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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Tuesday, March 24, 2015

The Appointment


I have made an appointment
to talk with myself
at a palace full of mirrors

The secretary ushers me in
to sit in the chair
where Buddha sat on the floor

The mirrors are ahead of me
but to the far left
are windows looking out

I am given the instructions
that I will be late
to this meeting for which I hoped

When I finally arrive
I have been thinking
about everything in my life

I tell myself that I must believe
in strange musical notes
that keep playing behind me

I lay flowers at my feet
that suddenly walk
in a circle around me

Under other circumstances
I would walking out
because the interview exhausts me

Over my left shoulder the windows
open by themselves
when the flowers tickle my toes

My feet begin to move me
into the morning light
where the music is loudest

Hold me close I demand
as the garden beckons
in a concerto of perfumes

A bell rings loudly three times
when Buddha breaks the chair
to the horror of the secretary

I float near the open window
expecting nothing less
the meeting ends abruptly

The floor meets my singing feet
when the answer flows
that I am not hired for this position

The interview did not go well
as I walk through music
grabbing notes to lessen my fall


Barry G. Wick




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