarred fists
yes we want to see this world unfettered and alive
always alive for the brief time of this: youth



copyright (c)2011 by Barry G. Wick

Winds

there are many ways to travel
across these furtive plains
the choice is always present
for those directed by internal passions
or the wind may blow
its many directions
sending a tumbleweed
spinning its seeds
in a thousand spirals
and when the nearing end
prevails on these watery sacks
does regret appeal to either path
does the chooser say how they
might have wished
a more serendipitous life
or does the wind driven
propose to settle
on just one presumption
of a perfect foible
in which to wrap


copyright (c) by Barry G. Wick

Bird Box

falling off the back of the house
a box for birds
with its base separating
the paint disappears with each storm
alternately
birds and yellow jackets have fought over
this failing human construction
even when the roofers
added one sheet of shingle
there was no improvement
and still
they come year after year
to call it home
to raise their young
to return to where they
were born
where their parents
were home and were born
and I think
of my own children
who have started
their own families
in other boxes
slowly falling
from good to bad repair
as they age
and even with the addition
of a new roof
their homes will fall to the ground
and what children
will want that home one day
to raise their young and can't return
we all want to return home
we all want to be where
the generations
become who we are
flying out to catch a worm
to feed our young
to return next year
to the comfortable old box
that holds our memory


copyright (c) 2010 by Barry G. Wick

The Turkeys

The turkeys cross
the fish road
one at a time
claiming the air
for the short jump
and then they gather
beneath the trees
to search for seed
the leftovers of a thousand deer
and squirrels
who still think
there might be apple up high
they've milled around
outside the south window
not knowing they were watched
and my lips tremble
as they believe in their freedom
their lack of responsibility
without really knowing what they have
on a cold day
And I am behind glass
just enough of a barrier
from the world
feeling ever so frightened
of what is really out there
and knowing it will come for me
one day
that something beyond the glass
without a name or shame
so what if my hand stops my lip
it can't stop the deep shake
that brings me the depth of a browline
and the tightening of my throat
not that I had anything to say out loud
not that I had anything



copyright (c) 2010 by Barry G. Wick

The Wasps of South Creekview Road

A dissonant fall begins
after an atonal summer
when I accomplished nothing
for myself.
There were no melodies
humming from the woodshop;
no Christmas boxes or cutting boards
whizzing from the saws
and scraping top speed through the planers.
The vibration of wood only came from thunderclap
and then pinging of rain on plastic tarps.

I could not make the mower awaken,
so the neighbor nipped the front yard
to keep up appearances:
our money so tight that pennies
were a luxury jangling into the change jar.

All the while some wasps were building
their gray paper bells
that ring the eaves,
humming their unknown tunes
for just the necessity of offspring
and survival through the coming sting
of a long winter.
Am I to be the figure
of the fighting swallows
who battle them for space
in the early summer?
Is my heart ready to cut these colorless balloons
of future life down for the snow to soak away
the next generation of new fears
of needle sharp pains on shoulder or arm?
What would the monks do at their lofty altitudes
who kill nothing in defense of every spirit,
and should I kill a wasp
whose spirit am I snuffing?

Oh, I think I know:
non-believers and conservatives
who passed to the next life
in their speeding Cadillacs on straight roads
or peacefully in gilded beds,
thinking they had nothing to fear
from the next world
when they woke up
to a thousand eyed mother
pouring a colorless world around the siblings
from an unfamiliar mouth no kiss could touch.

Yes, I will pull them down before the worst freeze
and make them find another soul
away from me and mine:
this home for liberal wasps.

(mp3 file of Barry G. Wick reading this poem)

Copyright © 2010 by Barry G. Wick

Out of Order: the day before her 92nd birthday

Today she clapped for television shows
and counted leaves on trees
She thought she was in a hotel
and I'm always the servant
The glass is too close to the edge
The soup is cold
She takes off the alarm
I make breakfast
buttered toast, tea, cantaloupe pieces
a fully-cooked, single egg omelet
Toasted homemade bread and homemade chicken rice soup
for dinner
I washed towels and handkerchiefs
I re-dryed a previous load not quite dry
I washed dishes twice in the dish washer
I kept the kitchen clean
We're running out of milk
I vacuumed up dead flies and cobwebs
in the garage and moved wood around
I thought about installing the air conditioner
in the garage window
I'm tired
I dreamed of winning the lottery
I bought a house for my daughter
with my imaginary wealth
I gave her the two pills in the morning
I gave her the four pills at bedtime
I changed her paper underwear four times
I went to get the mail
There was no mail
It's her birthday tomorrow
I made myself a three egg omelet and three pieces of toast
for breakfast
I made a pot of coffee for me
I'm running out of coffee filters
I put sugar in my coffee
I put sweetener in her tea
I sat and watched her take her pills
at breakfast and at bedtime
I instructed her on how to wipe herself
We watched Rodgers and Hammerstein's South Pacific
on public television recorded from last night
I change channels for her to find something
that doesn't over excite her
We listened to Minnesota Public Radio on the Internet
I opened my email many times today during commercial breaks
I wrote a letter to a friend about something I'd written
I stayed in the jeep a little longer after
coming back from an empty mail box
I didn't back out of the driveway when the neighbor
was coming back from getting the mail in his car
I kept the air conditioning running all day in the house
I went to bathroom five times today
I took a short nap on the sofa
She can't control the chair so I pressed the buttons for her
She got up three times after midnight
She set off the alarm three times
I'm tired
It's the last hour and I'm typing
I'm listening to MPR
It's a cello piece
The dishwasher is winding down
It's 62 degrees outside
My left leg is on the sofa
My right foot hurts and is on the floor
I'm using a cake keeper in which to save the bread
We have 12 dollars until the end of the month
I have lottery tickets for Saturday night
I took handkerchiefs to her in her bedroom
before I turned out the lights
I turned on and off the attic fan to cool the house
I close windows in the morning and open them at night
I yawned
I turned off the computer
I went to sleep on the sofa in the living room


