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 25, 2015

For My Seasons

The earth suspended in space
tilted as it is
creates the variations
in parts of the year seasons

People create their own
progressive visions
often more than four
certainly more than ten

the direct shine of babies
unashamed of its breath
as the teachers will claim
that sin is in the first

a first look at another person
to know their difference
from fingers to feet
with taught skin or wrinkled

a knowledge of love
the depth of its pain and pleasure
as wide as a night sky
or as a rock freshly cracked

the inside and the outside of space
what is mine and yours
as if it somehow didn't belong
to the whole of burning leaves

the hair in a comb
some of them with color
a first day betrothed
or gray as skin in final stillness

these are offered as some
of a trip around the sun
measured and never the same
as leaves turn to earth

So many to glory in
as music winds it way
up the spine through skin
scintillating in a bold breeze

Barry G. Wick
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