Cereal Murder

Good morning bowl, good morning spoon,
good morning milk, I sing your tune.

Upon the box of oaties sweet,
law in black words quite small, but neat.

From snakes of York law words with charm
protecting them if they do harm.

So now, I'll eat my breakfast, dear,
as I feel sure the poison's near.

Protect me, someone, from all that's bad
in my red bowl: this food I had.

Barry G. Wick

Writer and Editor Russell Jaffe runs the Strange Cage poetry reading bacchanal in Iowa City near-by where I now live in Coralville.   He edits an on-line poetry magazine he calls "USA"...and he's published one of my newest poems.  Here's the link:

http://www.russelljaffeusa.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/THE-BIG-TUNA1.pdf

The Big Tuna

I'm rolling in an ocean tank

called Coralville

When the wind comes shooting across the roof

and I hear the metal ripple

sounding like a large tuna can opening

Oh it's a damn big tuna can about 80 feet in length

I'm the big tuna sitting inside

cut to pieces that fit

by the death of my mother whose eyes dried up

like an old lemon in the fridge

no more sting

no more sour

then it ripples one more time

her best friend floats belly up in the tank 7 days later

and then the lid finally reveals the meat inside

my best friend

slips across the great barrier reef

I feel like the goddam tuna of death

because I went swimming with them all before I left

I fishtailed into their worlds to make my report

only to be gutted

As each one was hooked with no release

the hooks pulled chunks of my life

away into this odd shaped can

The wind ripples across the top of my house

one more time

and I'm the tuna again

trying to reattach my fins

to get the hell out of here

the thoughts of things undone

incomplete friendships and projects

pulled into a new tank

where my pieces just don't make sense

because I'm still a tuna cut up in the can

thinking about how to swim away

from what I feel

only to find I have been skinned

no longer raw

cooked in the can

and no ocean in sight

swimming in some unnamed oil

an oil that washes up on a dark shore

that cooks as it kills

Welcome to the can it says

you chose the oil instead of the water

I'm just the fish in this sandwich

Maybe being the bread on the outside

could more appealing

as the teeth of the world sink into them first

which means I've forgotten

that even the bread gets eaten

so nothing makes it out of the can

or the sack

or the mayo jar

nothing makes it out alive

All we're left with is empty cans

crumbs and dirty dishes

for someone else to clean up

Copyright © 2014 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

 published by USA online, Russell Jaffe, Editor

Seven Rules from Thick Air

If you have to protect yourself

then you have created the enemy

If you have to love yourself

then you turned away all who could love you

If you have to feed yourself

then you have taken food from others

If you have to go somewhere

then you have never invited enough people to visit you

If you feel surrounded by uneducated people

then you have never told them what you know

If you have no one to touch

it is because you have refused to be touched

If you cry when you are lonely

it is because you never dried the tears of lonely others

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick all rights reserved

The Communal Campfire

The night surrounds us

and we are not alone

A mother feeds a child

A father worries over debt

Someone has pain

in their back

in their legs

in the emptiness of their soul

The enemy is just over the rise

Workers fulfill their duties

or ignore them
 

This darkness

might as well be a cave

water drips

bats fly

insects crawl through slime
 

The fire just started my refrigerator

burns inside four bulbs

and sends me across the worlds

to where you are

I wish you'd finish

decorating my loincloth

I'm feeling a bit chilly

sitting on this folding rock

listening to Vivaldi
 

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.

The Windows

I'm likely to move

and don't care at this point

what the world shows

on these two

dirty cave wall transparencies
 

Here the branches

of the crabapple

and the spruce

to the south of the house

with the sun behind them

an octagonal squirrel

cast shadows

through which

I can see better

to the outside.

Yes, the shadows

help me see

though a window

mottled by grime
 

What will layers of shadow

do for you

my love

help me see inside of you

Does your soul wave

it's language at me

the leaves the branches the sun

Paste me up outside

and look at my darkness

I rain

even on sunny days

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

The Legend of Sallie Brown and Ben

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

 

Now Sallie was a real bright gal, she worked for Lawyer Mizer

a listening each day to client problems Sallie grew the wiser

She learned about the crimes and such, mistakes that people made

so she lived what seemed a nun's life and never really strayed.

Her garden bloomed next to the creek, the water pure and clear

her wee small house with surrounding deck and garden ever dear.

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

Each day at noon just down the block in the old Black Hills Cafe

Sittin' alone at a corner table, Sallie lunched this way

a piece of bread, a bowl of soup and tea to wash it down

then back to work above the bank, this was Sallie Brown.

Not a minute too late and always prompt Sallie at the typer,

Puttin' lawyer's words in rows so neat upon the cotton paper.

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

 

The years went by, each day seemed long but Sallie n'er complained

and one day after work, her foot stepped wrong, her ankle badly sprained

upon the curb at 7^th and main she sat there cryin' lightly

when all at once a milk white pup to her side plopped down quite spritely.

So she waited a while and no one came a lookin' for the pup

he looked so cute, big paws and such, Sallie just picked him up.

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

Over to the station where the Crouch line came, Sallie with her pup in tow.

They waited and waited for the engine to come while her heart began to glow.

“This little dog,” she thought, “has found me just in time,”

“I was lonely and lost, my days were the same, and me just in my prime.

“So, little pup, it's just you and me, I think I'll call you Ben.”

And up to the canyon the little train chugged where home was up till then.
 

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

Raising rabbits, chickens, ducks and such, Ben and Sallie ate like kings,

She worked all day with him beside to supplement life with other things.

