Ten Thousand

 

Ten Thousand

Dance steps

the noisy kind that turn the head

through drifting picnics

on soft grass

The surprise of it

Note of music

soft passages with open windows

mixed dark dreams

lightning in clouds

water pressure released

Lines of yarn

blue and red on indigenous looms

to wrap a horse

with falls from grace

extended hands shunned

Frightened dogs

a pleasing yip of joy

the walkers stumble

climbers grab at straw

jars of beef broth

Wet finger tips

wrinkles in the cotton shirt

wilting chrysanthemums

squirrels chase in the yard

the vibrations of Bach

Barry G. Wick

It.

It. (For Nancy)

Have you selected your "its"

It is a bottle of vodka

Filtered and re-distilled

It is an eclair with choco icing

It is stylish clothes

Or your newest friend

Who has your heart in a skip

There will come a day

When it won't matter

Any it will not matter

Oh you'll seek butterflies

And unicorns grazing

In fields of pale blue flowers

Their hooves flinging gold

Into a spring morning

When some it grabs you

With muscled arms

That enfold you

Only for a moment

Until you remember 

It doesn't matter

This isn't surrender

Or giving up

This is acceptance

That this moment

Will be more important

Than the it that scrapes

Your remembrance

Of your first breath

And bright lights

In a cold room

When life became your it

Your focus changes

All those other its don't matter

They all release you

From your promises to them

This and that it doesn't matter

You are now free

To be

To be it

Barry G. Wick

 

Dear Readers and Friends,

Blogger by Google is changing.  Instead of allowing you to received my poems, as you are one of my subscribers, via email, they are no longer going to allow that.  I suspect the day is coming when I will no longer be posting here.  None, the less, if you wish to see my poems when I publish them, please send your email address to rikwrybac@yahoo.com and I will alert you when I've put a new poem up here.

You may or may not know that I am not a fan of the publishing world.  I'm certain there are people smarter and more refined than I who bring small magazines and books of poems to the public.  They are to be lauded.  I hate rejection beyond everything.  I've been rejected ao many times by editors that the pain of rejection is beyond my ability to stand it.    Now, some will say, toughen those tits, Barry.  Yeah, but after a life where I was always trying to be tough and never could be, well, maybe I hope you'll understand why I don't try an publish...sending out my simple ruminations into a dark world.  Thank you for being among the view who read what I have to write.  Remember, to send me your email address and I'll alert you.

Barry G. Wick

Ancient Wisdom

Ancient Wisdom

(with thoughts of Lao Tzu)

Little thoughts have bounced

around my head

for years

Lao Tzu figured it out

thousands of years ago

In my old age I understand

what he wrote

in another way

or the same way

depending upon his age

One failure becomes two

Two failures becomes three

and three failures becomes

the ten thousand failures

Anything I write after that

is just trying to keep your attention

which is another failure

because you'll go on

and never remember me

which is one of my

ten thousand failures

Barry G. Wick

Gauguin Weeps

Gauguin Weeps

Here apart from all of you

What is seen is failure

Deepest black

An empty jar full of sour

Photos that fill memories

Of jaunts there to find

The basic nature

Of green and brown

And yellow

That fail to show

The real colors

In a false world

Of sales and business

Too many conquests

Are robberies

That leave nothing

Nothing that remains

So off to new worlds

Where dreams spill

Their canvas in the night

Barry G Wick

Freedom

 Freedom

We're suppose to think

we're free to think

to read

to see

to understand

When you get

a few years older

you'll recognize the limitations

imposed by higher powers

on your rights

Books films magazines

important information

all restricted items

you can't know

won't be known to you

unless you ask

for them

Enjoy what you think

is your freedom

You're not allowed to think

You're not allowed to decide

for yourself

You're not allowed to know

which is the basis of asking

for what you want to know

Shhh

Be a good little slave

It's all that's left to you

Barry G. Wick

 

