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, June 10, 2013

The Nuisances of A Day

Within the last hour
pollen from the spruce trees
flew in clouds
above the back lawn
It coats any surface
brazen enough
to face the sky

Summer heat returned today
for the first time it seems
since this year began
Mother's range of comfort
must be maintained
so we pay for electricity
to warm her too much
in the winter
and cool her down in summer
I could live in both
goosebumps or sweat
my choices are simple

Laundry lays in baskets
to demand organization
What I do
can't be called folding
Woman folds
and man organizes
Yes, this thought seems sexist
but since I play the role
of both man and woman
in the house as I care for Mother
I decide the words I live by

Dust accumulates
always dust
somewhere here are bits of China
that find its way across the world
There must be words for dust
in Mandarin or Cantonese
either way it speaks to me
with unknown vowels
the remnants of dried-out bowels

The kitchen floor
speaks to me in bits of this and that
that fall as I cook
or move the groceries to their
appointed nests
Onions are the worst
always flaking from their nets
to what I think is a clean surface
They shame me as I make breakfast
Stay away from my raisin bran flakes
I scold
my tastes are much too simple

Now a dozen projects stare at me
as they demand some mental attention
this and that
here and there
I shake my head
to wonder what I can do today
beyond my comfortable place
next to Mother
where I protect her
from herself
I tell her what to eat
She forgets she has a left hand
Her right hand holds the tea
I know I shall have to tell her
to take a bite
Of what she'll ask
the banana in your left hand I'll say
It's been there for 20 minutes
while she sorts through
her breakfast items
A lonely banana cries
in her wilderness
with hope to be eaten

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