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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Monday, January 21, 2013

The Cocktail Party

The hour is late after mother
is put to bed
Windows reflect this room
where the conversation
turns into buzz and laughter
spent here away from the world

This imagined is a cocktail party
with others in conversation
about their stumble in love
success at work
the political topics of this cold day
how to make palatable chip dip

The other guests sip their daiquiris
the advertised beer their fingers
unconsciously harvested
from a liquor store cooler
Martinis olives pool at the end
of Soviet flagged toothpicks

Soft piano melodies rinse the room
of any darkness
Then a trumpet plays familiar notes
this handsome crowd notes
with a nodded head and gestures
of green blue and red stereo light

This imagination is still work for me
since my ear is cocked
towards the dark hallway
and her bedroom
These invisible guests surround
this silent observer who just listens

Individuals could be described
a blue turtleneck hopelessly
out of style
mustachioed black leather jacket
with worn elbows
a younger man receiving glances

But none of them are really here
despite my need to be with others
while mother slips
into darkened dreams
This is my party alone
in deep blue shallows

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick
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