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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Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Prisoner's Room

As the morning sun streams through dirty windows
the patches of sun reveal the cart of unfolded clothes
parts of the desk
the inside of the lamp shade
the top of the satellite receiver
hard to look at glints on the turntable
the front of the couch
a metallic camera next to batteries
the wooden table with a candle and snuffer
a Chinese miniature scene carved in wood
dust everywhere

All these things in this prisoner's cell
where the guard quietly sleeps
some 25 feet away
and yet I am the guard
and the prisoner both
who watches the branches slap each other
on a windy day
and the sun on things
never found in a real jail

So I am both
the split personality of elder care
who keeps the doors locked
the prisoners fed
the uniforms washed
the beds made
and the floors scrubbed
and all for what purpose
to someday walk free
to explain why I didn't have a job
for so many years
to end all this
to go to someplace else
and some other life
all unknown to me now
as if I'd just walked outside the walls
from the darkest cell
in the deepest canyon
that man creates for himself

we are our own wardens
unlocking the doors
for ourselves the prisoner
the sun on our faces
as if it were the first time
pushed out of the womb

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick
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