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Pink triangle necklaces and pins I've made for pride in Davenport, Iowa this weekend.
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We Wear Our History Again
A hundred years ago passed a great world war
In Germany’s years of tears and starvation
One man who served in war as corporal
Began to think about all the times ahead
When the Reich will rise again to rule the world
When all the problems will be solved
Deep in his heart was hate and anger
For all the people he could blame for death
The jews, the Catholics, the queers,
The Roma, The Russians, The Pols.
His list grew long as seeds of hate fuel his quest
To rid the world of the problem people
We all know what happen after he had died
The count was fifty million or more dead
Nations wrecked by a second world war
What didn’t die was that evil man’s thoughts
That have been translated to the world today
Where men now think the home of the free is wrong
One group of different people are now singled
To represent all that’s wrong with America
People with real medical needs are vilified
Given the current atmosphere the laws are made
To stop their care and end the truth about kids
Who call themselves transgendered
Those of us who are queer, gay, lesbian bisexual
Adopt those hated children and adults
Who government leaders once again conspire
What we know and what we see across the land
Has all been seen before in camps fenced in
Where ramps lead to the of walls of murder rooms
Separated by what they are triangles are sewn
Upon their tattered clothes in hateful words of color
Some yellow, red, green, blue, purple, black and grey
But for those men who wear dresses and heels
For the few women who went to camps as lesbians
For the sexual varied a pink triangle was given
Because of all the hate growing in the land of the free
We are singled out for legislative hate
When states make laws most Americans
Don’t even think about as words of hate
Are words of law showing how much they care
Leaving people to nod their heads in support
Even doctors are punished if they try to help
Real diagnoses are left out of the new law
These people have conditions too complicated
To explain to a propagandized people who listen
All day long to hosts on radio and television
Who leave out the truth and the real story
So here we are in the echo of the past
When one man created a world of hate and war
When he had not seen enough of it
Your children will once again wear triangles
Whether real or not upon their clothes and faces
We are once again the children of the Pink Triangle
Barry G. Wick
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Your last breaths seemed painful to me
I am certain of your last thoughts
As mine may be the same as I say
good-bye to the world of pain I created
Speaking to you like Neruda speaks
To his mother would not be possible
I am tired beyond those black years
When I constantly cared for you
I did tell you I loved you as I put
My flabby arm around you that you
Could not put around me like your sister
Who showed me affection I missed
Your mother's words came to me
In missed caresses as you explained
Her cold Norwegian upbringing
And the distance between you and her
What did you get from her in those
Years of vocalizing in Dakota's enclaves
As I remember her in her last year's
I felt little warmth in my failed heart
These vacancies have passed down
To my children and to me doubly
In these years of distance and emptiness
That have been left to me unpolished
Barry G. Wick
Part of nearly 500 poems by this author at
Https://agereasonmistake.blogspot.com
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On the Porch
The winter sun is low
In the warmer afternoon.
I think about
What I sew.
Wispy clouds hang overhead,
The sky's tangled thread.
Snow melts to send
Rivulets of water
Down sides of the street.
Slight wind damage to the home
Next to me has peeled
The skirting down half the side
Which faces me with a reason
To call the office to complain.
No no no. I'm not that sort.
My complaints are about me.
They cover my eyes before sleep
To wonder about all my poor choices
And the basics of my gay life
Or lack of it now.
Old men need partners that began
In the warm days of life
When porches never needed me.
Sunny life follows those days
As two men should follow each other.
I lived in fear of everything around me.
Every thought was a question.
Then the day came I stood for myself.
It was just a minute.
Those seconds have guided these years
Into the quiet and alone.
I make my peace with those I hurt
Many mostly in silence.
There's no one to call.
There's no one to help with dishes
Or to share the handle of a vacuum.
Now the breeze gets colder.
The sun is deep in the West.
So I am needing to find some warmth
Off the porch to be forgotten.
Barry G.Wick
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Evolutionary Tears
Behold! Oh stop with the religious angelisms.
To the future I listen from rhombic speakers.
I float in the air like Caesar's thirty molecules
Brushing through your veoli in search
Of mushroom seeds and rabbit turds.
I am still a being in the time of solar dawns
That tear at atoms releasing their contents,
A bag corn chips scattered on pavement
Trampled by oxen that pull covered wagons
Made of glass and unknown metals.
My descendants settle in cracks
In the concrete of black holes and super giants.
I disturb all conventions with a dedicated thought.
