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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Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Word Stringer

“Any great poem is one you wrote anyway.”--Richard Hugo

Those who put words
one after another
are not writers
image manufacturers
whatever is believed
the occupation
or avocation may be

the real creators
are the readers
who bring their own
mental images to the paper
the pages
the screens
to the voices aloud
bouncing wall to wall
or dancing across the prairie
like light rain

rich and often poor words
bring thunderstorms
drop hail and tornadoes
inside heads
to flash their lightning
across inner eyes
the ones that cannot be
examined by an optometrist
until after brains
have exploded from heads
when they become invisible mush
for the dead to digest

To enjoy them
stay alive
to prepare for the apocalypse
when dictionaries are burned
sending smoke aloft
unreadable by everyone
except Indians in the movies
or destroyed by noon-day cannons
their loud utterances
demanding rest or nourishment

The King proclaims
only what is accepted
by those who are woolly caterpillars
in line for the next bush
unable to see anything
except the next crawly butt

Stop that at once

search all the words
being fed by the spoonfuls
to find the depth
of the gift of creation

Now blow that up
Mr. Hubble

Barry G. Wick

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