Thank you to those who support me via my Paypal account: Please consider sending one, two, three, or more dollars a month. I consider myself a "third industrial revolution" poet. My current income is just $1039.00 a month. I receive SNAP and energy assistance. I wish I didn't have to ask the government for help. The government doesn't read my poetry. You do. Out of over 350 poems here on this blog by me, I hope you find one or more you like. It's why I'm asking you for help. Thank you if you can help me monthly.


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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Wednesday, September 26, 2018

The Black Cape of Fall

The Black Cape of Fall             

((remembering the good times with the devilish Bob Fraser and his beloved Bev))

The season has found a chair
at night in this room
It watches drowsily
as its air pours
through a four inch gap
on the double hung window
that normally keeps the summer
at bay with its argon-filled panes
Cool air that flows
along the ducts
has been ended
with a painful trip
down this walker-stuffed hall
to the thermostat
where electric savings
diminishes the summons
for payment that stings
a hot checkbook
with all the force
of the daubers
that circle the door

At last
he may sleep beneath blankets
to hide from the scratching
of fearful mice
who begin their assault
on this fortress
with all its snapping defenses
plus a healthy dose
from a Borgia's ring
upon something yummy
at a table of horror
for these mammalian munchers

As this villain perceives
the growth of a snore
he sets his black top hat
upon the night table
twists his mustache
one last time
before all his life-long dreams
of evicted old ladies
Pretty Polly tied to tracks
and a baby's stolen candy
begins to give a chill
that forecasts frozen rivers
where packs of red-eyed canines
with sharpened teeth
pull a sled to the next
victim of his happiness

Some unrefined pianist
embellishes each scene
on a badly tuned
upright of evil
This melodrama
proceeds beneath the eyelid of sheets
where no audience can afford
peanuts to throw


Barry G. Wick

Monday, September 17, 2018

The Silent Loaves

The Silent Loaves

It's an old movie
from the 1950s
Famous actors
in a farce
about the daughter
of a private detective
who uses her father's files
to find and fall in love
with an older rake

The daughter tells her father
“I love you.”
He says
“I love you more.”

Ever since I saw that film
I can only think of people
to whom I want to say
“I love you more.”
They are my children
and best friends
who still support me

I was mildly shocked
to have someone with whom
I chat regularly say
“I love you.”
I said nothing

I am still a child inside
and I don't recall my parents
ever saying they loved me
until late in their lives
My mother once said
her own mother was cold
Hard Norwegians
Germans and Scots
are my heritage

Emotion is often beat
out of people 
much as bread is kneaded
People become pliable
to the whims
of paymaster chefs
Bread pans form walls
that shape dough
People also get shaped
by hot walls of opinion
oppression and lack of opportunity
Many a poor chef forgets time
burning the bread

People get burned

I'm going to try
to say what I want to say
“I love you more.”
If I do
it's to thank you
for the love
you give so freely
It's my last soft crumb
inside a blackened crust
of a discarded silent loaf

Barry G. Wick

Monday, September 10, 2018

The Monarch

The Monarch

thou didst afix thy chrysalis
to mine abode
down Iowa way

Green it was
and like new mown grass
ahangin' there attached
beside my walk

Methinks the spring
will come
for me to see
what you will become

Since I am not
of the entomologist strain
I dare not speculate
your springtime...whoops
in only ten or so days
you emerged
changed for fall flight
to a Mexican forest
as a Monarch butterfly

Gather all your colorful friends
attach threads to your bodies
thence to our would-be “monarch”
to tug HIM south of the border
whereupon we SHALL
build the wall
to keep HIM out
whilst you continue
to fly o'er it
in spring
to bring lasting beauty
and peace
to a great-full nation

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, September 6, 2018

Rubbing Up Against the Edges

Rubbing Up Against the Edges

this is raw
tension in the glass shards
surrounding this minute
light in glints from each
how can I beg this to stop
and still pretend
I live inside the rainbow
a rainstorm of tears
thunder inside my heart
lightning ends at my skin
never grounding
always pounding sound
across this razor prairie
where are you
where is your hammer
that will break me free
from the sharp corners
these are the judgments
that sift through memory
edged dust honed to perfection
wake up wake up wake up
this slicing dream
leaves tattered remnants
upon the second hand

Barry G. Wick