Dawn Over Rapid Creek

The sun not yet into this canyon

somewhere towards the east

that circles about Big Bend

behind the run-up to Norris Peak

No sense the air moves

along the ice sheets

that cover the edges

Two days of melt

the large breaks sent

into the dark tumbles

of a creek still in dreams

where fish yearn

for the flies of spring

The ponderosa pines stretch to attention

as they salute a sky in its last yawn

They have been awake all night

fearful of the porcupine and pine beetle

day will let them sleep

The night lights popped on

for deer that pass this house

perhaps cats both large and small

some after mice

or ones that chase the deer

Floaters in these eyes

suggest the ghosts of this canyon

pass through this glass lined room

that head for shadows

as the day ahead

never needs their haunt

and their memory

of the Crouch Line that once

chugged along this watery lane

to Johnson Siding

for an engine's thirst

on to Pactola for Bernice Moosecamp's

scrambles bacon and corn fritters

Perhaps the sun will make its hike

through these deep canyons

to have breakfast at her hotel

now drown beneath deep water

five miles up behind the great dam wall

then later in the afternoon

to the old store in Silver City

for a Nehi Grape pulled

from the cold water of a deep cooler

This sun remembers

what was always

the best

a long memory this sun

to be followed day after day

as it breaks the ice

as it greets every resident

along the gentle curves

of an old friend's hand

a hand that shapes this canyon

this tireless sculpture

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G Wick

A Note to Someone Who Doesn't Feel Loved

This is a happy day

because of this discovery

Laugh into your hands

then write

love is missing

on your onion skin soul

Perhaps love plays a childhood game

of hide and seek

Was the count

to one hundred completed

as all the little lovers

escaped into their hidden selves

or was love disguised

to the point of invisibility

a camouflaged bug on the bark

of a tree

or it crawls beneath rocks

swims in dirty water

ready to attach itself

a leech

You face New York City

with hope to make

it's world see you

when it's blind

to pictures you take

to show you are

what it wants

You might be better going home

to the small town

from where you came

The nightlife will be horrible

The people more than real

each digging their cisterns

ready to catch

your love as it falls

from the cloud

you live on

Soon

these drops

will nourish new growth

in the soil of your dreams

something concrete and steel

never could

and who knows

I might just pop up

from this cracked mud

ready to kiss your feet

your sequined feet

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

The Cocktail Party

The hour is late after mother

is put to bed

Windows reflect this room

where the conversation

turns into buzz and laughter

spent here away from the world

This imagined is a cocktail party

with others in conversation

about their stumble in love

success at work

the political topics of this cold day

how to make palatable chip dip

The other guests sip their daiquiris

the advertised beer their fingers

unconsciously harvested

from a liquor store cooler

Martinis olives pool at the end

of Soviet flagged toothpicks

Soft piano melodies rinse the room

of any darkness

Then a trumpet plays familiar notes

this handsome crowd notes

with a nodded head and gestures

of green blue and red stereo light

This imagination is still work for me

since my ear is cocked

towards the dark hallway

and her bedroom

These invisible guests surround

this silent observer who just listens

Individuals could be described

a blue turtleneck hopelessly

out of style

mustachioed black leather jacket

with worn elbows

a younger man receiving glances

But none of them are really here

despite my need to be with others

while mother slips

into darkened dreams

This is my party alone

in deep blue shallows

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

To That Place Where Sleeping Dogs Lie

Most of the people

of the world

are where they are:

wanted, needed or not.

Some of the people

go where they want to,

wanted, needed or not.

Pushy, pushy, pushy.

The most difficult decisions

surround going where

we are both wanted and needed.

The two are not the same.

We can go where we are wanted

but not needed;

its an excess thing.

We can go where we are needed

but not wanted:

its a matter of they're pride

and butting-in

and we become imperialist dogs.

Poets are the least wanted,

the least needed,

except perhaps

by colleges and universities

who want to look posh.

“We have a poet.

He's even had his shots.

The department chair

grooms our poet once a week

and even picks up his poo.”

I serve no function

except to translate other poets,

teach word games to children,

play with my sand pile of words,

and try to make others think

about what I think about,

edit the little magazine

where I can chew up other poets

with my rejection canines.

Yes, I am a thought imperialist

doggedly barking up your brain stem,

scratching away the paint

on your outside doors.

I track in mud on your floors

you neatly maintain

to keep yourself from falling

into depths inside your hidden house.

I dig up your flowers

in those awful things

you call the poem you write.

I chew your invisible shoes

to bits

in the hopes your feet of clay

will be forced to walk

in more common soil.

I beg to be fed.

I want to be a fat, lazy poet.

