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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Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Sounds

Surrounded by
sounds of a Tuesday.

Outside
a mower rattles
across a corner of concrete
bringing control
to the ever disturbing grass
that threatens civility.

Inside
the air conditioning
keeps the Iowa heat and humidity
at bay,
and we mustn't have anything
out of the bay.

A pleasant Bach Sarabande
tries so desperately to compete
with all this machinery,
as a squeak
from a challenged office chair
complains the words aren't flowing
fast enough to satisfy it.

Perhaps these sounds
are all critics:

“You'll never be loud
enough to quell a mower!”

“Your mind won't be cool
if you argue
with your air conditioner!”

“Dichter sind die lauteste Publikum!”
screams Herr Bach
from his peaceful tomb.

And finally from my office chair,
“You're fat!”



Barry G. Wick



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