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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Sunday, August 27, 2017

The New Playground---(from a poem written circa 1991-1993)

41 nearer to 42
shouldn't it be a time of riches
life begins at
and such, oh my how we dream
instead of-watching, waiting,
active verbs
do, jump, take, glow, bake.
Every thought is past, was,
saw the, had the, been the, write the.
Future is barely tomorrow
and mostly today
full of its forwarding-time-expireds
and envelopes of unseen cause words.

All becomes regret on the wrong
waterbed sheets in the drier
coin-op yearnings of pianos
and muted trumpets
sack the drummer and get a driver.

nails takin' on the look of fear
with thin edges and yellow stain
above the canyons above the keys
to underlocked doors behind secrets
in the hallway to see-through stairs
and chance harumphs or 'llos
from ghostbers, on Ron with a set
of polished treads that wax he sees
on Amazing something burns the flame
not the finish.

Ha'ld a zillion seconds of potry
ago with Inkpen, Sharat, Dennis clayman,
gists of words inside me like
cavemen eat lunch at the diner in my head
and somesuch gone now
into unemployment checks and angry daughters
on the phone with 700 Club boyfriends
who turn queer dads into the new jigaboos.

Yeah, that's it, resolution of solos
to theses with illogical endings filled
with 9ths and 11ths and fading to silence.

Barry G. Wick

a poem written circa 1992 or 1993
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