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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Thursday, June 29, 2017

The Dementia National Anthem

In a dream with my Mother
She's being secretive
by not telling me
where she wants to go
Finally I tell her
that if she doesn't tell me
I'll have to take her
to the hospital
since I'm the person
who takes her everywhere
She wants to go
to Custer, South Dakota
Why I ask
because the Rockefellers
Do you know any I ask

I wake up in the dream
from the dream
to tell everybody
about the dream
from which I just awakened
I then wake up
to think about the times
Mother fell or fought with me
about the time she called
the Sheriff
because she didn't know me
When the deputy arrives
she becomes the perfect hostess
all forgotten
why he was called

I sat with her for ten years
to keep her from wandering
I carry her dementia
around my waist
and in my mind
until the days
I'll no longer remember
who cares for me and why

There is no Olympic event
for caretakers
No medals
of gold silver or bronze
even from family
We are weightlifters
standing on the dark podium
in an empty stadium
on a cold starless night
holding a bunch
of crumbling flowers
watching an instant playback
of our victory
our great moment of success
that replays
the months and years
of our preparation
for this moment
described by an announcer
who doesn't know
where she is
who she is
what's happening
or why
Rockefellers go to Custer

Barry G. Wick
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