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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Tuesday, March 22, 2016

At the Edge of Spring

This was suppose to be a day of rain
with snow in the late afternoon
I set my nose to play
searching among the simple changes
that announce a gradual turn
I want the season ahead to be

No flowers yet
Leafless trees fret in embarrassment
their brown leaves top the grass
in a sick frosting

Vicious clouds allow the sun
to torture me with sorrowful peeks
That yellow ball for a child
to play with
my skin still hidden beneath
layers stitched together
with sober zippers

In the southern hemisphere
they turn to winter
as we turn away from it
If only a person could have
a year of summer just once in life
something the rich enjoy
whenever they want it
but the plain of white
that now stretches before me
makes its demands
as I've lost a decent
fit for galoshes

Barry G. Wick

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