Foreign Elations

Foreign Elations

In Russia's arms doth Donald lay,

Putin's hands clutching clay.

All thoughts from Vlad come this day,

His forming hands this world doth prey.

When day is done his breath is still,

Having sculpture be his will.

Now troops in Caracas bold,

Traded for that country's gold.

Donald says zero to this play,

For he can't lead this nation's way.

Korea, too, is mocking high,

“Insipid Donald!” our nation's cry.

Barry G. Wick

Under the Home Sky

Under the Home Sky

Years of distance

miles of time

My eyes cloud

thinking of the stars

that send photonic dreams

though my memories

of the hills and prairies

in the dark

where variable lights

blink my next lives

among them

I have not achieved

Buddha's goal

so expectations

of future lives protect

me with hope

the next arm's reach

will send me to them

Barry G. Wick

Little Boy

Little Boy

I want to be the little boy

clopping along in yellow

rubber soled shoes

that will never wear out

following his mother and brother

into the library

with eyes of wonder

shy of three foot tall

His neat blond hair

combed with a part

in a gray hoodie

He's ready for the rest

of his life

if they'll let him

in the world to which

he was born

Leaders don't want him to live

to be his own man

They want him a slave

to their corporate greed

their pollution

that poisons his milk

that diddles with his DNA

I want to see him grow

for himself and not

for the world's owners

who don't know he exists

other than to use him

He won't see

the forests and meadows

I have seen

because these will be

just rock and sand

March on boy

go into the future

where hate will consume

the entire world

Fear will run through streets

carrying torches and guns

Bombs will explode

The books mother will read

to you

will be burned

Little boys in rubber-soled shoes

will turn to mush

to feed rats and worms

I'm lost in this vision

of your future

I'll never see

My grandchildren will

save you and others

It's their job now

Barry G. Wick

The Shape of States

The Shape of States

I have decided to write a poem

in the shape of an unknown state

I thought first it should be Louisiana

but since I can't remember

if I've ever been there

if would be foolish to write something

about a place I know nothing about

So that is the origin of my unknown state

It's a place where nobody lives

until some government official

decides to draw a map

then places it's unnamed capital

near yet created rivers and transportation

and decides what resources

will make this state wealthy

so he or she can reap the rewards

of graft and personal investment

This state is to be named after some

yet to be discovered native tribe

with a history of dancing on full moons

wearing red berry-stained loincloths

woven from Morvopinus Tree bark

Again a tree created by government

biologists and insane foresters

with a grudge since the juice

of this particular berry stings

Yes the native do wild dances

As the roads and cities of this state

begin to take shape

we are reminded that place names

usually come from the distinguished names

of citizens who either gave away their lives

or raped someone or something

for personal gain

Arguments ensue between groups

of this state's yet to be politicians

An entire politically correct system

develops from almost nothing important

the bubbles spit by fish

chicken phlegm

dust from the tops of pianos

I then realized that this fictitious state

was probably like South Dakota

the state in which I grew

from tadpole in mother's stomach

to uninterested adult

It only makes sense to dismiss

this project entirely

It's all been done before

and wasted like all political argument

The sun shines on this unknown place

Birds sing Gershwin here

Cows fart Cole Porter

I guess we should be thankful

nobody else lives there

as I am its only resident

The budget for state aid to education

is enormous just like South Dakota

Barry G. Wick

The Same Morning

The Same Morning

It always begins

with the end of a dream

I've never had

I lay on my back

perched like an extinct bird

flapping the lids of my eyes

just fast enough

to rise above the jungle

of sheets and pillows

I am no longer pretty

in my orange breechcloth

which I straighten

before standing to grab

the handles of the walker

that steadies me

for the travels through light

I mutter simple prayers

of gratitude and hope

I know I will die

It is this knowledge of death

that replaces the foolish youth

that sometimes returns

inside me

someone willing to make

the same mistakes

I gave up years ago

I move through the tight spaces

that limit my trek

