Patron

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 work...like 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: rikwrybac@yahoo.com via Paypal. I thank those who support me one way or another.

THANK YOU!

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)yahoo.com

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Saturday, March 23, 2013

In Your Own Skin

((This poem spoken by the author))


Whose skin were you going to wear?
The prophet is no longer available.
There have been plenty of them
and most have grown much bigger
than the flesh they wore in life.

Poet has been over done
since so many made the ultimate
statement by jumping ship
or outliving their youth
when they were passionate.

Parent was given up some time back
when the word queer attached itself
to a torn psyche full of guilt
now past history of torn rainbows
but still it's what was learned.

Protestant seems to fit
without all the religious baggage
carried on a long train
full of previous nailers who now yell
something disrespectful in a crowded tomb.

So, now to run out of “P” words
means a start where the alphabet
separates itself from grunts
and gestures with means unknown
though some were wrinkled when worn.

To look at these hands that pound
out a simple language
with gaps that search
a forgetful noggin for the “right” dictation,
the scars belong here to no other.

So what is found is owned:
a cloth of memory that surrounds
all that has pretended and accepted
this year of simple messages,
this skin that passes its owner's test.



Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved.
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