I now have one regular patron who sends a monthly contribution to keep this poet alive. Yes, per usual, I'm a poor poet...and for some reason I'm a poor poet in its many meanings...but someone like my patron loves my work. If you become a sustaining patron I can guarantee you'll see writing from me on a regular basis. I do edit my mad. But I don't always hit it out of the park. At least my patrons have a chance to select from all my work...and they become the editors rather than the small-minded who often edit magazines and journals. Poet James Wright,one of his last books, held by two editors for the longest time that his wife Anne took to another publisher who snapped it up and it became a huge success. Now I don't have people like Robert Bly, Don Hall, or their equals I can send my poems to for a review before I put them on the internet or send to any publisher. I believe in opening up my "horde" for the world to critique or love. And it's expensive to send out my work, getting only rejection, so it's money I don't have for food, or the electric bill. Please send what you can via my email: via Paypal. I thank those who support me one way or another.


Thank you to those who have contributed via Paypal to support my writing. My account at Paypal is the same as my email: rikwrybac(at)

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Friday, July 31, 2009

I Dreamed of Carl

I Dreamed of Carl  (There are links in the poem I did not put there and don't approve of...and I'm very upset they are inside the poem)

I dreamed of Carl
At a concert up in Deadwood,
I go into the bar and he's sitting on top of it.
I go to him and throw my arms around him
for the longest time.
What have you been doing?
His is music now, it seems.
He's with some guy
who was associated with
the New Christy Minstrals
And it seems to be nothing.

Then Carl goes on a plane ride
with some man
on a rikkety ol' thing
and falls off.
I search
and at the edge of a mud pit
someone notices
blood on top
and I leap in to
feel in the mud
and find his arms
and pull him up.
With some clear water I wash
off the mud.
He's alive
and he's okay.
I haven't checked for wounds.
but he's breathing and okay.

I wake up. Longing.

Leave me alone or come back.
Don't just stay at the edge of my dreams.
If you come back, stay.
If you don't, stay away.

Each dream is a torture
of an old love, my only one.
In Chicago nearly 20 years ago
and I'm still in love...I'd still be in love
if the silence hadn't grown deafening.

Copyright 2006 (C) by Barry G. Wick
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