around this simple house

Will the particle board

furniture finally sprout a tree

Will the radio announcers

stop in their scripts

to take a moment to hold my hand

All things are possible

when the sun speaks

to the one plant I nurture

I spread myself upon the couch

a weird potentate

searching for a t-shirt

the only wealth I seek

to give me comfort

Through the veils

that cover my windows

others are known to me

by the sounds of their automobiles

or the barking of their dogs

People should bark

their morning greetings

to the world

It would change the sameness

of intractable hours

that silently begin

in a yawn or a stretch

Behold

I yelp my greeting

I sniff at the world's butt

hoping I won't get dragged away

by the leash that binds me to heaven

Barry G. Wick

Winter Haiku

Winter Haiku

Winter's sudden fright

Curled oak leaves wind-blown down

Spiders crawl on snow

Barry G. Wick

The Shadows

The Shadows

I stare at the morning from the window

to the snow. The shadows of branches

demonstrate the measures of music.

With reverence. gray fingers play slow

notes of an organ from a star to recreate

the keys caressed by Cameron Carpenter.

Barry G. Wick

For Poet Nanny Gunderson

For Poet Nanny Gunderson

Mother told me about your

pacing the house in Vermillion,

picking words out of the air

as if they were flying to you.

Then you'd speak with your mother

in Norwegian and her blindness

in a silent room with her knitting

that you'd pull apart every day.

I don't float through a dictionary.

A few useful words stream

through the ice striped window

while snowplows bank the useless.

We are all blind in our rooms

knitting some sense to our lives

with gODD pulling things apart

each night for our next day.

Barry G. Wick

Night Travels

Night Travels

I wash clothes

in a small room

that was coupled

to my childhood

I compliment the new owner

on the white cupboards

that I don't remember

from years ago

Back and forth

from the patio

to the kitchen entry

I see the two dogs

who meant the most to me

the white Great Pyrenees

and the St. Bernard

who hangs around my leg

begging for the touch

I give him in these clouds

I go no further inside

and make a call

to the Frenchman

who lived with us

after his years fighting

in Algeria

I hear his voice

saying that he can't stay

on the line for long

when an insistent woman

calls my name

in a tone that wakes me

and I'm left with the feeling

I shall be here again

Barry G. Wick

Silence

Silence

I love communication

with silence

It says so much more than

the flicker of lips

in candlelight

It's especially useful at a distance

The planets and stars

told humanity

truth with it

Wives and angry friends

use it frequently

After one extended silence

a person knows exactly where

the switches are

since darkness surpasses

even a wordless dream

Any query brings

the dreaded

“If you don't know...”

It is not gold

because gold will purchase

all the chatter

anyone can stand

at the end of your arm

staring into the noisy abyss

A length of rope with which

to hang oneself

brings on

the kind of noiselessness

we are all applying for

at the moment

of our first wail

Return us to a heartbeat

it says

or less

much less

We only have to wait

much too long

through interminable

meetings and industry

best left for the deaf

How I envy them

some days

With deafness

all say the same nothings

the hearing can't understand

those useful hand gestures

one has to learn

in order to

get yelled at

Imagine a world

where the numbers of hearing

and deaf are reversed

There would be no mufflers

on engines

There would be contempt

for musicians with no support

for concert halls and orchestras

who performed badly

With silence

we know where we stand

at the center

of a great city

a nothing

a nobody

a zero point zero

Chopin or Led Zeppelin

will lead you away

from your own creations

Something as small

as a poem

is a noise

with which to rend

all others

with bombs in their heads

See?

I am the king of crash

the wandering boom

from whom you flee

Only the ice that

falls from the eves

into a drift

is the Aztec knife

ripping open my chest

sending me where

even friends want

me to be silent

Silence is my destination

all I ever knew

all I ever will know

will be lost in its library

Here is my ticket

to an empty shelf

no one will dust

My silent cough

attests to its reality

its gold-less beaches

filled with unknown beauty

illuminated by a cold sun

on a tumbling rock

that watches itself slow

as the light recedes

across its expanding years

which cannot count themselves

Barry G. Wick