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, December 13, 2015

Beethoven Between Dreams

It is after
the first few hours of sleep
the night begins to glow
in the steps through mental snow
following the blizzard of years
as we wander through the keep

The Moonlight, Sir,
invades the process of thought
and what days created it
the process of selecting
between black and white
between major and minor
runs up the scale at night
when dreams that are bought
repeat themes knocking at the door

Sinking into remembrance
fingers fly hesitantly
across the keyboard
finding a letter here
and the joy of chance
in new melody near
when dark around us
peers over the shoulder
at the small sparks
that light the fingers
in their joyful dance

Always drifts begin to close
upon the gates then open
where feet through memory
run when no fence will hold
and the need to doze
intrudes it twists and trills
to lean back into the drama
of a neat little glimmer
where fates await
their dream eludes

Barry G. Wick

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