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Monday, May 21, 2018

Thoughts



I keep thinking
that someone I'd like to see
will knock on my door
or that someone
I've recently met
will call me on the phone
It doesn't happen
I now know what
old people
have always lived through
the lonely years
after a partner dies
or whatever life dishes out
to anybody
So I will talk with no one
We shall have a fine talk
about whatever
Whatever is a big topic
these days
I hear people dismiss
each other
with that word
Maybe that's what I feel
some days
Dismissed
and then I think
of the friends
and readers I do have
then
Whatever
goes far down the list
of topics
I become grateful
for the conservation
for the little time I do have
with friends and family
then I don't feel
dissed
missed or otherwise


Barry G. Wick
May 2018

Saturday, May 19, 2018

All The Beautiful




All the Beautiful
to ya Buddy
whatever year this is
Symphonies tapestries clothing
sculptures and laced covered buildings
gold-leafed alters
with marble tombs of the famous
paintings of fawns and faeries
landscapes of flowers
ships with bare chested ladies
leading their sailors to discovery
and Shakespeare's drifting and lifting
Words weren't created
by people who stared
into glowing screens
of television
computers
or cell phones
Beethoven never wore
earbuds blowing out
his eardrums
no sirree

Today I listened
to Schubert's 1st Symphony
he wrote when he was fifteen
I'll post this for you
so you can read this
on a glowing screen
because I doubt that
it'd have any meaning
for you if I didn't
Then your mind
will throw it away
like so much plastic
to end up in an ocean
of ones and zeros
only to be eliminated
by an electric pulse
or wayward solar flare
that switches off
everything we think great
so we can go back to
creating beauty for the world
for awhile
that lasts as long
as the pyramids
or The Parthenon
or a diadem of gold
that graced the head
of a Queen
or Miss Destiny in drag
and her new hustler boyfriend
Zack with all the muscles
who won't be remembered
except by the long-dead guys
he did the nasty with
for a quick thrill
five minutes after
he left the sex stall
of some future Pompeii
destroyed by something
they'll dig out in twenty thousand
and nineteen
and nineteen
and nineteen
when the screens
get reinvented
the books will fall apart
and
Michelangelo Squirtboy
can't get
The Holy Holy Miss Molly
to give him the money
for the ceiling he painted
in the
Crutch of Arnold the Divine
the word church long forgotten
proving once again
what religion was
and always will be
a group of old drag queens
welshers and chiselers really
who won't pay
what art is worth
The stained-glass windows
briefly flicker
with an audible “Oh no!”
heard throughout the pews
Spirituality rekindled
at midnight en masse solipsism
God can't be seen
if the screens flicker

Siddhartha has his one mouthful
of rice with pine nuts and onion
with an infantile Cabernet
He takes off his necklace
of clay beads
spattered with reds and yellows
then hands them to me
I have nothing to give back
putting down my pen
to start crying
with my head bowed
looking at
the orange breechcloth
up around my fat stomach
I pull on the threads
coming undone on the front
that hangs down mid-thigh
I'm thinking of gratitude
and Squirtboy's plastic bottles
of hand-ground oil paints
squeezed at the ceiling
with extra drops
falling into his eyes
A couple of bitches sing
something amazing
from the Marriage of Mozart
It only lasted 16 seconds
All that remains
this far in the future
That was that.”
says the announcer
Hey, we found 27 seconds
of someone else singing something
on a broken hard drive,”
he says with amazement
Nothing but the greats
on this station

You plead with me
to let you go
I'm getting tedious
you think
Preserve your memories,”
I say
They're all that's left blank.”
I may have the quote wrong
but it doesn't matter
I tried
Remember this was free
did you think
my space in your head
was worth anything
Me neither
Switch it off
and read a book
printed on special paper
signed and numbered by the author
while it lasts


Barry G. Wick, May 2018

Thursday, May 17, 2018

The True Path




This advice to babies
just out of the birth canal
start breathing
then ask the following questions
What the hell is this
Who the hell are you
Why am I screwing around here
How do I get through
this ridiculous thing called life
When will you
listen to me through this crying
(since all crying is an urge to listen
to the person crying)

The parent now says
just listen and learn
changes the dirty diaper
feeds the baby
helps them walk
gives them clothes
Generally after that
they're on their own

Then the parent
quits listening
quits asking questions
dirties a diaper
needs to be fed
stops walking
and cries from loneliness
until the urge to stop breathing
to go away from it all
overcomes everything


Barry G. Wick



Monday, May 14, 2018

American Murder


This is set to music
Maurice Ravel's Bolero
At the first of the music
he buys his hopped-up
semi-automatic rifle
made to hold magazines
containing up to 30 bullets
each neatly on top
of a brass shell
containing a fast-burning powder
ready to be lit by a primer
in the base
when the firing pin is released
by the trigger

He carries six magazines
in his vest
with one magazine in the gun
He has over two hundred bullets
ready to be fired
in the direction
of his sworn enemies
which are his family
his friends
his neighbors
doctors and nurses
school children
anybody

There is no thought in his action
unlike the saxophone player
and the trumpets
that slowly build their anger
at the composer
who is making them
repeat the melody
over and over
The violins are plenty miffed
They fire their notes
softer than the timpani
but still in Ravel's direction

