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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Saturday, November 19, 2016

The Stage (for Vice-President-Elect Pence)


Watching an actor
on the boards
for the hoards
is a challenge
to brains that are tame
More often than not
the words and the movement
send a shot of improvement
to someone who's not part
of the plot
If going to the theater
is just to sit back
for nothing to happen inside
it's a waste of space
that playwrights confide
someone in the audience
is slack
Next time the lights
fill a stage with delight
go deeper
than smiles and bone
Let actors and words
sink into your skull
to spark some thought
in a neuron



Barry G. Wick

Thursday, November 17, 2016

Simulation


I am a computer simulation
written by a student
of programming
in a civilization
that sends bots
to check on our progress
They appear as UFOs
As a simulation
I have to examine
the life given to me
inside a machine
as it relates
to the student
who created me
I failed in math
and had no interest
in numbers
I failed in business
I failed as a pianist
I failed in so many
ways that I'm certain
the student who wrote me
failed the course
And yet I keep running
to keep failing
in the corners of the computer
that hasn't been cleared
of the projects
of the last class
I've even failed as a poet
In my next incarnation
I shall choose
a student who is smarter
at least enough
to get a passing grade
Will someone please
drag me to the trash


Barry G. Wick



Wednesday, November 16, 2016

The Doors of Nevermore



We know where she was born
We know where she died
beyond that
we're not able to write
an obituary for the newspaper
and what does it matter anyway
that we don't know what she did
what flowers she liked
her favorite walks
with whom she loved
She had no children
No one came to visit
when she went to the nursing home
Her life is a blank
since all her papers were burned
by those who cleaned
the room where she lived
Does anyone remember
Does anyone care
So now a simple grave
on the South Dakota prairie
in a simple wooden box
in the flowered dress she wore
rolling in the wheel chair
through the doors
of nevermore.



Barry G. Wick