I'll look at you with sad eyes

hoping you'll throw me a bone

I can gnaw on in the afternoon.

You can be common:

a human in your comfortable chair

reading a newspaper

or surfing the Internet,

me in my carpeted corner

chewing, grinding, gnawing.

I'll even try to sleep in your bed

to make you toss and turn,

my poem breathing heavily

through your sleepless mind.

In the morning I jump at the chance

to be taken for a walk.

If you're possessive about my words

you'll hold them tight to you

with a leash.

Careful, I can pull quite hard:

I'm a damn big poet

and I'm poorly trained...

perhaps, even impossible

to control.

If you repeat my words to others,

I'll run free in parks and fields

peeing on everything taller

than an adjective.

Throw the ball.

Let's play.

I'll woof a few times

to get your attention.

woof woof

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All Rights Reserved

Familiar Music

“When the music's over turn out the light”--Jim Morrison

Often the music is the same

a few tunes that express

this constant mood

repeated

like the stuck records of old days

that would regurgitate a single word

or phrase as many times

as possible

until the finger slaps

the needle to stop it

bad needle naughty record

except now

it's possible to have

one or more

musical moods play

until either the gun goes off

or something breaks

the concentration of the player

two songs today

repeated ad nauseum

were it possible to end

all this

the music would play

as the soul slipped

into the expanding universe

until the electric was cut

or someone found

the remnants of a final act

that can never happen

who would even call

or check to see

months perhaps

until a concern revealed

the truthful corruptions

of an evacuated head

its dessicated last thought

upon the wall

what chance

that the exploding brain

creates the written score

in blood upon the wall

of music heard

the final second

as the universe

repeats itself

this scene might play

again with theme and variations

or create

the greatest symphony

this self-possessed victim

would never write

or go unrecognized

as a musical score

by crime cleaners

in protective white suits

lost greatness destroyed

by chemical swipes

so somewhere this orchestra

that you cannot hear

plays on unknown instruments

the music

of desperate love that soars

through an audience

so suddenly come to grief

by the story of this piece

the entire house is gassed

to end the shrieks and sorrow

the flood of instant tears

that flows through the aisles

the symphony of suicide

plays

only one performance

where even the orchestra

sees the music for the first time

and despite its vast creation

five movements with a choir

no performance has ever made it

to the second movement

or passed its initial

8 bar reading

it must be difficult

to populate so depressed

an orchestra and chorus

surely someone just had a baby

got a new job

bought a few new recordings

to play over and over

over and over

over and over

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick


{{It's an unusual poem.  The question was asked if I'm alright.......and no place within the poem do I suggest that am the potential victim....it was a train of thought based upon some listening I was doing this morning...that turned into a dark, albeit morbid examination and surreal set of images....after I wrote it I was assisting mother in her bedroom and since we had no internet this AM....I had put on a large playlist that included The Doors....and the Morrison line came up...almost as if there was some sort of muse working here. I am quite alright and have NO intentions. I have much to live for...much. So I appreciate the concern....there are dark corners of my mind that must given light during creative times. They are examined and tossed away as easily as one would toss away a used tissue. NO basis in reality.   I'm quite fine. I write...I am a writer. Not famous, never likely to be famous....but one could also ask the same question of Steven King....}}

The Second Snow

These flakes seem much more resiliant

able to stand the cool breath

this day breathes

upon the Black Hills

until time sends them

dripping through the canyon rapids

Certainly I know the words

Paha Sapa

but raised in the white bread house

those words were rarely uttered

unlike the homes

on the reservation

or the northside of my town

Rapid City

Hay Camp

and who knows

what the Lakota

called this gap and the grass

that filled two sides of it

It's hard to imagine

them coming into this area

in search of tatanka

buffalo

another word most learned

from a movie filmed

east south and north of here

My father double scheduled Lakota

people in his office for eye exams

and gave out watches

in the early days

because he said

“Lakota have no word for time”

how lovely

no word for time

no moviestar many moons

no measured distance

from here until tomorrow

just alive and surviving

the system that locked them

into the spaces where

we could tolerate them

separated from us

we who felt so superior

handing out five dollar bills

when the troubled family

struggled up the hill to our house

baby wife man

on a snowy day

much like this

no sense of time

except the empty bellies

that gnawed at their dignity

so much so they came

to my father for a handout

my father

telling me to stay inside

when I watched from his den

in our comfortable home

fearful that something might

happen to him

when all this family wanted

was food a place to get away

from the cold

this measured cold

that pulls the hunger

from a conquered people

I would barely know

and feel the shame

of my superiority

the day I shook hands

with Russell Means

in the downtown deli

near the piano store

where in “times” before I sold

sitting at my desk to watch him

when “times were slow”

and his friends

across the street

take AIM

at a thoughtless world

from the second floor

to shoot a message to the world

about dignity truth worth

about the people

who really own the land

where this house sits

where I watch the snow

and worry

where I'll get five dollars

to feed myself

after I'm forced to leave this place

by the system that forced

them

off their land

into servitude

to strange customs

of ownership

the destruction of families

the system of time

no snowflake

is white enough

to stand up to

the same system

that forces me to finish

this poem with these ugly words:

