Up in the night

The dark hours soon shed light

as day climbs up and down ladders in the sky

Each day this beaming coat thins

combed from the heavens

as white hairs fall from an evening chin

in the presence of mister yawn

like a sacred trumpet sounds

through a star drained sieve

applauded by fingers that only

scratch away the surface of dreams

yet to float in the effluent

of light from a poorly draped window

No--this dream that heads for bed

swaying in breezes of solemnity

as appreciation for this slender presence

soon to gather itself

at the foot of a soft alter

to strip some truths

from the body of time

Barry G. Wick

Vladimir Putin: In Love with Songs

There are days when I miss the old words

the old songs from my youth

when we showed the West what

Russia could do in space

with our huge land

with the strength of our resolve

Even now I often start my day

with singing the old Soviet Anthem

and The Internationale

They're better than any old western anthem

and that horror The Star Spangled Banner

It's all about war and bombs bursting

and it can't be sung because of its range

If only I could get the West to hear the words

and hum the melodies I whistle on the way

to meetings with my subordinates

and a few ordinary citizens 

          Arise ye workers from your slumbers

            Arise ye prisoners of want
            For reason in revolt now thunders
           And at last ends the age of cant.
           Away with all your superstitions
           Servile masses arise, arise
           We’ll change henceforth the old tradition
           And spurn the dust to win the prize.

           Refrain: 
           So comrades, come rally
           And the last fight let us face
           The Internationale unites the human race.

I remember all that leather and polish

as we knocked on the doors of the fallen

those who failed to get the message

who turned against our Mother

The State! The State!

We cry for you Mother

so fun to see our enemies faces explode

on the floor and their knelt in their shame

           United forever in friendship and labor,

           Our mighty republics will ever endure.
           The Great Soviet Union will live through the ages.
           The dream of a people their fortress secure.

Long live our Soviet motherland,           Built by the people's mighty hand.           Long live our people, united and free.           Strong in our friendship tried by fire.           Long may our crimson flag inspire,           Shining in glory for all men to see.