Copyright © 2010 by Barry G. Wick

The Unhappy Audience

never mind the cute music
written for piano
by Zez Confrey
never mind the curtains
we've wrapped around
our heads in the second act
to get a laugh

we are bombing
in Afghanistan

the audience is losing its legs
and arms
in frenzied abandon
every time
one of our jokes
falls flat
on their homes

these skits are stale
and the actors
are tired
sitting in their
air conditioned trailers
their joysticks
swinging wildly back and forth
searching
for audience reaction

we are bombing
in Afghanistan

time and time again
we were told
that no act should follow
another
into that theater
but no
we just had to try
thinking we could make a difference

and there isn't a decent
pastrami sandwich
in a decent deli
that doesn't have to be
imported
Why did we think
the tallest letters
on the tallest sign
would gather enough
of an audience
to make our show go

we are bombing
in Afghanistan

when you have to build
the theater
and drag the audience in
bit by bit
when you have to make the light
flash suddenly on the stage
to shock the audience
into the awe of a great performance

well,

we are bombing in Afghanistan
we are bombing in Pakistan
we are bombing bombing bombing

bring down the curtain
close the show
quench the writers



Copyright (c) 2010 by Barry G. Wick

Singularity: from the Teacher to the Student

(for Teacher/Astronomer Ron Dyvig, an astronomical homage)


The perfect student is a singularity
from which nothing escapes
thinking itself greater than everything
that surrounds it
an arrogant black hole
with no bottom to its need
gravity enough to turn every
bit of knowledge
into a string of atomwords fed to it
one by one
each atomword some bit of knowledge
from which the student returns nothing
nothing escapes
everything captured
no light
no heat
no love
no hate
the perfect student feeding
on everything that surrounds it
voracious appetite unbound

The perfect teacher sits
on the threshold
of the singularity
allowing everything
to pass to the perfect student
unphased by the gravity
of the situation upon which he teeters
grabbing at him in a constant need
himself not needy
of the atomwords of knowledge
perfectly willing to let them
pass through him
yet somehow grasping each
and then spitting it away
instantaneously
in rapid fire
unphased by the experience
and yet remaining strong enough
to be balanced and distant
from the perfect student
to keep himself out of the way
of the singularity
that grows without growing
that expands without expanding
the becomes without becoming
visible

until one day it becomes
one conscious part
of the mind of God
in a bang...the bang

So these are the perfects
balanced apart like the poles
of good and evil
but not good and not evil
student and teacher
spinning faster about each other
until one day

the student awakens
in a flash of light
let there be
the student says to himself
to split himself away

from his teacher
to become himself

away alone

in search of that
which will satisfy
his loneliness
an electron in search of an orbit

One day grasped by a singularity
to become a teacher himself
who has found the balance
of the perfection he has sought
for so long now knowing
that nothing is perfect
unless it has passed through him
to others

And so the progression of the perfects
weaves the cloth of stars upon the heavens
the coat passing from one to the other
in the sudden bang of a student mind creating
the discovery that his teacher has been God
may still be God
but not God and not teacher
imperfect
and now

equal

friends

from each to each
back and forth
no singularities
no blackness
only light expanding endlessly
faster and faster
upon an unsuspecting universe


Copyright (C) 2007 by Barry G. Wick

Smirk

daisies growing on the edge
of this lawn
herons setting down along the creek
a constant swirl of wind through ash
thunder from a summer storm

these are facts with no shame
then why create it
from old pages
retraced in many tongues
till all the fact is rung from them

this count is too many fingers
that wave through years
the curl at the sides of a mouth
seen often when a chick
no longer fits inside an empty shell

from this side
the stretch of the lips
betrays denial as if
there could be no one
with what is deeply so different

At each occurrence I feel the sting
to stare into some void
to recover enough to complete
the story that started
to be accepted as what I know

(mp3 file of Barry G Wick reading this poem)


Copyright (c) 2010 by Barry G. Wick

Jokes

It is the jokes I play on myself
that are the funniest
jokes others cannot get
because they are heard only
in my head by and for an
audience
of one
joke about me involved
this or that
imaginations of the most absurd
anything to escape
the slavery and depression
in which I find myself

Copyright (c) 2010 by Barry G. Wick