The lawyer paid a little more than most in that Black Hills day

his clients were the cream of this distant town and all would fully pay.

One day, a sculptor came to visit about a mountain large

Sallie 'ud chat with the wife 'bout dogs drinkin' tea from cups so large.

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.
 

 

For 50 years her fingers flew across the typewriter keys

the sadness came when her beloved dogs would pass next to her knees.

All tolled there were 8 white dogs each with the name of Ben

out there in the garden with rows so straight seven buried now and then

Then one day some years beyond a neighbor called to check

upon old Sallie age 92 her body dead a-layin' upon the deck.

Sallie rode the Crouch line from Rapid to Dark Canyon.

The seats were hard, the engine chugged,

Ben made a strange companion.

He was her dog and by her side

he stayed throughout the trip,

but when she died, he'd ride each day

and n'er let out a yip.

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

Know a musician looking for words?  This is an odd poem for me to write...but it might fit some musician's tune.

 

We Go

(for Erin Wagman and all who knew and loved her)

When there is no more room

in our mother's womb

we go to meet our fathers

because it makes no sense

to stay in comfort

when we feel adventure

pull us forward

When we feel the pull of the world

it is often at the hand

that helps us cross the street

for the first time

It may be only a finger we hold

and when we reach the other side

we let go for a second

until the familiar voice

says to come

take my hand

come with me

The older we get

the less the hand is there for us

we've learned to walk to school

to see our friends

the other adventurers

with whom we grow

and get to know

their smiles

their happy voices

their worlds beyond

the houses where

comfort kept us safe

Soon adventures become challenges

some we conquer

and some we cannot

some have no end

These put clouds in our minds

the fogs at the edge of thought

at the edge of reason

across the street

wider than any street

we dodge monsters in traffic

where we never seem

to find the next curb up

or any hand to hold

This is where some of us

find ourselves

reach for broken hands

only to let go of all of them

We reach for anything

that will give us support

or reach for something

that often might be

cunning, baffling, and powerful

that won't let go

when we want to go

then

we just go

we just go

where we have not been before

to seek a respite

from the journey

to no side of the street

when we no longer want

our feet on the ground

any hands that help

and an end to the darkness

we go

where we cannot

feel the tears on our face

where we no longer

want to voice our pain

where we imagine

a comfort that surpasses

everything

we cannot understand

We go

even when we know

that all we leave behind

is the empty space

where others loved us

here and now...

we

go

into each others'

empty spaces

where you left us

with tears and doubt

where we try to fill each other

with a higher power

we cannot understand

and hope you've found

on the corner

across the street

is the playground

filled with stars

from where you once

came to us

and now return

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

ownership and publication rights

granted to the Wagman and Vickers families

in perpetuity.

Not a Prayer as Such

Do you see me in the sky

I am on the ground

trying to catch your eye

I'll wave my arms

and scream a lot

but I wonder if your angels

are against my plot

to just talk to you

to get your advice

on what to do next

and pay the price

for all my foolish ways

and goofy days

when I was human

and quite perplexed

I can't call you god

or some other name

because from those

you've taken blame

for all the bad things

on this earth

and while I nod

and poke the air

in hopes that you are there

I've grown to believe

you might not care

even just a little

or a jot and a tittle

So it goes

my invisible friend

I've run out of ways

to get you to attend

to the chores

you once were famous for

creation and all it's glory

I'm fairly certain my simple problems

can't be cured

if you just hear my story

Back to your room

as magnificent it might be

but I suspect

you are as gloomy as I

with all your creation here

that's never correct

and from what this stems

we suffer we cry we cannot act

so where you live

is as dark and dreary

as what I'm assured surrounds me

So there I said what I've felt

blurred and bleary-eyed

dry of all the tears

I once shed

and if you heard this soul

turned toward me or not

I got it off my chest

the rest is just the same old thread

you hear most every day

from folks like me

the lesser of the tribes

you put to wander here

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

As Close as I am to You

Here is a sofa to my right

I sit in a soft chair

to his left

Am I drinking

surely

for those were the days

when I thought all one had to do

to be a poet was drink

smoke some weed

and splatter any ol' words on paper

No question about it

I was a fake then

and not entirely certain

that I am not a fake now

The color of the sofa

is light brown or dirty yellow

in my memory

but I am there

not aware of what the future

will bring for me

or the man who sits to my right

being ever so gentle

with a younger man in the prime

of growth

Today I only wish

some of his teacher

had rubbed-off on me

as if Theodore Roethke

was pollen floating around the room

falling on little poets who will

flower in many hues

I am asleep sitting there

in that time of the past

not even waking slowly

or in any state of a being dance

though I try

sitting next to Richard Hugo

who teaches me more now

whose teacher makes my head

butter it's brain across the language

These warriors accost me

to go back into that past

to remember what it was

that made me grow into now

Richard I am 62

when you died at 59

with a small shelf of books

for me to recreate on my own

And there you are

living in my memory

surrounded by others

who have similar dreams

to take them into the pain

of Life magazine pictures

where you looked so hurt

The smear of ink on paper

from your arteries

the ball turret gunner

on the runway

of poetry

So I can only dream

in the shade recalled

of your girth

and smile

me now

not having any books

to prove

the youth of my years

me older now than you

beyond the moment

when all you left us

were the recordings

I made in a workshop

given now away

to where you taught

plus

so many sculptures

in a language

which one day

in ten thousand years

will not mean as much

as they do to me today

and your ridiculous assignment

to live longer than you

to weep for both of us

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick