Thank you to those who support me via my Paypal account: Please consider sending one, two, three, or more dollars a month. I consider myself a "third industrial revolution" poet. My current income is just $1039.00 a month. I receive SNAP and energy assistance. I wish I didn't have to ask the government for help. The government doesn't read my poetry. You do. Out of over 350 poems here on this blog by me, I hope you find one or more you like. It's why I'm asking you for help. Thank you if you can help me monthly.


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)

Follow by Email

Tuesday, May 26, 2015


It's the kind feeling
that any writer gets
if he's got a few muses
that don't seem to put
much effort into their jobs,
kinda like the writer himself
who can't seem to get
off the sofa and go back to work.

He'll come across a piece of writing
that'll simply blows the doors
out of the walls he's built
to keep himself from being successful.

Yeah, that kind of writing.

So all of a sudden he realizes
that's he's never been
entirely grateful
to the muses he does have.
He's got to say thank you
for even the crappiest writing
he's ever done
because somewhere,
someone will find something
he's written that'll blow the doors
out of the walls
of some other writer
who is going through
a crisis of muses.
He'll spend part of his day
thinking how he'd like
to write better
and then he's reminded
that he couldn't give up
the muses he does have
for the ones he doesn't know.

They'd be strangers.
Damn strangers running
around in his head
tapping words he's forgotten
to play with for awhile.
Some of those words
wouldn't fit into any keyhole
of the locks in the doors
now laying on the floor.

So, with a grateful heart
he picks up the doors
to rehang on the frames
that've been damaged.
Get out the screw driver,
the hammer, the chisel,
and the drill.
It's time to go to work
and quit laying
on the sofa
thinking the typer
will put those unfamiliar
words to work,
when the old, comfortable ones
from the muses he knows
will do.

The project will be a mix
of the old and the new.
Adding a muse will mean
finding some new colors
with which to paint
the repaired doors.
How about cerulean.
It's a color word
he's never used
from his new muse.
The old muses are scratching
their beards the way
old men who've let themselves go
stare into oblivion
thinking about something
they've never encountered.
OK, they say, we'll run with it.
The writer pauses to thank
his small committee of helpers
then proceeds to pelt his page
with bravado.
Please people, he writes,
the color was fine, but must
we be celebrating with bravado?
Stuttering, the new muses
and the old muses begin
their next moments
with an “uh, uh, uh!?”
in a combined chorus
that gives the writer
a chance to think
about his next move.
Okay, thank you, thank you,
we're bound to find out
the next phase

Barry G. Wick

Post a Comment