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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Tuesday, January 22, 2013

A Note to Someone Who Doesn't Feel Loved

This is a happy day
because of this discovery

Laugh into your hands
then write
love is missing
on your onion skin soul

Perhaps love plays a childhood game
of hide and seek

Was the count
to one hundred completed
as all the little lovers
escaped into their hidden selves

or was love disguised
to the point of invisibility
a camouflaged bug on the bark
of a tree
or it crawls beneath rocks
swims in dirty water
ready to attach itself
a leech

You face New York City
with hope to make
it's world see you
when it's blind
to pictures you take
to show you are
what it wants

You might be better going home
to the small town
from where you came
The nightlife will be horrible
The people more than real
each digging their cisterns
ready to catch
your love as it falls
from the cloud
you live on

these drops
will nourish new growth
in the soil of your dreams
something concrete and steel
never could
and who knows
I might just pop up
from this cracked mud
ready to kiss your feet
your sequined feet

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

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