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, February 29, 2012

I Am Hansel

Winter sun lays upon these south windows
unwashed for years
upon which tree shadows make it easy
to see through the filmy dirt

if the shadows were not there
the windows would be a mottled white
opaque to all outside or inside

seeing though air is the same
the shadows of tree or window frame
even others hide what is beyond
what is beneath

unlike the shadows of tree branches
that make the window dirt invisible
we have no such luck
when it comes to shadows that fall
upon the interior walls of our eye

so we must do our best to create
an understanding of our world
inside of minds

quickly, someone flash a light
through all these illusions
and give me what I want
a chance to see beyond what is here
even if only for a minute
so that I may know

the difference between what I see
through dirty windows
and what my eye tells me
is in front and beside me
because I do not trust
anything I see anymore
and even less of what is inside me
or at the end of my arm
fingers probing for something solid
in a dark world
where photons
are the magic of witches
and every wall is made of poisoned sugar

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick
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