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, March 30, 2016

What Remains

If a king
the armor fills a corner
of a museum or library
the same for all the words
handwritten typed or printed
if the paper is good it may last
if on vellum perhaps a bit more
Human and animal skeletons
occupy boxes and drawers
in the backrooms for researchers
The past is dug from deserts
the tops of mountains
or all spaces in between

Mother's ashes are
in a plastic five gallon bucket
with 5 copies of a CD
filled with photos of family
and memories of her life
Her pink outfit with the pink mink
the ashes of her favorite dog

The soil will gradually wear away
revealing the plastic
for the sun to bleach
or for a future anthropologist
to study or store in a drawer

The armor I wear will go to a business
that deals with cast-off cotton
that turns fiber into money
or better paper to print this poem
that wasn't printed anywhere
and left for the ages
as ones and zeros
Slow decay and electrical wars
will turn these thoughts
to a lightning of mush

My skull will be in a drawer
or ashes moving with storms
down the rivers
down to the ocean
down to the sea with boats
where my father gradually sifts
through the seabeds
where a colorful wrasse
will nod as it swims by
It seems to say
that I'm not looking too good
these days
as its scales flash
the last line here
in remembrance of me

the fish will be electric
They teach their schools
to imagine
our useless attempts
to save our world
in crumbling buildings
ground to dust
our ridiculous self-importance
sliding beneath new continents

Barry G. Wick

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