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, March 6, 2013

The Voice

Somewhere between
the unheard beep
of a bat
and the low rumble
of the elephant's roll call
the human voice
plays through the silence
of dictionaries
or sitting at desks
in the habitats
of darkness
dreams tossing words
through oblivion

Across the sea by cable
or the alleys of the old
the voices betray
everything we are
though strange
to the rest of our companions
we walk with
yet the dog may know
the meaning through repetition
the chimp by sign and ear

But what does the crow
across the creek
think of this yell
to leave my sleep undisturbed
by the racket so many create

Whatever they say to each other
I'm damn mad
and by their continued bird rants
I'm diminished
to the level of stupid humanity
who can't even fly
without some idiot's contraption
strapped to my back
as it sputters and spews
a smell the ass of a crow
could never fart

So off they fly
in a laugh
at me who thinks
all the world is mine
as I stand on a balcony
to squeak at crows
as the resplendent unseen letters
of this unknown language
explode from my mouth
upon their bothered conversation

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