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved


((((Writer' Note:  A friend points out that there are many Lakota words for the passage of time.  Of course there are.  This is a poem about misunderstandings, misconceptions, lack of understanding, cross- cultural differences and stereotypes.  I understand stereotypes very well as a gay man because stereotypes have always been a part of gay life....sometimes we even acted them out becaus of our own ignorance....Ignorance spreads like wildfire until it often becomes hatred of others and self-hatred....which is just so stupid.   The greatest lesson we can learn is to take each person one at a time.  What was passed to my father was ignorant....and it was a story he repeated often...and to a few knowledgeable people....he looked very bad in some respects....but they said nothing to him as he was a man who genuinely wanted to help people see....and a large number of Lakota people had very bad eyes.  I am genuinely a man who has to communicate in order to stay sane which psychiatrists will probably inform me has no place in modern psychiatric discussion as "sane" is probably not a true definition or diagnosis of why I need to write.  While it's not OCD...it just might be close to it.   Instead of compulsive hand washing, perhaps it's my way of cleaning out the words and feelings in my brain so I can feel clean.  Oh no, the more I write the more my foot becomes either locked in my mouth or my head.  And as we all know, a foot in the head is worth two on the ends of your legs.)))

The Hard Fall

The hard fall is here

with its

alternating skies

switchblade breezes

tree-blown fruit

jaundiced leaves

perch-pecking turkeys

arcing squirrels

hesitant bucks

nervous snow

Away you summer furniture

checkered tablecloths

candle-lit breakfasts

to be covered with plastic

Time for boredom's chores

And now the words open winter

with desiccated thoughts

when libraries become shields

from the revenge

of poor sentences

The Bradbury

labels October

a rare month for boys

from his lake shore

Waukegan cubbyhole

me at sixty

wishing I could lay in leaves

with a pen

and a crackerjack line

for each detached parchment

that floats to my desk

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved. 

Asleep in Her Chair

Beside her every day

I sit to watch and keep

the world spinning

while she sleeps

after breakfast

Today I play

Glenn Miller's Moonlight Serenade

and wonder if an old memory

now keeps her in tune

with a time she and Dad

lived in New York

during war

And the future asks of me

which war was that

and even though I know
let her have her memory

as the saxophones and clarinet

climb through tall buildings

It was a time

when she was happier

before children

before her Nanny died

before her brother and father passed

when the world was engaged

in the great project

when she and my father

were in the great city

where they felt like winners

at the end of the war

couples kissing in the streets

I won't tell you who fought

It's enough that her dreams

of Flushing Meadows

the library where she worked

her singing lessons

cross the darkened room

with Glenn in charge

of the war

trombone in hand

a great weapon that tolled the moon

into the lives of lovers

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick  

In the Wind

The first few leaves of fall

were blown to ground

Oh, I'd seen the colors change

from brightest green to yellows and reds

all around

I had not expected to see leaves fall

yet I knew all would

I've seen this many times before

this year somehow

To see leaves fall for the first time

came as a shock

as if I'd seen a crime

Have I become that sensitive

that the change of seasons

the on-going constant

would upset me to such a degree

an invisible grip would squeeze

the center of me

the visceral knowledge that calls

another end to this season

these visions of life

that send me dreaming

away from my world

behind these walls

For now the summer fades

and cooler winds chase birds away

soon squirrel, turkey and deer

will be just prints in snow

that show which way the cadence

of their wild hearts shall take them

and I shall stare instead of follow

with my own wish

to fly outside in any wind

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

The Apples, The Turkeys, and The Election

In a good year

two varieties of apples

load trees on the south side

of our home in the Black Hills

The two trees closest to the creek

are spotted red even in this drought

the roots reach deep to the water that flows

This late September day a flock of turkeys

has attacked these trees with some

trying to roost close to the apples

turkeys in the apple trees

heavy birds on branches

twenty-five or more

on the apple strewn

ground excited

by the few

that fall

Much like the unemployed who queue

for jobs where jobs can be had

hundreds gather beneath

the greedy corporations

that only give enough

to protect wealth

and power

election

apples greed water

turkeys drought branches

election wealth jobs 

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick