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, September 1, 2012

The Blunders

The Blunders are guests in this house
who live all around me
They touch my hair
They stroke my hands
but mostly they just rattle around
like a marble in a tin can
alerting my soldier mind
of their forage into my territory

Often, they come in the dark
in dreams
strange allegories blended
with the pinpoints of stars
and wisps of smoke and dew
as hard as I might try
I cannot get them to leave
They are embroidered on my clothes
and often sneak beneath my skin

The older I get the more annoying
they become
all of them are the child's mind
I once possessed
when I'd just as soon forget
them at the side of a country road
an unwanted pet wandering
without the love of family

Oh, don't think of me as cruel
they have taught me morality
patience of thought and deed
the importance of passing time
and distant colors I'd thought were gray
but come back to blaze
through my thoughts
fires burning out of control
I only want doused
but no, they don't put out
they put me out and I am annoyed
by their constant caresses

Copyright 2012 (c) by Barry G. Wick

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