Selected Poems of an American Poet

Ray Whitaker shares his poems he read on April 25, 2023 at Live Poetry Recital sponsored by The Fertile Brains

What are the subjects that I like to write about?

Ray-Whitaker-USA-Poet-SindhCourierI will write about anything that comes to mind. What inspires me to write my poems can be something as subtle as a railroad engine chugging, or a complex as human interactions. Then the frequent turns to be found in my work will usually take a reader towards the infinity of God’s designs.  There is such power in the gazing into our world that surrounds us. Also, to be aware of, and into the cosmos that we seem to be a part of, is powerful. Taking a trip into the meanings we all rely on -in our daily lives- is a strong source of subject matter.

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We are concerned with

Measuring our lives

In tens of years


Now the astrophysicists

Are measuring our universe

In billions of lightyears


We see our short lives

Thru lenses of earthly dictates

And as if this our vision, this only


Is the magnificent

Way it is

As if there was no other.


How do you get your head around?

A billion light-years

Or 13.7 of them, or even more.


White dwarfs do not refer to a small Caucasian

Black holes do not refer to manhole covers

Red giants do not refer to very tall Native Americans


Blue stragglers do not refer to a Buddy Guy blues tune

Mass isn’t a cancer in the liver

And a Type 1A Supernova isn’t a personality trait.


Did the Big Bang

Have a baroque choir accompaniment,

Or did laughter sound out

Among the stars at our earthly ideas, that presumption

Of our best human being minds

Are the brightest

Among it all?


There isn’t an encyclopedic presence

To a space time before the Big Bang

No thick, heavy bound volume


Needing to blow the dust off an individual page

As they are turned, to view the next color plate

Of the creation, that energy field of our God.


Faster than the speed of light

Able to leap tall building in a single bound

Pale grey, insignificant our sight only fifty miles on the clearest day

When comparing our view off the tallest mountain in Colorado.


Can you wipe your humbled tears away?


Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays 

The ideas you may yet believe in

Occurring in the daily means and ways

On only certain days of the week, Tuesdays-Thursdays- and Saturdays

Happy or not, those times are present…


That folks will, or won’t

Get, along get along little doggies

I shall have a full clue index

On all the days to come

Coming, coming even as they are

Exactly as they are


What is there on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays?

Which contexts are believable?

On those days,

And not necessarily the others?


Do I [and I mean I, as anyone] like e.e. Cummings?

Or is he one of those, only believable

On the Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays

Which has the questions about the other poets

That experiment in writing

Sharing their award winning poetry…


Do I, again, believe in the power of vibrations!

Sine wave, square wave, even saw tooth waves…

What emanates from crystals on Weds?

What happens under a pyramid on Fridays?


Do I think that is there is already always an undercurrent!

That spans all days of the week….

That I stand on to believe in the scattered splotches of days

Towards a given morning

That unchanging every coming dawn,

And the special many hues of the early aurora’s light?


I feel the rivers flowing there in sunlight’s mysterious ways

A Mother’s love, a Father’s strength, a light from our God above

As we walk performing our adult portage

Carrying love for music, love for the written word,

That hunger of wanting to walk With You Again

Into the sanctum of stepping together, so that we may feel that memory

Do I, back again, trust governments to do the right thing

That one is only on Tuesdays, it appears

Or have faith that the rich will always be magnanimous

That one seems to be only on Thursdays


Do I, in looking around for the erstwhile

Find it only on Saturdays

[With options for Mondays too, it seems]

Then looking deeper casting about for the meanings


That exist only on the special days

Perhaps that uncomfortable birthday in the middle of the week

Where our ideas that our freedom is to live another year still exists

On a Tuesday or a Thursday, as well as Wednesday…


The undercurrent of our God is always there

I want, no, need to, believe in

All the days stand on what God put there

There, is the reason you must carry forward

To do the service within the world all around us

To provide the expressions of God’s Love to those that have forgot.


Feel that it moves you thru

All those days of our construct called “a week”

Where we humans are meant to bear onward                      

To build with the stardust given us.


The snow melts any day of the week

Leaving behind the memory of the white calm


Standing knee deep in the snow atop a mountain,

I am singing for peace, any given day of the week.


Thought number 205 about old friends and lovers

The confusion of days all running together

With the heart attempting to keep up

Is only another expression

Of loneliness.


Yawning, not exquisitely bored at all

Hand over the mouth to cover the yawn

Or, perhaps it is to keep something in

That needs to come out


There is only the cold outside, inside as well too.


Only the expectation of warmth remains

The cold body is from absence

The absence felt has the sensation

Of where there once was two, now there is only one.


 There was a song some time ago

“Exquisitely Bored in California” 

Now running thru my head.


Closing my eyes, there is an image hodge-podge

These of the dear women I have known in my life

It is crowded with the vivaciousness


It is a well, a welcoming tunnel of visions

Dismounting my landspeeder, I can branch into any

Particular image and become immersed, again, with that woman.


These warm, soft caves are not filled with orange angst

More like singularly devoted museum alcoves

With a solitary subject, the soft lighting illuminating


Exquisitely seen with all the rest

Some are clothed

Some, hot, are not, with that look in their eye

All are happy, in their own way to see me


It is recherché, not boring

A feeling of unhurried joy in the exploration

Some of them wink at me.

*”Exquisitely Bored In California” is by Pete Townsend, 1982, off the album All the Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes.



About the Poet

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.

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.”

Some of his work has been published in online American, Irish, English, Belgium, and Bali Literary Journals.


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