Patron

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 work...like 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: rikwrybac@yahoo.com via Paypal. I thank those who support me one way or another.

THANK YOU!

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)yahoo.com

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Saturday, March 13, 2010

The Death of Silence

The Death of Silence

I won't go back to teenage years
when vengeful reverends spoke
so clearly that I cowered low
and took their hateful yoke

Now I stand to age old books
to say how wrong they are
and burn down thought long in my head
the flames seen from afar

I am me and nothing's wrong
no matter what you say
I won't step back from fighting fronts
or kneel with you to pray

I'm just the way God made me
and that won't change a bit
I'm gay, I'm queer, I'd love a man
and for that I take a hit.

I have a right to live
love's been my lifelong fate.
so kill me now if that's your joy
I stand to face your hate.

Remembering some olden day
when all we did was talk
and never held a sign up high
or write on streets in chalk

I'm nostalgic for the march
and fighting in the streets
I'd rather crack some heads
than die between the sheets

Now should the future's child
need same-sex love to live
I've stood along the ramparts high
with just my life to give.


copyright (c) 2010 Barry G. Wick
(((Yeah, I know, and I don't like rhyming poetry much either, but this one came out this way...go figure)))
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