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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Thursday, October 8, 2015


A poet awakens from his dream

Before the paper records it
he wanders to his toilet
to let the night's words drain
He checks his underwear
for poetic skidmarks
Yes his dreams are written there

The fog of darkness hustles him
to the kitchen where he takes
his first medicine
a pill of words prescribed
by poetic doctors
Dishes from a poetic dinner
sit in the sink
so he draws the water
into his well of words
adding soap to billow
over its edges
He wants his poem to be clean
He rushes to feed more words
to his fish who are hungry

he tests his blood to see if
he is still worthy enough
to record the memories of the dreams
that sleep has stored
He presses buttons to open
the paper on a screen
The pens on the tips of his fingers
splash ink where the clouds lift
as the sun enters
his drifting storm of letters
that create the gibberish
that poets always recollect

This poet's dream has him rushing
to his mentor to retell a story
that never happened
of a gathering of poets along a river
where they spilled their words
in a distant land of mountains
The senior poet nods
at his student's progress
deciding to give him a radio
full of his poems
attached to a window sill
by a separate base
wires piercing the wood
into this poet's collection
just as empty as a gathering
his student organized in the backyard
of his past life

The instrument is separated
and given to the student
who beams with pride
at the gift
that can never replay
the voice of the man
who gives it
No matter how many watts
the student poet applies
to the tubes and speakers
the words of his teacher
cannot appear in the morning haze
as the poet drools more words
onto a glowing screen
while he watches the bubbles
disappear in the sink
to the sound of bubbles
where his fish swim
to the bubble of memory
that pops in his head

He is ready for the day
surrounded by empty words
popping everywhere
a sonic bubble bath
that keeps his dishes clean
his fish alive
and his poem
empty of voices

Barry G. Wick

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