The Fullness of Each Day

The Fullness of Each Day

Through trees
and on roads
up and down the hills
I walk in a dream
where I am always alone
There is no low whistle
of the wind in pines
no deer runs ahead
no stare of coyotes
at a distance
Once appeared
a lake I did not enter
a name I thought
from years behind me
Strangers stay away now
as I seem a wave to them
and they to me
Empty of bird song
and chirp of chipmunk
I go on through
but to where
I arrive at a day
when my eyes open
upon an everyday
also vacant until
I turn on the radio
that fills the room
with voices and problems
of the world
Hearing a phrase
I'll yell for no one to hear
my approbation or scorn
which seems to be
my acknowledgment of life
wakefulness away from sleep
I can not go to that forest
to that lake or road
even if they were just outside
waiting for my feet
without the cage I use
to tame this unsteady animal
So now I know
why I moved hundreds of miles
away from the place I dream
where I might drink away
my sorrows 
Here I am sad
engulfed in memory
at which I only yell
to push it aside
instead of drown it
As I rake the nails
of all my fingers
hearing violins
and staring at snow
though gauze curtains
each day becomes new
away from the old
where something must be done
to make my life
my life
the one I have
unencumbered by a past
where I tried to please
even a chipmunk
that I'd beg to like just me
when I wasn't sure
if the family of my birth
did

Barry G. Wick

The Telling

The Telling

The sound of night
is traffic at a distance
with the rustle
of covers and breathing.
A radio is set
for the news
when the British
spread their world
before them.
The sleepless
who toss and turn
try to find
a space not as lonely
as it always is.
For some there are tears
of recognition
or resignation
to the end of life,
painted with colors
that dim at sundown.
Many touch their skin
to find comforts
no one else will give
to lips limited by age,
now bitten to stem
the rage of memory.
Then, kisses were plentiful
as the photons
of street and star light
that beamed through a gap
in the curtains.
The bed was warmed
by the bodies of two
whose lips touched
by accident and plan
in the center of heaven.

Barry G. Wick

First Snow

First Snow

Snow from a dark sky
upon the leaves
as their colors rot
upon unraked grass

There's no exit
until the sun's melt
starts on the porch
salted and sanded

An old movie meets
a popcorn afternoon
when butter drips
from a gray beard

Even the vampires
want a handy toothpick
as gray hands reach
to stain this sofa red

Lines drawn upon carpet
stop approaching zombies
Popcorn ball brains will
form from the next batch


Barry G. Wick

Global Something

Global Something

Warm seas send

mackerel farther north

with the tuna that follow

Man grows corn

at the poles

on domed barges

Wars for survival

will end

in the deserts of Iowa

Survival will depend

on one man in a loincloth

another in swan's down

The tilt of the world

gyrates like a die

thrown only to spin

on a corner

never to settle

on a blank side

Cheer up

When it gets to then

you'll watch bees pollinate

ceramic flowers

in museums

Barry G. Wick

No Guilt: Bits and Bobs

No Guilt:  Bits and Bobs

“Too much of a good thing can be...wonderful.  Too much of a bad thing can be even better.”---modern proverb partially attributed to actress Mae West

1.
There is no sun today
Dark clouds of all kinds
surround the measures of music
Mozart cries
dreaming of someone
named Lenny


2.
One man drinks
another eats too much
One man uses opiates
another doesn't exercise
One man throws salt
another slips and falls
One man reads a book
another writes it later

3.
Friendships begin
then end quicker
than the time it takes
to burn toast
There is a taste
of black crumbs
deeper than spitting lips

4.
Words typed as
ones and zeros
will sit in electric vaults
chipped by the cosmic rays
of Michelangelo
in search of any David

Aliens searching
a crisp earth
will find one thumb drive
filled with poetry
that will take
a thousand centuries
to decipher

e e cummings
will represent earth
onetwothreefourfive
millennia

Barry G. Wick

Wee Hours

Wee Hours

There is no sleep
when an old brain wakes
There is no dream
when the dark night breaks

Each sound spins up
when the ear grasps creaks
Each mouse ear jumps
when a wide yawn peaks

No drink will calm
when poured in a glass
No marks are made
when a scratch meets ass


Barry G. Wick

We Bring You This Message

We Bring You This Message

The wind enjoys its command
as it is slowed by the mills
just long enough to be seen
like a bird on the sill
the small dance of fluffed feathers

We belong to the sky
as we parade on the ground
our floats gather no attention
as children creep to doors
costumed in hopeful colors

Trumpet jazz centers
a singer between the eyes
clarinet fingers
More fires blaze with smoke
a saxophone army at war

There a piston jumps
the snap of walnut seeds
Under a bridge of bones
wrinkled mayors hang
nominations cease

What are the conclusions
of a grape with no leaves
Jackalopes storm the walls
in a season full of bricks
volatile napkins cover dolls


Barry G. Wick

The Morning Sun

The Morning Sun

The morning sun peeks
above the  trees in fall colors
lower to the south

Winter chills begin
with its rude expenditures
of relentless frost

Radio talkers
moan with hidden emotion
in leaf-dry voices

Outside travels slow
with thoughtful preparation
mindful dark lengthens

Warmer socks come out
coats from the back of closets
they puff up with pride

Mice rustle at night
in search of hard won meals
evil traps readied

Stores sell snow shovels
ready new holiday lights
covered shoulders shrug 

This change demands dreams
there is a summer ahead
beyond winter's chill

Don't count these photons
useless larger numbers fly
their wings clipped at dusk 

Barry G. Wick

Gray Leaves

Gray Leaves

My black plastic brush
with black plastic tines
topped by purple beads
needs the hair cleaned
from the puffed surface

I use a handy scissors
to lift the hair
above where it's rested
for weeks until today
as I stare out the window

October is outside
with a cool temperature
Rain has knocked leaves
to the lawn of green spears
that becomes mostly yellow

Hair now sits above
the brush as I clean it
It's a tangle of gray
that belongs to this month
as these two befriend the fall

Barry G. Wick

The Shopping List

The Shopping List--(not necessarily in order of importance)

Peace on earth
love
The Beatles come to visit
a book publisher
a better attitude
towards small poetry journals
a new paradigm
a couple of artificial knees
without all the pain
a friend who comes to visit
more money than I know
what to do with, and not
THAT much
a sunny day
a real house with a fenced back yard
for a small dog
politicians who are nice to each other
who think of the people they
represent and not the next election
motivation to tie-dye
an Indian classical music trio come to visit
for a private concert with friends
who would like it
patience with myself
time with my children and grandchildren
            and being important to them
to so something nice for distant friends
            who have been generous with me
a gathering of deeply-missed relations
            who are no long with us
a life of regret-less memories
            without mistakes and bad decisions
a concert grand piano
a giant theater organ and building to hold it
better dreams
a lack of desire for things
appreciation and gratitude for what I have
             for where I am and what I do
a much smaller shopping list
             filled with my deepest thoughts
a peaceful and pain free last day
             filled with laughter and people I love
no more lonely tears


Barry G. Wick