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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Sunday, October 25, 2015

Our Friendship

 (for CR)

It began somewhere in the dark
of grade school classrooms
kid drawing projects on the walls
mother's cookies on birthdays
milk and nap-time in kindergarten
A red brick building with a flat roof
upper graveled playground
for the older kids fourth through sixth
the lower for the little kids
Miss Widebody had the little little ones
in their own
Yeah, that's cruel but I can't remember
her name right now as the past
slips away in confusion and loneliness
but she was patient and sweet
The principal was a tall rancher
who would be tall even now
making an in-town living
for payments his acres couldn't budge
My friend lived on the next street north
I lived over the hill
The folks gave me a camera
that captured faces with no names
including his
I could not forget his

His father was killed
serving in the Air Force
My father killed golf balls
on Wednesday afternoon
We played war as kids
to make a machine gun nest
that looked across my gravel driveway
out of boards covered with dirt
There were Germans out there somewhere
I was descended from Germans
My college didn't teach machine gun
He saved his own life
in Vietnam
with the real thing

Barry G. Wick

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