Monster of Motion, be not still at the end.
Your fight against the calm goes on
As it screams for me to hear its familiar octaves.
Barry G. Wick
Part of nearly 500 poems at https://agereasonmistake.blogspot.com
By this unpublished poet.
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Where Seldom is Heard
There are tears
Where only laughter
And smiles should live
People who believe
Love is love
Already know
Hate is hate
There is a search for answers
With deep sighs
And momentary shaking
Does this ever end
For everyone across the world
We are at war with every person
Of every belief
And every status
It is so easy to find something wrong
With the other we do not know
We live in our corners
Where we think safety's wall exists
It's not there
The dead are not there
With death on a classroom floor
At Sandy someplace
In a library at a high school
On a street in a protest parade
At a supermarket
In a tall building
In a nightclub
The names are not vocalized
At the next act of hate
Hundreds are forgotten
Except by those closest
To the grass and dirt
The moment of deepest anger
Or when we think we know
What is best for someone
Bulldozes another garden
For weather beaten stone
To wear away
To disappear in ten thousand years
Only hate
and maybe a little love
Is remembered
Barry G. Wick
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Sunday Morning with Joni Mitchell
We're on the sofa together
She's in Memphis
with the other Egyptians
who built pyramids of music
She says she's sitting in a cafe
and I remind her it's my couch
in sight of corn and beans
in Iowa
I'm thinking about the news
and how I don't miss it
glad the currency of daily life
doesn't gloss over my eyes
Ha—current-cy
I don't know what has happened
in the last four days
and this morning
the world still full of fools
fighting for everything
“A woman must have everything.”
I know about that Joni
I'm beyond it all now
peeking from time to time
into the abyss
falling more slowly
than I did years ago
when I was a young journalist
in college during the war
following the march against
in the middle of wheat and lentils
in the great Palouse
Up and down the hills
filing as it happened reports
just like Edward R.
did from London
except I'm not on CBS
just the college station
wired into the dorms
with 8 listeners
who are reading Shakespeare
and Mao in the same language
from red books
I'm preparing for the day
a cop and a bunch of people
are murdered in Gillette
northeast Wyoming
when I go to the hospital
and am the first to report
live on the air
the policeman is dead
the killer is dead
and a pile of others
as this nut drove
across the town
spreading death
as easily as I put
the eggs on my toast
and the sweet stuff
in my black coffee
You still with me Joni?
You're fading out
as the summer heat of Iowa
makes a cloud fall
out of my freezer
Joni is traveling again
and I think of all the miles
between wherever
that are now so much
wasted dinosaurs
as we head for the end
of civilization that was never civil
as I stare at the changing screen
pictures that change every minute
three boys wrestling
in bright red breechclouts
at some rendezvous of trappers
their parents probably
What do you think Joni
of my tie-dyed loincloth
Yeah nobody cares
as she says “I'll be thinking of you.”
Oh sure babe
She's in her 70s
I'm in my 60s.
“Will you still love me
when I get back to town?”
I'm too young for you sweets
and if I'm looking at guys
in their malos
on some Pacific isle
then you might not be
the right person to cuddle with
“I've got the blues inside...”
Sorry, I know you had your heart set
on me as your man
We both sigh
me in my lonely Iowa
and you in your British Columbia
singing to an old nobody
writing some words
on a glowing screen
ready to get another cup
of Folgers
the only coffee I can afford
and you probably
with those beans
shit from the ass
of some odd cat
expensive beans
ground by natives
with their carved-rock
mortars and pestles
sitting in their loincloths
or is that poi
It doesn't matter any more
I don't know what's going on
as you travel
spilling your words
in ones and zeros
from my computer's CD player
hissing at summer lawns
please my dear
be nice
at least I'm wearing something
and you're jumping
out of my speakers
as naked a poet
as there ever was
while we're kissing in cafes
kissing on main street
rollin' rollin' rock and rollin'
Barry G. Wick
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Take Flight
It's spring
The mother robin
Can only feed worms
To her chicks
Because worms
Were what she'd been fed
When she was a chick^
---
If robins understood advertising
They'd feed M&Ms, Fritos, and Coca Cola
To their chicks
Then there would be fat robins
Laying around unable to fly
---
I wish my mother had fed me worms
Then I'd have been able to fly
Instead of just getting by
Believing everything I see
On glowing screens
Then going into advertising
Telling everyone I'd never met
Believe what I say
You can't fly
You can't fly
_______
Barry G. Wick
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