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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Monday, April 2, 2012

The Old

It is darker than normal
on this windy day
stone wears grain by grain
even new leaves are ripped from branches
as the air sneaks through tiny cracks
forced by invisible fingers
that sing in ghostly moans
the fireplace flue squeaks
as even here something tries to get in

it is The Old
that pries the gaps
between the outside and in
it comes for us
laying some extra fat here
a wrinkle there
a forgotten set of keys
god knows where

cracks open in the finish
of the furniture
a bit of paint peels unnoticed
and this lessened light
is pondered by a murky brain
to suggest that cataracts
begin to form on drier eyes

on these days The Old prowls
to scratch its grim messages
across this place
where even the water
slows its acheful meander
as its joints creak
through a rocky canyon

On such days I am cranky
enough to think I can
argue with this vagabond
that splits the ages
into torn down walls
and roofs that sag

The Old laughs
as it turns
hopeful into hopeless
I am your future it says
in a voice filled with chasms
and featureless plains of sand
I am what you fought to get
away from in your mother's womb
I am the torn skin of your first cut
I am the regret of lost friendships
from senseless words
I am the given on days
of sadness and rankor
I am The Old who tears your pages
and turns them to dust
I am these words
whose meaningful gaps
widen into the misunderstood

And as my wind sings to you
you close your eyes
for the last time
for the very last time

this is my victory

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