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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Tuesday, September 6, 2011

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
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