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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Monday, August 31, 2015

Upon the Rising of His Prince

Awakened from a nap
the slow gradient of thought
pitches forward from dreams
to view the court

from six now to five counted
swimming peasants
of this variety
not easily seen after
only three days of this monarchy
spotted on the bottom
a bit of orange fin
now still
slightly hidden by a tube
of rising bubbles

while others float and frolic
without innertubes or
pop-top cans of Meade

one minute leads to three
just on the edge of the dais
with visions of nets and garbage cans
whirling about this throne
of aches and haze
for the King

oh brilliant light of creation
shines and up (it) RISES!
from three minutes
of a nap just the same
as (its) liege lord

now six counted

upon the news
His Majesty rises
from his afternoon retreat
with no attendant in sight
to move the week's leavings
from the castle
to the bin at the edge
of the drawbridge
thence to the curb

for Tuesday be not
Solent Green day
'tis not made of fish

whence on the morrow, good friend,
the roughshod vassal shall dismount
from his hungry white and monstrous stead
with gaping arse
which consumeth the remnants
of the weekly celebrations
sans one courtly guppie
crowned a Prince most valiant
for 'tis lived to joust
in armored contests
of fishy (manliness?)

oh dear gODD

Barry G. Wick