Ray Whitaker (USA)

Ray Whitaker (USA)

Ray Whitaker has been writing both prose and poetry since he was seventeen. What Ray is writing now is very different from what he wrote those so many years ago. All writers and poets are writing out of "the Self" however there are directions that the self speaks into, that change. Now Ray’s writing is to put foremost in his work, just who he is writing for. He intends on writing for the everyday man and woman. He firmly believes that poems need to reach into the everyday person's pictures in their minds, and engage with those. This is where he aims to make a difference in his creative writing. He’s fulfilled when he sees that his work is provoking thought in his readers.

PHOTO: Reading from his work in Colorado Springs, State of Colorado, US, April 2022


IN A GROVE BY THE SALMON RIVER

Somewhere on this river,
what is left today
is a sacred spot with water energy.
The Shoshone lived on this river
long before Lewis
or Clark, or even eighteen oh five.

I stand here now, in this silent grove
tall pine trees standing watch as the river rushes by
likely as it did those many years before.
I see things that are not there, wisps in the glen
grey mist drifting, a feeling of the past
gurgling over the rapids, flowing by.

A wisp of mist swirls, turning into an old man
a Native American he speaks to me
in a language I do not understand
holding my hands open, shrugging shoulders to show
that I cannot comprehend.
The old Shoshone man walks up to me

looks directly in my eyes
looking back unflinchingly I see
there is a depth there in his eyes
I wonder: did he hide his affection
or win, or lose, something
in his life (not so very different than mine)

our eye communication ends with
his speaking accented english this time
“You are standing on my son’s grave.”
I move to the left a pace or two,
“Now, you are standing on my daughter’s. This
entire grove is burial ground for my people.”

“See that tall Ponderosa Pine tree by the river?
That’s where my body lies.
I don’t need it anymore.” Again, looking in my eyes
“There down my the riverbank
is a good place to sit and talk,
you won’t be walking on my family there.”

The going over to where the river roared by
seeing the faces behind his face
there were at lease thirty faces there
each one a bit smaller than the preceding
until they faded away.
“My people don‘t hide their love “

“Your people are like wheels turning round and round.”
“Sometimes going nowhere,
fewer times, getting where you have the desire to go.”
I looked at this man from so long ago
offered him a smoke from my pipe.
He said, “just blow it thru me”

Laughing at the folly, smiling
I asked this man about the failings
of his people.
His response: “Men don’t understand Women in the tribe”
we honor them, and we try to find a way.”
in this, I realized that we were very much alike.

He arose, another of those long looks
we were eye to eye again
a moment that seemed long
however likely only lasted seconds.
Turning, my new friend walked
into the river and was gone.

Reflecting on this strange occurrence
did the old Shoshone have to
shake it up
perhaps even make it up
to really have a closeness
with the women of his time.

Certainly in my times, now
there is a secret world everyone has inside.


IDAHO SPRING CRICK CAMP

The sounding, it’s harmony
water rushing down a stoney creekbed
the fine hiss of a watercourse way
all day and all night

surrounded both right and left
mountains the skyscrapers of this wilderness
scrambled on by both Elk and Bighorn Sheep
they are clever about footholds.

Dandelions, a whole field of them
dance and shudder in the breeze
to loosen their spray of seeds
their parachutes float up and down.

The wild and untamed Salmon River winds its way
around the right side of my encampment
it has an allegro tempo should one be thinking music
with an accented Sforzando for the rapids just upriver.

The Spring Crick joins The Salmon at my encampment
there are Cottonwoods shading my tent
early green grass beckons the Elk and Deer
I can see the mown tops where they have eaten.

Across the river
is what remains of a old settler’s log cabin
roof long gone, decayed, the dreams of it’s builders away
homeowners, perhaps a woman there too
that lent a softer touch to this unforgiving land
did a family live and breathe in it so long ago
the log sides have years ago lost the chinking between
that kept the winter howls out, and warm in,

a speculation about the ideas those settlers may have had
takes me out of my contemplation
on the parachutes of dandelions.
I strain to hear the conversations.


FAMILY

The sardonic laugh emanates from
our cranky Uncle”s lips
always wondering where his mind has gone
the group of us seem to back away from being too close

the closeness of family is
a flock of swans flying over the swamp
over the bank, reeds there reaching for the sky.

Care-giving inherent in most of those interactions
excepting perhaps the ones around the Thanksgiving table
the Patriarch or Matriarch loses
control, relegated to the role of mediator

instead of leading towards a symbiosis
of a sort.
There’s that flock of swans again.

Mama gives the most perhaps
or the least, depending
on children, impressionable children
where they are seated at the table, or locked in a closet

moving towards. not away
the shoreline comes after the reaching reeds
some solid ground with food for swans, and tender grass to eat

Pop demonstrates his valor
we can’t hardly wait for it,
even if his strength is lacking
not abusive as is so often the case

all of us die, they did too, and we miss
the meals around the table especially
when we gained sustenance from them
not just the food, including the soul building too.

Missing our parents, their beingness in our lives
can't you feel their hearts
can’t you feel their hearts still from the cold, cold ground
Uncle now forgotten in that sense he was to all of us.

No, I can see you Pop
and I can see you Mama
as ghosts flying in front of the flock, leading we swans.

Yes, I can still feel you Pop
and I can still feel you Mama.

The swans land in the green grass field just beyond.


THREE HAIKUS/ A SENRYU

Simply don’t mind much
if you judge me as lacking
that sleet will stop soon.

When I turn the light
inwards there is a brightness
I believe in me.

Your found your failings
making you retreat from Love
you are in winter


HEARTS [I SEE YOURS]

Someday there will be the two of us
in the same space
riding the same bus
going to the same place
thinking in the ways that are so similar
going down the same road
towards the place held dear
that place is where there is no heavy load.

That time when our hearts were opening felt the same in both of us.

I saw you there
talk to me with your eyes only
a conversation of the soul bared
speak to me with your eyes only.

I saw you, and into my eyes were drawn warm
kaleidoscopes, those gentle colors turning gradually,
the spirals climbing into the clouds, with a strength of such brawn
seeing your eyes open luminously
that day was for only the two of us
all around other folk receded away
even the busy veranda seemed less
on one of fall’s the last warm days.

This was when our hearts opening felt the same in both of us.

Don’t protect your heart from yourself
even tho you may have decided not to ever risk it again
neither of ours belongs ‘way up on a shelf
our eyes talked, closeness surrounding, they are kin.
Asking why one would ever put the heart thru anything
like that loss, or rejection pain ever again
is forgetting the music of the joy-song singing
we can talk with our eyes only, telling where you have been

saying to each other You are my one in a million
that We can be Two of that count there as well
in this joy rings the bell
our season is where this can swell.

This is where our open hearts join and are one in both of us.