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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Friday, December 16, 2016

Old with Animals

We all see the stories
of old women
who have cats by the bale
that rule every corner
of a uncontrolled house
or the old man
who only leaves his chair
to let the dog out
that grows gray
along with his owner

When the furry face
no longer sits in a lap
or lays its head on a leg
for a scratch on the head
a woman will busy
herself in undone projects
to forget the loss
and a man will pull
a few hairs from his beard
conveniently stuck together
with drops of yoke
to feel the pain of loss
he stifled every day
of manhood

But what of the people
who are allergic
to furry box huggers
or who can't walk
a dog in places
where the dog
must be on a leash
to be in the sun or snow

Even a goldfish
in a bowl or tank
discovered to be floating
by a homebound
elicits tears
that enter a bubbling tank
unnoticed by no one
when in other years
a parent would flush
and replace
before the end day
school bell rang

The little friends
who just breathe
in the same room
keep love alive
when working children
and world-exploring grandchildren
never call and never write

The old call it justice
for the same treatment
they lavished on their family
in days of work and growth
with the stillness of snowfall
seen through blurring eyes

a bored dog's sigh
the flick of a cat tail
the burp in a bubbling tank
reminds those forgotten
that forgetful family
will get theirs
as an evil laugh
races silently through
a graying head



Barry G. Wick





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