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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Saturday, November 2, 2013

As Close as I am to You

Here is a sofa to my right
I sit in a soft chair
to his left
Am I drinking
for those were the days
when I thought all one had to do
to be a poet was drink
smoke some weed
and splatter any ol' words on paper
No question about it
I was a fake then
and not entirely certain
that I am not a fake now
The color of the sofa
is light brown or dirty yellow
in my memory
but I am there
not aware of what the future
will bring for me
or the man who sits to my right
being ever so gentle
with a younger man in the prime
of growth
Today I only wish
some of his teacher
had rubbed-off on me
as if Theodore Roethke
was pollen floating around the room
falling on little poets who will
flower in many hues

I am asleep sitting there
in that time of the past
not even waking slowly
or in any state of a being dance
though I try
sitting next to Richard Hugo
who teaches me more now
whose teacher makes my head
butter it's brain across the language

These warriors accost me
to go back into that past
to remember what it was
that made me grow into now

Richard I am 62
when you died at 59
with a small shelf of books
for me to recreate on my own

And there you are
living in my memory
surrounded by others
who have similar dreams
to take them into the pain
of Life magazine pictures
where you looked so hurt
The smear of ink on paper
from your arteries
the ball turret gunner
on the runway
of poetry

So I can only dream
in the shade recalled
of your girth
and smile
me now
not having any books
to prove
the youth of my years
me older now than you
beyond the moment
when all you left us
were the recordings
I made in a workshop
given now away
to where you taught
so many sculptures
in a language
which one day
in ten thousand years
will not mean as much
as they do to me today

and your ridiculous assignment
to live longer than you
to weep for both of us

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick

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