Ray Whitaker
Ray 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.
Ray has read around the state of North Carolina [USA] and Colorado [USA], and has been a member or the North Carolina Poetry Society, the Winston-Salem Writers, and The North Carolina Writer’s Network. He has thrice been a ‘Writer-in-Residence” at the North Carolina Center for the Arts and Humanities, at Weymouth, in Southern Pines, NC. He is the father of two daughters, and lives in Colorado Springs, USA.
He has three books published by Newness Twoness Books: “ACKNOWLEDGMENT: Poems from the Nam,” 2 volume set, and “FOR THE LOST AND LOVED”. A chapbook, “THE SCUPPERNONG WORKS” is published September 2022. He has one other book he is presently seeking publication for: ‘WHITE DOG SPEAKING.”
Due to the pandemic, most of Ray’s public appearances are mostly via electronic medium. Some of his work has been published in online American, Irish, English, Belgium, and Bali Literary Journals.
Alone
Somewhere, an Arab singer’s voice cries
Lilting, soaring, a single line of melody wafting,
Climbs and reaches the tonality of Algeria
The Arabic translates to
“The long, long night without you”
The sad melody is crying
He is looking for the companion
That has forsaken him
For another, this another is independence
The crying singer resonates the depth
Of his sorrow,
He is dreaming of the skies above
That rained on both him and her
An event welcomed in the desert
The words are rueing the missing.
The wound has been reopened
He wonders if it will ever heal
Maybe if he does not pick at it
Keeps clean, fresh bandages on,
The scar tissue will form again
He knows a re-injury takes longer to do so
The wound is fresh
As if only yesterday that occurred
The listener remembers, tho
Having had a full year of disappointment,
So many sad events one was his wife dying,
And then another dear one nearly a year later
Those fires tremendous, singed
His shirt, then chest hair burnt off,
Exposing his heart to the flame
Now there are only empty skies above
Walking the earth, sand in his worn sandals
There is a heart stew cooking on the stove of life.
He hears the Algerian singing again
Off towards the dunes, somewhere over the sand
The desert sand seems to cry along with the Arabic incantation
Three women had captured his heart
He has lost all three over a period of years
To divorce, to death, to independence
The impeccable, unrelenting pain of loss again, he will survive
Learns a new pace, a new gait, that of walking alone,
Stepping away, walking into the beclouded future
His dream of Love never leaves his head
This gives him the strength to keep on to the horizon.
The faces of his past Loves in any mirror,
And knows his heart was not wrong for trying.
***
Combat Medic
A reflection on a cold winter’s day
From a quiet and warm abode
Where the lapping sea of information
Is held at bay outside the door,
Perhaps in the warm cabin in your deep woods of life
There is smoke pouring out of the chimney
Rising above the foot of snow up on the roof,
Next to the heavily laden boughs of the tall pines
Who goes to the snow-covered woodpile to keep it warm inside?
Possibly, if you are far enough away from the lit woodstove
Are you close enough to examine the cordwood
From the front lines?
Who commands the security patrol
At the fortress gates?
Perchance you are in a trench, head ducked against
The explosions and the shrapnel
Cleaning your rifle and
Looking at the Red Cross on the other warrior’s uniform
Fighting against those that wage war with the egomania of dictators
All the while fighting the bear on the battlefield
Even as we wonder about the statistical basis for
Their assertions (those that are expected to be believed),
Are there enough folk that read in Russia,
That their youth now are used as cannon fodder
It is a oligarch’s rabbit warren cleverly dug by furry paws
Fleecing the populace of the right to live freely.
Do we want our tears while standing idly by
As our loved, brave Ukrainians die from this winter’s war,
Where is the Combat Medic that is willing
To go over the muddy top of the sopping wet trench
Risking his or her life
To save ours.
***
With Every Breath
Slowly the beat catches a rhythm
Gradually moving faster until an a-tempo
Is reached
And the other instruments join in
Presenting the magnificent ensemble
Of a pulsing rock band, moving you to breathe in
The drummer is giving an unmistakable snare drum beat
The horns sneak in and we are alerted to the climax of a verse
The beat of life continues, and that drummer,
Those guitars, the lead singer singing the lyrics of a needed change
We in the audience are elevated into that higher place
Reflecting on the lyrics that moved us to stay there.
Even if there is a frozen nature
Perhaps cold winter is just outside our door
Or even inside our minds
We are left with the song’s breath
Nourishing, washing, livening
Rewarding, increasing the oxygen
This song from our hearts, capable of
Stimulating the inhalation
Pushing the used, spent air out with each exhalation
Where our carbon footprint changes
Perhaps it is all building up to something
That has the need to change
From something that is of yesterday’s changes
Not coins in your pocket
Nor coins of the realm where you may chance to be
Facing the reality of what we as poets can do
Numfasawa
Respirar
Huminga
дихати [dykhaty]
Træk Vejret
نفس [nafs]
Nefes Almak.
Whatever language you speak
It is all the same, it never rests
That exchange of fresh for spent
Good winning over evil.
Climbing up the slope
With the snow gently hitting his face
A soft reminder of the cold this day
Reaching the peak
Standing atop a hoodoo
Facing the wind
With hands in his pockets
Deciding
Deciding
Looking out over the wide-open spaces.
How do we push this breath
Our exhalation of carbon dioxide
Into a new inhalation giving a resurrection
A fresh resuscitation of seemingly nearly forgotten ways
Into a fragile security
Even within the pain during the depths of wars
Or immersed in the dearth of compassion
Avoiding the inferno of dragon fire
And walking without panic
Down the city streets
Not having to look up for drones
Intuitively knowing tonight that the terrorists are sleeping.
________________
The word “breath” in other languages…
Numfasawa – Hausa (Africa)
Respirar – Spanish
Huminga – Philippines
дихати Ukrainian
Træk Vejret – Danish
نفس – Arabic
Nefes Almak – Turkish
