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, December 26, 2012

Familiar Music

“When the music's over turn out the light”--Jim Morrison

Often the music is the same
a few tunes that express
this constant mood
like the stuck records of old days
that would regurgitate a single word
or phrase as many times
as possible
until the finger slaps
the needle to stop it
bad needle naughty record

except now
it's possible to have
one or more
musical moods play
until either the gun goes off
or something breaks
the concentration of the player

two songs today
repeated ad nauseum
were it possible to end
all this
the music would play
as the soul slipped
into the expanding universe
until the electric was cut
or someone found
the remnants of a final act

that can never happen

who would even call
or check to see
months perhaps
until a concern revealed
the truthful corruptions
of an evacuated head
its dessicated last thought
upon the wall

what chance
that the exploding brain
creates the written score
in blood upon the wall
of music heard
the final second

as the universe
repeats itself
this scene might play
again with theme and variations
or create
the greatest symphony
this self-possessed victim
would never write
or go unrecognized
as a musical score
by crime cleaners
in protective white suits
lost greatness destroyed
by chemical swipes

so somewhere this orchestra
that you cannot hear
plays on unknown instruments
the music
of desperate love that soars
through an audience
so suddenly come to grief
by the story of this piece
the entire house is gassed
to end the shrieks and sorrow
the flood of instant tears
that flows through the aisles

the symphony of suicide
only one performance
where even the orchestra
sees the music for the first time
and despite its vast creation
five movements with a choir
no performance has ever made it
to the second movement
or passed its initial
8 bar reading

it must be difficult
to populate so depressed
an orchestra and chorus
surely someone just had a baby
got a new job
bought a few new recordings
to play over and over
over and over
over and over

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick

{{It's an unusual poem.  The question was asked if I'm alright.......and no place within the poem do I suggest that am the potential was a train of thought based upon some listening I was doing this morning...that turned into a dark, albeit morbid examination and surreal set of images....after I wrote it I was assisting mother in her bedroom and since we had no internet this AM....I had put on a large playlist that included The Doors....and the Morrison line came up...almost as if there was some sort of muse working here. I am quite alright and have NO intentions. I have much to live for...much. So I appreciate the concern....there are dark corners of my mind that must given light during creative times. They are examined and tossed away as easily as one would toss away a used tissue. NO basis in reality.   I'm quite fine. I write...I am a writer. Not famous, never likely to be famous....but one could also ask the same question of Steven King....}}

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