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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Friday, September 14, 2012

Love in the Internet World

There is a light breeze
through the spruce
The apple trees droop
laden with ripening fruit
that only the squirrels and deer
will eat to keep away
the cold of winter
that approaches in just two months

From far down the wires
there are tentative notes
from those who want friendship
perhaps more
Their world is desparate
for a real touch
a message that will stir them
into heights of emotion
the sense that someone cares
I feel no such need to raise
the heat of my heart

It is enough for me to see
the first sun painting the tops
of the trees to the south
as darkness receeds to the north
in this canyon
the last darkness of a cool night
The mountain rises across the creek
where trees begin their pirouette
into yellow and reds

The words can be sent
but not the feeling
of the twitches in my muscles
from the chill of a fall morning
And soon I shall return to sleep
with another day of the same
day after day and the repetition
of the same words the same smiles
the same questions
from the aged head I guard

It is not love from distant souls
or readers of the lines that tumble
across the streambed of my life
I tell the world
peace is what I need each day
in moments all by myself
when no one wants me

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

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