Oh yes

my anthems soar for me as I think of my people

and their hopes and desires

Screw Marx and Lenin

I love my limousines and all the goodies

I get to own

but the songs

the songs of my youth and spirit

they are all about the power of people

the will of people to mold

their unified futures

together in search of a perfect world

where all get a small share

and I get most of it

Barry G. Wick

For the Longest Time

For the longest time nothing hurt

This is not talking about the kid life

with scraped knees or even the broken arm

or leg or stitches from some bigger than normal

cut on a finger slammed in a car door

or the knife you took out to play with

that suddenly became a knife

when it had been a toy before the gush

For the longest time crossing the street

was done with the light

never the jaywalking that others did

sure getting away with something like that

was possible in a short moment

when the brain says oh why not

and sure everything was pretty much

by the book as far as parents were concerned

The pain in this conversation isn't the kind

of pain that lasts a few days from a pulled

muscle playing footfall or the bruise

from falling on the playground

where you cried in front of your buddies

and never would do that again

as long as you lived until you found out

you were gonna live long and things wear

Now here comes the day when the morning

sun is way passed it's prime

when the afternoon is closing in

and you're sixty something waking up

when everything feels like a hammer

was used by all the black-eyed characters

in those dreams that stick beyond eyes open

the kind of dreams where walking doesn't hurt

The knee first or maybe the back and for some

it's a joint in the finger that goes raging

like a rabid dog howling foam

every direction just waiting to get shot

maybe its the cramps in a calf or stiffness

in that first knee and then the notice

everything is screaming at from toes to hair

when eyebrows drop down with a wince

These are the years beyond the time

when there was no pain that old people

talked about and others didn't hear their words

until those words slammed into an elbow

like a car door opened just as the bike

is ridden into it full speed ahead

the day beginning when every thought

drags these bear attacks just to the toilet then the sink

It all gets slow like the dark piece of cloth

paused in thought as a bug on the carpet

stared at it for ten minutes just to make sure

no legs are moving no fingers moving

when the big toe on the left foot

starts throbbing to no radio song that just stepped

on a knitting needle which jumped up

through the ceiling in the basement

Old men say old age isn't for sissies

but maybe all this happens to a sissy

not in the too prissy kind kind where things were

softer in every moment of that softer or juicy

peaches kind of life when everything tasted sweet

now it's here and what has got to be done

has to be done or it going to look pretty grim

around the edges here or smell of urine

When the kitchen is in front of the pains

even standing can be just awful on the hips

dishes don't do themselves and first meds

gotta be downed before anything remotely

caloric slips passed the tongue into the genuine

pit of a painful stomach that hurts beyond

the first fart of the day when it seemed relief

but didn't last long enough kind of pain

So maybe expectations of these horrors

would end huh and while being dragged

though these events wasn't a first choice

in reading it sorta got some attention

that something worthy would end this

parade of dog teeth sinking into live bone

oh please do walk away painless because

nobody wants this ever ever for the longest time

Barry G. Wick

Fashion Show Gossip in this Kitchen

Look at her beg for the moment

while she twirls around elegantly

Eyes follow this babe

from heel to hump

flat for the fryer and handle

Certainly salted

under pressure for an answer

though the entire performance

had wandered away

in the middle of this gaze

Why is this question posed

in regard to this ground rump

in pink armor

over the spell of a minute

when pleasantries bash loneliness

A hamburger on the stove

is worth more description

than raw memory

as it wisps away

as the phantom of hunger

Fans and camera clicks

in a cycle of burners

up and down to sear the flesh

of one or more cattle

that stomp beneath a spatula

This performance wins the day

from many others who

didn't have the chance

an aloof steer in a brown gown

prancing for the bulls

Here buns on the catwalk

cross a room in review

in and out of nostrils

also the subject of titters

beneath a dark pan covered

Barry G. Wick

Evolution

This dream in some stinking goo

has pushed its creator

to make a finger move perceptibly

Next week it becomes a hand

followed by a very noticeable arm

These things attached to a whatever

really have no names

because there's no Darwin or Webster

on this level to identify what they are

and won't exist much beyond sunset

This gets something else to wondering

is it all too much to contemplate

since something else is grossly hungry

that this what thinks these parts

may be just as tasty as the last

Pretty soon a preference develops

beyond all imagination

into cravings for whatever grows

on this unnamed thing

damn its just completely delicious

And so we come to Kentucky

a complete bastardization of a word

that had its origins in the species

of some native word believed

to outline a particular place

Thus words have evolved

of this storied place

possibly full of Crocketts and Boones

but who cares now about these edibles

certainly not the people at church

Even the book they hold

has so many incarnations

that precise language is unstoppable

upheld while sitting at pew's edge

but by gODD they know

So take your beaks Mr. Darwin

plug them into any fruit or nut

you happen to be supporting today

So say Kentucky folks covered

in evolved bugs what eats them whole

Barry G. Wick

On the Edge

The sound of fresh coffee

the odor of jazz

smokey noise scratches

somewhere in the background

a fan perhaps

inside is full of clouds

that threaten rain and mayhem

outside the sun hides

beneath a pile of blue rocks

yet to throw off sheets of light

It's a marginal morning

when only a loincloth

keeps the level of decency

primitive just above

a reptilian image

on the back of eyes

still unused to multiple lids

where movement is the only

assurance of protection

animalia in procession

Rise oh useless human male

a cause for this sensation

lies just around the May pole

from reasonable badgers

who begin their infiltration

juggling words in defiance

of all earthly order and meaning

pressed into service

before a measured phrase

unveils itself at computer speed

Barry G. Wick

Unnamed

News has reached the world

that an unnamed island nation's citizens

have supported the right

of some disenfranchised couples

to marry

Up pops an unnamed official source

from an opposing organization

who says

this was

a great loss for humanity

As tongues poke through

lips around the world

air is forced over the tongue

causing a ripple

of the upper and lower lips

named after a bush fruit

often red or black

unnamed for this report

Barry G. Wick

Sometimes

It's the kind feeling

that any writer gets

if he's got a few muses

that don't seem to put

much effort into their jobs,

kinda like the writer himself

who can't seem to get

off the sofa and go back to work.

He'll come across a piece of writing

that'll simply blows the doors

out of the walls he's built

to keep himself from being successful.

Yeah, that kind of writing.

So all of a sudden he realizes

that's he's never been

entirely grateful

to the muses he does have.

He's got to say thank you

for even the crappiest writing

he's ever done

because somewhere,

sometime,

someone will find something

he's written that'll blow the doors

out of the walls

of some other writer

who is going through

a crisis of muses.

He'll spend part of his day

thinking how he'd like

to write better

and then he's reminded

that he couldn't give up

the muses he does have

for the ones he doesn't know.

They'd be strangers.

Damn strangers running

around in his head

tapping words he's forgotten

to play with for awhile.

Some of those words

wouldn't fit into any keyhole

of the locks in the doors

now laying on the floor.

So, with a grateful heart

he picks up the doors

to rehang on the frames

that've been damaged.

Get out the screw driver,

the hammer, the chisel,

and the drill.

