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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Saturday, July 18, 2015

The Fish: The Magnificent Three Dozen



These purchased fish never had a chance:
sold as “feeder” fish they would have been
lunch for a turtle or something larger
than themselves in someone else's tank,
hiding from the lumbering monster
that would devour them with toothy mouth.

Three dozen came home on a small budget
from a filthy tank filled with the dead
sucked into the screen at the back
of an overcrowded pick-up racing through
a watery canyon of hell they never thought
they'd be a part of from the day of frydom.

In these first days of glorious frenzy in clear space
beyond their wildest dream should they have a dream
of something clean they swim in fifty-five gallons
of new, un-peed haven as it came from the well,
which sat for a week disgorging its chlorinated murder
before these little hearts burst racing glass to glass.

As it comes to all who trek across the filtered gravel,
death, dismembering, eaten, picked-at, broke-bellied,
they float lifeless beyond their mouth-chewed horrors.
What began as the Magnificent Three Dozen
has fallen into a single digit family pecking
black gravel in search of fallen, netted heroes.

Expectations of those beyond this page may demand
the poet make some comparison via metaphor
to their slippery lives as readers, blistering to and fro
in furious pursuit of bits of falling flake
that rain from a lighted sky as they dash to pluck
the tiny planks of life-giving sustenance from air:

To hell with that.





Barry G. Wick
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