Patron

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 work...like 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: rikwrybac@yahoo.com via Paypal. I thank those who support me one way or another.

THANK YOU!

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)yahoo.com

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Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Breakfast



As he scraped the remaining liquid yoke
from the center of his plate
he was reminded of Pasternak
how Stalin had crossed his name
off the list of those to be executed

Had he just executed the egg
that would have become
one of the greatest writers
of the 21th century
perhaps not
but there was always a chance
that at least one chicken
would make history beyond itself

The beep suddenly shook him
a reminder that the bacon
was in a shallow pan
in the oven
that it had completed its
timed purpose to brown
the porkish candy
he so relished that he
closed all the curtains
in his home fearing
neighbors awakened by the smell
would peer through the windows
knock on the doors
storm the kitchen
and the baby in the stroller
rolls down the steps
a mother silently screaming


Barry G Wick


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