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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Sunday, August 19, 2012

Of Oaths and Darkness


I remember when I signed
my oath
oh not a signature
because I did not know
how to write

it was what I saw
bright lights
the first feel of hands
the vague images
of first experience

they come to me now
from 60 years ago
remembered visions
from what I believe
was my birth
in a hospital not far
from what would be
my first home
on a gently rising street

first memory
of a promise to live
in the light
and away from the darkness
and yet life has a way
of showing us those first visions
though the darkness
that surrounds us in the years
that follow

the haze of the foggiest bridge
the dull closeness of a wet rubber glove
things seen and felt
and yet somehow eclipsed
surrounded by a halo
through which we stumble
not drunk yet inebriated
with an overwhelming sadness
as if one is walking
through a cemetary
filled with family

it is the oath we who live have signed
to go on through this field
to return to the doorway
of the closed room
from where we came
to which we promise to return
enlightened aware bemused
filled with laughter and sadness
a giant tank filled with beads of life
blended into the fullness
of debilitating age
whose promise has been fulfilled


Copyright © 2012 by Barry G Wick


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