Helen Wickes: California Poets Part 9, Three Poems

Helen Wickes

December 22nd, 2025

California Poets: Part IX

Helen Wickes

Three Poems

ANOTHER ELEGY

So, admit it, you see yourself as Mikey,

looming over his older brother, and

I’ve got family still quoting the scene,

cheerfully, words, intonation, gesture,

dark-eyed baby bro Mikey mouthing his cheesy lines

with such quiet, nasty power, while John Cazale,

slung back in the chair, legs akimbo, stares up,

slack-jawed, protesting, I’m not dumb,

I’m, and his voice wobbles, words stumbling out,

I’m shmart, and he’s thumping his pigeon breast,

brilliant John Cazale, with so few years to live,

and me, I’ve always been Fredo,

especially with the image unfolding in his

poor, dumb brain, what’s coming next,

you see, feel it behind his eyes, the boat

gently rocking on the lake at dusk,

bullet to the back of his head, kid brother standing

at the window, impassive, gazing out, was he

smoking? Can’t remember, anyhow, Mikey, you,

a small-town conductor, lowering your baton.

GETTING THROUGH THE DAY

Don’t be stupid, don’t forget your

Passwords, your house keys, don’t

Lose your brain over trivia. The stuff,

It happens, so suck it up, be kind, costs

Nothing, and don’t be a bitch, don’t be

A stupid bitch, don’t be a stupid fucking

Bitch, oops, left out, little bitch. Anyone,

Your ma, your da, your brothers ever use

Such language at you? Ha. Not from

Da, he said moron, half-wit, retard, idiot,

Imbecile, but those others, be my guest.

Don’t lose the crumpled road map home.

Whatever you love, hang onto it.

WALKABOUT

Two trails diverged in the desert canyon,

both lightly traveled, but one heading up

over rough, dry waterfalls, with the promise

of a palm grove oasis, but, craving respite,

not struggle or challenge, we followed

our noses, roped in by the musky, post-rain

resin of the creosote bush, and at our feet,

white primrose, blue phacelia, as one

huge smoke tree loomed, its silvery branches

a cloud of purple blossoms months

from now, when we’re far away, recalling

a late-spring morning saunter, and

how lucky to walk together along this,

a chosen trail, never knowing what’s next.

Author Bio:

Helen Wickes has studied Italian for many years and enjoys reading Italian novels and poetry. Four books of her poetry have been published, and several of her poems, translated into Italian by Pina Piccolo, appeared on sagarana.net and lamacchinasognante.com. Many of her poems, including those from her unpublished manuscript Transit of Mercury, are found on thedreamingmachine.com. She has worked with Donald Stang and Pina Piccolo on many of their translations of Italian poetry. Wickes is a long-time member of Sixteen Rivers Press, a publishing collective in Northern California. She grew up on a horse farm in Pennsylvania, worked as a psychotherapist, and lives in Oakland, California.