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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Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Bird Box

falling off the back of the house
a box for birds
with its base separating
the paint disappears with each storm
birds and yellow jackets have fought over
this failing human construction
even when the roofers
added one sheet of shingle
there was no improvement
and still
they come year after year
to call it home
to raise their young
to return to where they
were born
where their parents
were home and were born
and I think
of my own children
who have started
their own families
in other boxes
slowly falling
from good to bad repair
as they age
and even with the addition
of a new roof
their homes will fall to the ground
and what children
will want that home one day
to raise their young and can't return
we all want to return home
we all want to be where
the generations
become who we are
flying out to catch a worm
to feed our young
to return next year
to the comfortable old box
that holds our memory

copyright (c) 2010 by Barry G. Wick

Thursday, December 23, 2010

The Turkeys

The turkeys cross
the fish road
one at a time
claiming the air
for the short jump
and then they gather
beneath the trees
to search for seed
the leftovers of a thousand deer
and squirrels
who still think
there might be apple up high
they've milled around
outside the south window
not knowing they were watched
and my lips tremble
as they believe in their freedom
their lack of responsibility
without really knowing what they have
on a cold day
And I am behind glass
just enough of a barrier
from the world
feeling ever so frightened
of what is really out there
and knowing it will come for me
one day
that something beyond the glass
without a name or shame
so what if my hand stops my lip
it can't stop the deep shake
that brings me the depth of a browline
and the tightening of my throat
not that I had anything to say out loud
not that I had anything

copyright (c) 2010 by Barry G. Wick