It's time to go to work

and quit laying

on the sofa

thinking the typer

will put those unfamiliar

words to work,

when the old, comfortable ones

from the muses he knows

will do.

The project will be a mix

of the old and the new.

Adding a muse will mean

finding some new colors

with which to paint

the repaired doors.

How about cerulean.

It's a color word

he's never used

from his new muse.

The old muses are scratching

their beards the way

old men who've let themselves go

stare into oblivion

thinking about something

they've never encountered.

OK, they say, we'll run with it.

The writer pauses to thank

his small committee of helpers

then proceeds to pelt his page

with bravado.

Please people, he writes,

the color was fine, but must

we be celebrating with bravado?

Stuttering, the new muses

and the old muses begin

their next moments

with an “uh, uh, uh!?”

in a combined chorus

that gives the writer

a chance to think

about his next move.

Okay, thank you, thank you,

we're bound to find out

the next phase

sometime.

Barry G. Wick

Just Along the Highway

((a poem for those interested in Unidentified Flying Objects))


We stop and pick up some fruit

on our way to the western shore.

South Dakota is a long ways

from California, so we think.

Perhaps, that is what all the fuss

is about when people see

disks, tubes and triangles

floating soundlessly

through our beautiful skies.

Other folks, well, not really folks,

stopping by our planet to buy

some fruit, fill up on water,

whatever it is we have to offer.

Sure, they could have stopped

in an invisible mode,

but that's how they pay us

for the stuff they take from us:

cow parts, photos of our colons,

recordings of our screams,

cherished video of our astonishment

they get to play to their brood

of whatever the heck they are.

They've started a whole industry

of book publishing and photo swapping.

Experts collect a few coins

from personal appearances.

Old soldiers get to tell

what they weren't supposed to tell.

Autopsies, not withstanding,

are probably one of the many reasons

they don't set down

on some Washington lawn.

After all, who wants a cold or flu.

Have you ever seen one of those things

with chicken pox?

I suspect for them

it becomes condor pox

with a side of cow pox

from which they grow horns

that drop away when they're healed.

“Don't pick at your horns, dear.”

We've broadcast

dozens of Hollywood horrors

during which our hero

eliminates planetsful of oozing

monsters, which to them

seem more like neighbors

with whom to share a barbeque

of abductee. Yum.

Be sure to remove all those trackers

and little whatevers

you insert in our brains

through our noses.

We wouldn't want the kids,

if they are kids,

to choke on one,

necessitating a trip

halfway across the galaxy

to a hospital for care

where parking one of those

big triangles has to be

a serious problem.

You think the notes you get

are nasty when you park

your Chevy in two spots,

just imagine crop circles

in fifty million

languages and every word

describing the nasty

things they'll do to their colons.

It may also be a reason

they come to earth:

free parking with no wait times:

Cow Parts and Colon Pics,

open 24 hours.

We accept your

Universal Express Card.

Barry G. Wick

The Recording of “Bleeker Street”

Listening to the recording

of a jazz group:

guitar, drums, bass,

trumpet, piano, and tenor sax:

Houston Person on tenor,

his session for an album called

Moment to Moment.

The tune is Bleeker Street.

So why do these old players

keep playing:

because once in a while

the muse attacks

dropping a bit of magic

on a recording or a line or melody

that makes the musician wonder

where it came from.

He'll think,

“Not me,

but I've just been blessed

with the touch of eternity."

How many times does it happen

on a musicians riff,

a painter's canvas,

a line of poetry,

for someone really great?

For pros, it happens more often

than you think.

Most listeners

won't hear it,

won't see it,

won't read it.

The artist keeps moving

from note to note,

session to session,

club to club,

in the hopes of finding

that feeling.

Oh, they'll repeat their finery

they know is perfect.

It's how they make

the loaf of bread

everybody needs to butter.

For the common artist

it might not happen so often,

but when it does

they might not make their crust,

but all that practice of bad notes,

writing of senseless phrases,

painting that seems like the sides of a building,

yeah, all of that

will shrug off like so much dust

that suddenly turns to silver flakes

mixed with gold,

and a few diamonds

for good measure.

Nope, it doesn't happen often,

but that's how

Person looks in his pictures,

with common notes whitening his temples

and gray phrases pushing out his mustache;

trying once again to find

that quavering shower of electrostatic staffs

notated with holy water.

Houston Person

is the cleanest tenor sax player

on the radio this night,

and I've just been washed

after his notes went

down the drain

on top of me...

oh Lordy, my soul is rinsed.

Barry G. Wick