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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Saturday, July 21, 2012

The Crib

Awake in the dark hours
staring at a bright screen
when I
refuse to go back to sleep

this is my inner child
as defiant as ever
even now to me
as an adult

younger I would have
been spanked once
and dragged off to my crib
by one arm
and the lid tied shut
in more than a dozen knots
by mother who knows
how many to tie
to keep me busy
until she's ready to get
me up

and now I have
untied all the knots
to care for her
nearly 94
tied in her own knots
not sure where she is
in a desparate effort
to get out of the crib
she fell into
the crib she made
all by herself

the older I get
the more I understand
the concept of karma
and wonder what awaits me
for all the trouble
I caused my children
It is a knot in my brain now
that keeps me awake
and even lucid as I am
can't untie the last one
wet with my tears
held fast
by my fingers that fumble
in the early morning
before the bright screen
this child cannot leave
these fears of the dark
future of my childhood
as I wait for anyone
to untie me from my prison
that I made for myself

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick
Follow this link to hear the poet read this poem.

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