The Rules of Limitation

It is the way it is

because I say so

You are my chattel

You are my servant

This is what you are

from the day you are born

I allow you nothing

but what my thoughts

my rules and limitations

dictate

Don't like it

Then tell me from the day

you are born

and I'll release you

to the world

It's that simple

I'll put you in the street

for someone to pick you up

Oh can't talk or complain yet

That's the way I like it

You cry to be fed

Stop it

I'll feed you when I feel like it

Dirty diaper

When I can't stand the smell

I'll change you

Don't like living with me

tough kid I own you

unless on your day of birth

you told me different

So

you can't be what you want

you can't talk back to me

you can't do anything

unless I grant you permission

don't talk

what you say is unimportant

I have been everything to you

and will be forever

tiptoe into my presence

with your head bowed

yes you have to practice piano

I buy clothes for me

so I look beautiful

so I feel good about myself

I will drag you everywhere

I get satisfaction

for my own well being

You will go to shoe stores

You will go to fabric stores

You will go to my seamstress

You will go and be respectful

Keep your head bowed

and shut up

I buy clothes and shoes and

everything I want every week

You get what I give you

once a year

It's the least I can do

and too much for you

then you go to school

and learn all the rules

of the world around you

Add them to your inventory

You must believe in godd

It is the way we control you

inside your own mind

You will learn so much

about godd

that you will create your

own limitations

We like that you are limited

We like that we don't have

to make any more rules for you

You destroy your own soul

because that is what we were taught

about ourselves

Barry G. Wick

Love: the old poetic topic

Love: the old poetic topic

Feeling love is the problem

Feeling that another loves

is a really deep problem

A generalization:  the people

who don't feel loved are

teenagers

old people

and everybody else

Fat or thin

Able or disabled

Conscious or unconscious

Nobody feels loved

So

How do we change this?

If you have an answer

Please comment below

I haven't a clue

Barry G. Wick

Afternoon Nap

Afternoon Nap

I decide to lay down

Saturday afternoon

With my buds in my ears

Listening to my jazz station

Out of California.

A yawn or two

And I'm out.

Then it's a dim club

Somewhere.

I've been in too many.

I see a corner booth

Like Capone's

At the Green Mill

In Chicago.

I'm alone as

The waiter

Puts a string

Across the other

Opening which

Assures I'll be alone

I order a drink

Except I haven't 

Had alcohol in years.

I sit there when

The waiter picks up

A phone adjacent

To the booth.

I grab a sawbuck

Sliding it towards

him pointing

First to the bill 

Then to him

Indicating its his tip.

No response.

Then my eyes open

And I'm back on my bed.

Would my ten have worked

Like it did in Missoula?

Ending the night 

With the handsome waiter

In my bed at the attached

Hotel on the river.

I doubt it.

Ten bucks meant more then.

Now I'm just a lonely

Old queer with nothing

In my last home

Waiting to die.

It's the pandemic

Of the 2020s

When anybody with

Half a mind is just as lonely.

My bed is a dark bar

Giving a queer drunk

Something from memory

Of younger days.

I had dreams then

In Chicago.

Now I'm just a lump

No man would look at.

Dreams now are just

As lonely as they were.

Though now ten dollars

Is food for three days

Not a night's warmed bed.

Why is this music

Still feeding my afternoon?

Hunger doesn't end

Like one night stands.

Dreams do end also.

They end in a sigh.

Barry G. Wick

Hyper-change

Hyper-change

All the change

I now hate

Is filled with

My bad decisions

Mistakes and screw-ups

Everything is different

For me

It's my fault

My world is no joy

No hugs and no kisses

Boo hoo

So get over it shithead

It's why I chose

To be born

And why I decided

To live

Every time I  wanted

To die

That time is coming

For me

So rather than making

It happen

I will let it when it does

Until then

Find a little bouquet

With no flowers

They're all around

It can be appreciated

Even with no odor

The smell of a rose

Is in the dirt somewhere

Barry G. Wick