Ray Whitaker, a dedicated poet, has set his sights on immersing himself in the realm of international poetry endeavors. With a remarkable portfolio, Ray boasts publications in Bali, England, Ireland, Belgium, India, Greece, Pakistan, and the United States. In the year gone by, he proudly represented as a Delegate at the 2023 Panorama International Literature Festival, an event sponsored by the Writers Capital International Foundation of Athens, Greece, where he captivated the audience with his poetic expressions. Undeterred by his previous success, Ray continues his poetic journey, honored once again as a Delegate for the 2024 Panorama Festival, demonstrating his unwavering commitment to the world of literature.
In a Promised Land
The canyon gorge divides the earth
from the people of the northern tribes
to the people of the southern lives
this evening warmth prevails
with a gentle wind rising
the clouds float white, puffy, calmly
above a riotous red and cream dichotomy of the dark canyon walls.
A Man stands on the southern cliff face
he plays a rich tenor sax
the solid middle register resounds in the chasm
many swallows fly, swooping
to his jazz triplet phrases and dotted sixteen notes.
The clouds above the Black Canyon have nowhere to go
yet they float off anyway towards a nirvana no one knows
A Woman stands on the opposite northern precipice edge
she sings an ancient ballad reminiscent of an old Irish tune
in a fine alto voice, clear and strong notes fill the air
a falcon flies near, and appears to hover nearby on an updraft
banking on the steady phrasing, to the right, to the left.
There are mountaintops off in the distance
over yonder wilderness, miles and miles of them.
The music is about the joy of loving
the key modulates, both musicians follow each other
effortlessly.
Below, the light of Black Canyon deepens in the sunset
the music continues, now meshed in a unique harmony
evening clouds are pink and ivory
nonetheless, and listening to the harmony rising
the air is full of a peace, promising
the freedom to believe.
On Clear Creek
The pair of Stellar Jays are really, really blue
more than I’ve ever noticed before, anywhere
so blue like the sopranos singing such pure tones
no words, a soaring litany to color
the shining blue feathers sheen under wings afloat.
The Jays ride the wind in to blue sky above
only coming to rest
in that tall, green ponderosa pine just over there
all three are reaching skyward
there all know the currents of freedom.
Silver Mountain
There is a desire this morning
it is to be cared for
to be loved in such a way
not like someone’s captured
a liking to the sense of a volunteer
where the entire existence towards that
is a meaningful existence
in that house of many colors.
there is a sense in it
of propriety, not property
that a cheerful depth in warm waters
wading into where it takes place
no shock of the cold rushing water
of a Colorado mountain creek
cooollldddd reaching you
at the hips.
And I am possibly unwilling to give myself to it
again, when that immersion means a loss of self
having been so in Love twice before, blinding
having met anew others that perhaps
could be there,
choosing the holding back of self
swimming against the flow of that warm stream
those before(s) were such that
when the inevidible excruciating divides occurred,
became the pains of the city lights under a dark sky.
Those that are in the blowing winds
atop this silver mountain know
there is a cave up there near the craggy peak,
with a wisened figure
wrapped in a bearskin
huddled around a cheery fire.
Hornets
I am in amongst them
they fly about looking
for places to sting.
these hornets all have the faces
of the people that supposedly care deeply.
Family isn’t supposed to be that way
these are golden hornets
one is crawling up my arm, looking
thru a myriad eyes for just the right place to hurt.
There is only the artful dodging
the elusion of the stings of judging
and the hornets think this is the way it’s supposed to be.
A Good Day To Die
Driving my car up as far as one could go
in these Idaho wilderness mountains
up roads that I likely shouldn’t have driven
switchbacks the regularity here on forest service roads
and the “up,” always past slopes covered in pines, perhaps going where it
can both be described as existing and not, or neither existing nor not existing
no deciduous trees at all there, no aspens with their snow-white barks,
or red oaks with their unique as a fingerprint leaves.
The tripods all set up
to record the aura, and and maybe the occasional raptor
the Olympus camera seemingly right at home
atop this River Of No Return Wilderness mountain
watching the mist move in and over the scenery across the valley floor
the river seems so far below
yet the clouds were moving across, in their wispy way
all to be captured for a posterity only in the eyes of the beholder.
My friend has come with me
he simply wouldn’t be anywhere else
having ridden along with his head out of the window
tongue flapping in the winds blowing by as we climbed
he is nearby the tripod
having explored around the nearby trees, slopes and smells
his German Shepard nose catching it all
now he is waiting, watching me shuttering the view.
After enough photos taken
in hopes that at least one would have captured this glimpse
of an view that extinguished the fires of greed, hatred and delusion
one that we seem to have lost appreciation of, in our regular lives.
My friend goes to full alert, standing up
body rigid, nose pointed, ears at attention forward, up the rise
having learned not to ignore this sign, I look as well, agile to the view
now seeing what my friend has noticed.
There are wolves above us.
Several. Arrayed out in a downward fan,
brown and grey shapes held stillstanding, watching us
possibly deciding how good a lunch was before them
the wolf assessment of risk management
the white-furred pack leader stands more in front
they are in the sparse pines above us
near the top of the mountain.
Even tho they were a couple hundred yards away,
my friend now standing right beside me
I locked eyes with that pack leader
seemed like an hour we stared at the other
however was only likely minutes
this gestalt, perhaps this wild’s way therein calling out
of a sinner riding into hell, all the while
the grey mist coming nearer, about to swallow the entirety of us.
Put my friend in the car,
camera too,
and walked around to the driver’s side.
I stopped,
fingering my holstered .45 on my leg
touching that security, a mode of self preservation
the wolves were steady in their quietude, not having moved
waving to the pack, more of a loose salute really
the mist covered the wolf pack just then
there was the loudest silence on the slopes
my friend startled me, nudged me from the open car window
he, having performed his dog version of risk management
reminding me that I was only one
and they were many
ever so slowly, I got in, starting burning fossil fuel
heading down, away from that dose of reality.
Up there, really for the view
the looking out over the world, and as well, perhaps
a looking searching for the supramundane experience
like that of an Absolute Truth,
that feeling of closeness to Heaven’s meant
away from the internet, or cell phones
perhaps looking for the feeling as it were a signpost
of where to stop, for a place giving sanctuary.
Mists are everywhere, covering the things we do not want to see.
I would run with the pack if I knew how.
The Galway Review 