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)

Follow by Email

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

The Other in Flames

“I am the way, the truth and the life.”
Yeshua as transcribed by someone now called John.

The Other in Flames

There is always some teacher
some guru
some self who thinks
in a twisted way
to find the moment of your weakness
when you will accept what is outside
inside of you
and they never let you go

It is the gesture of their hand
their counting of fingers
their conversation for which you paid
their love their friendship their manner
that spark of what they are
and as you uncover your layers
they scale your walls
that protect the nuggets of soul
you are already

You are your own traitor
who walks away from the wooden horse
to sleep under the common moon
who thinks we are all the same
under layers of skin the soul
one and unending
wake up and burn it now
for the soldier chisels his way out
to kill you in your sleep

And what of mothers and professors
who clutch at you with their scowls
their spanking thoughts revealed
when all the time their goal
in not the same
as what you know inside
of what you are
separate alone with yourself
in silence and perfect
without these words
you should throw away

Copyright © 2011 by Barry G. Wick

The Silent Wave

In the great need for silence
the sound of water
low and high tones
in its race across stones
that bump and thump
in the dark night.
And the voices that sometimes
speak from the curls and eddy
a stray line of remembrance
some phrase from the past
as if someone is really speaking
and you think
you've heard a voice
when it's only water
it's holy movements
speaking of past lives
telling us of the people
who played in it's reflections
stared as it passed them on a shore
on the edge of it universe of cycles
the waves of water that wash over death
the pounds of water that smooth rock to sand
and soon it all becomes
a blur in the background
a constant drone of submergence
the play of drum, string and voice
horns of drops and slides of invisible bones
down which we travel to a forgiving sea
sometime in our future sometime
as it all goes away through
valleys and canyons
stripping the flesh
from this loving earth
from this lonely imperfect body

Copyright © 2011 by Barry G. Wick