Our hero steps
from the door of his rusty pickup
carrying his weapon
at the entrance of the mall
Some shoppers see this
and start screaming
as his finger plays it's melody
on the trigger
sounding strangely
like snare drums
with their raspy thump
The music swells
as people fall
with each report

First its an old lady
with her grandson
then the grandson
Behind him is a baby
in a stroller
with its parents
who fall screaming
He turns to see a store clerk
behind a counter
adjust the earrings
on a display
Down she goes
shot in the chest

He advances further
past stores filled
with the world's merchandise
ready to fill the pockets
of the poor and wealthy alike
with monetary bounty
People scatter before him
trying like ducks
to fly from a pond
spooked by the sound of a gun
It's open season on Americans

Soon the tally grows
to ten or fifteen
he's lost count
in his murderous fun
Now he's in the main hall
filled with shoppers
on this Saturday
Many look in the direction
of this explosive noise
wondering what it might be
Then seeing the flashes
with widening eyes
Their day on earth is ending
Their stories streak
across the mall floor
in red rivers

He is in a crescendo
building the inevitable
pile of victims
that has become a regular
fixture of freedom
There is no stopping
his switch from an empty
to a full magazine of death
All the musicians are falling
having spent themselves silly
in an orgiastic economy
falling one by one
fueled by oil
fueled by gas
fueled by explosions
fueled by printed paper
fueled by greed
fueled by need
fueled by the seeds of hate
fueled by the deeds of fate
fueled by the reaching
fueled by the teaching
fueled by the sinister
fueled by the minister
fueled by wild hunger
fueled by this violent thunder

The tally flashes on his screen
for less than a second
twenty-six dead and thirty-one
wounded and crying
A mall guard steps from a store
behind him
to put a bullet in his brain

America is saved
America the brave
America secured
America inured


Barry G. Wick


Tuesday, May 8, 2018

The Required Response



When is this going to change
my love
I've been waiting for you
in my dreams
in my waking hours
when I'm involved with minutia
I've asked others
to look for you
though neither of us
knows what you look like

I've tried over and over
to find you
and every time
others have put themselves
between us
Sometimes I've been too critical
perhaps pushing you away
or being cruel
That's a specialty of mine
I know that others
have not approved of your kind
or my kind
giving me a reason
to let you go
knowing full well
I'd have to look for you again

Looking through music and art
and books I've read
you're not there
I've scanned thousands of photos
hoping to see you
but the ones I see are out of reach
for a man my age
for a man my size
for a man of my qualities
for a man who is deperate
for a man
with whom to be
throughout my day

This message is being sent to you
in the only way I now know
My door is open
to greet you
who has
the required response


Barry G. Wick

Thursday, May 3, 2018

Dear Mother 2018


Four and half years ago
I was with you
when you left
a hole in my heart
one of many you gave me
over the years

Your dreams for me
were never fully realized
In your zeal to produce
a pianist
you never saw
who you forgot to see
My college professors
found the stiffness
of my playing
was the resistance I created
to your forceful desires
Music should be a joy
discovered by a child
without tears and fear
Obedience and the need to please
were created
rather than the wild abandon
of a wondrous melody

The desire to create
was never connected
to me
It was on a chain
through your shoving
me to the piano
plus your insistence
I play for everyone
to pet your ego

It is my later years
I truly discover
the joy of music
Now I hear

Still I am grateful
to push aside all bitterness
to find my soul
can dance
despite my octopus knees

As Mother's Day
approaches in my 66th year
your better qualities
are remembered
so that I can miss you
so that I can forget
that you forgot who I was
always and
in your last ten years
when I cared for you
when I kept you
in your own home
to see
the changing seasons
along the creek
in the black mountain hills
of Dakota


Barry G. Wick

Poem of Night to Day



The night rain
sparkled on the screen
Tornado siren memory
from the early evening
kept me awake
until the peace of night
returned me to sleep

Morning brought
the popping of leaves
across the barrier of trees
that had allowed the moon
to procure my gaze

Summer has arrived early
with winter's abrupt end
“Tapiola” by Sibelius
with its storms and resolution
brings the lush green
of this new season
into a tepid focus


Barry G. Wick

Thursday, April 26, 2018

Cruel Memory


The past in all its permutations
The loss of word
Friends who should have been kept
Friends who were tossed away
Temporary loves
Long term loves
The never loved and wanted to love
The punches of regret
Things wanted to be forgotten return
Things wanted to be remembered disappear
Ripples of time that change memories
once truth become lies
then lies become truth
Cruel memory is a criminal
that murders what we think
and destroys what we are
from then on


Barry G. Wick

Sunday, April 22, 2018

Incomplete



Here is the myth
that doesn't believe in me
There are magic legends
that surround it in amazing colors
It is sometimes a feeble blue
on the edge of purple
I'm not orange enough
for it to accept my myths
that cling to my hands and feet
They clash like demons
at the edge of my driveway
that send a shower of sparks
alternating numbers from one to five
I keep repeating the legends
but never get to see the myth itself
I want it to be red
but that's me
I dance in my breech cloth
that is patterned
in orange and yellow
Jealous natives who dance
in their ghost suits
pat me on the shoulder
in expectation of some new legends
that create a different set of numbers
This is the essence of the myth
It can't accept me yet
This is what shames me

Barry G. Wick

Saturday, March 31, 2018

Haiku of Thanks, for all who donate

Two friends gave money
at this time of silent need
Rainbow Washingtons


Barry G. Wick