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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Friday, August 19, 2016

Summer Haiku

muscled youth labors
on lawns of summer's beauty
as the father snores

Barry G. Wick

Eagles Haiku 2

Eagles rarely laugh
in deference to pine trees'
stoic hysterics

Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

A Life from Memory

it isn't sadness that brings
the past boiling
into the present
because we must
be here now
it is a requirement
of misspent years
to retrain the old head
despite losing memory
in the midst
of forgetting that word
what was that word
oh yeah it doesn't matter
it will come to us
in a minute
do we have a minute
does anybody
the ownership of time
not one second passes
that we do not own
yet they get away
flashing by us
splashing bias
into the waters of time
our commitment
to one thing over another
when we suddenly know
incredible distance
from that now
that something else
was possible
it all could have been
different from what
we think it was
not that it matters
somehow it does
sticking a quick thought
of the past
gluing it to this moment
when all its possibilities
give a second choice
or a third choice
then comes the moment
of its lesson
when we begin to think
about what we choose
in the now
how important it is
how the silver pen
can be cleaned
with aluminum foil
hot water
and baking soda
or the tarnish of time
can be left on it
just like the black
will find us eventually
when there is no
dipping the old
into a new bath
of life

Barry G. Wick

Eagle Haiku

naked on a rock
one eagle soaring above
he started laughing

Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Feather Haiku

right or left wing turn
fletching spinner of arrows
wasted glue on birds

Barry G. Wick

The Day in Letters of the Alphabet

how much should be written today
would all of the letters fit here
like bits of rat on the tongue
beans in the pot not a day old
with onion sauce rice tomato seasonings
washed down with cheap tea
spots of day old syrup on a shirt
and a poorly executed sip of tea
leaving it's trail to the floor

some hellish horns blasting old music
that should be recognized
as violins fall to the ground
in a long scale to conclusion
these words could be ziptied
so only those with a clippers
could use them again on their pages
being bogged down for the next hour
waiting for the state to say this house ok

ask for the identification he says
deep inside the gray skull from Dakota
where stacks of buffalo supped grass
a window stuffed with air conditioner
plastic sacks filling the cracks
retard the voice in an idiot's glance
when words molded with rubber bands
squeeze outside their undyed cloth
oh brother save some in your pocket

that ache just lept from the hip
to roll around in the swirling a/c
listening to the bubbling air
in an orange fish tank with goldfish
too soon for another reduction
of opioid goo from the Afghan plains
where ink stains feather into cloth
the one dark spot with several others
from last night's invigorations

sunny skies for a festooned announcer
with aromas strung around the neck
boiled in that pot of beans and rice
to get the words to the page
through the end of the month
otherwise an empty Frigidaire
with Chinese fingerprints of mindlessness
where toothpicks sit atop pill bottles
ready to fall from grace upon the carpet

Barry G. Wick

Friday, August 12, 2016

The Reclining Magician

Behold! The Reclining Magician!
who lays upon his divan
involved this very hour
in a prestidigitation befitting
the greatest of the wizards
sans smoke sans audience
full of gasps and amazements
yelled or spoken under the breath
in a shock so as to make
their jaws drop suddenly
their breathing stops
with one great inhale of regard
knowing full well or even half well
what has just been seen
that exceeds
tops anything
seen before this day
including births and deaths
the topplings of great buildings
the shaking of the universe
the galaxies stunned
their starry pates exploded
clustered brains of primordial goo
having plopped
upon a heavenly ground
waiting for the exhale
that fails to explode for endless time
the invisible audience tumbles
from their floor-bolted seats
upon the sugared floor
gum-stuck fingers
dragging the seats with them
row upon row falling
toward the mystical stage
in bone-crunching silence

The Reclining Magician
puts down his book of spells
tosses his finger-worn implement
an ink-filled wand
of universe-founding creations
as sweat-beaded hands
reach for a damp
wilted towel




blows his nose

Barry G. Wick

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Morning Haiku

three drops of syrup
trees on an open prairie
sweet shade full of birds

Barry G. Wick

(((published as a part of the Johnson County Iowa Poetry in Public Series 2017)))

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

As Night Recedes

The last time dark was seen
rolling over was a dream
then waking as if in the night
life was climbing mountains
while actually living
on the surface of Planet Iowa
in a bed whose peaks
seemed twisted mountains
completely wrung of their trees
by a motherly hand
whose droplets of pine and rock
were felt splashing
into a baby's tub

When eyes opened
there were the covers
roiled into a cotton massif
drenched in frozen sweat
as this bear snored
through his search
for the next patch
of blueberries and moths
in summer hibernation
with windows open
to the sounds of elegant trucks
like steel beads strung
around the wrinkled neck
of earth in upheaval

Barry G. Wick