This set of mountains
moves west, and wester still
until they move north and south
following the six directions.
Their crags speak to the sky
of the events below,
all in the rocky languages
poorly understood by those bound to two feet.
Caressing the earth in moccasins,
he, or was it she
looks about in the craggy heights
for a handhold
in the pegmatite faces of canyons
the reds and blacks in the most deeps,
those purples of sheerness
keeping the less adventurous at bay.
Coming down to the valley
below the gorges of distance barely seen
she, or was it he, knows
that off in the yonder reaches
there might just be a place in that bigness,
to drive their thoughts to.
An abandoned two story ranch house
sits the still, its invisible solitude
quiet now of children’s voices.
The hand split shingles on the roof
still keep the weather out
both the harsh winter snows and warm summer rains
don’t touch the singularity of a dry interior
as if waiting for the family to return
from where they disappeared to, so long ago.
That ranch house perched on the mountain side
has the cook house and porch attached
where a descendant has placed new tin
over it. Then left it again.
And there, under that
is the place where the questions
may have gotten answered,
and maybe not,
perhaps just having raised those inquiries
into the meanings of the lives lived
under the eaves.

Prowriting Grade: Goals 68% Improvements 67%
It doesn’t like poems apparently,
and that is likely a good poem in itself, once written….

WHO WINS

Taking a photograph
of an empty picture frame
arranging the ponderosa pine boards
a wooded surround meant to be exactly right
around the nothing inside of it
fretting over the far off, distant speck
that could be a house or ranch
might be too much
subject matter in the photo,
everything had to be
Just Sooo…
or the addict would seek refuge
in the addiction
and the fight between the not-addicted
vs the addicted personalities
now stand eye to eye
nose to nose
the fighting almost starting
with the addicted’s steely little eyes
in a slanted head staring
into the focused non-addicted eyes
looking straight back
that is fraught
with an orange, determined compassion.

There, a cute woman
looking at me
short upturned nose
she was a part of something bigger
than herself.
She filled me, breached my stone redoubt
wanting a respite
even tho she pulled me towards her
with a silken rope
bit away from
but towards-to
hailing from me and returning
to me. We were both naked
making the intense attractions o much stronger
and dancing some primeval waltz
that energy exchange
alluring in close contact moist
nakedness bouncing, wiggling
wild hair not covering much
this intense attraction between us
to bond us,
“I am An Addiction” she says in a soft sexy, alto voice
finger slowly motioning to come hither
“I call to you to follow,
participate.”

Sometimes the addict wins
always the non-addicted is aware
of the hungry yearnings, the orgasmic attractions
each incidence is an empty frame tho
surrounding distance composed
wether, or not,
into a fretful awareness
of a grey, cloudy decision
on that perpetual blackboard,
was that another derision?
Or, just another carefully chalked mark
one two three four crossed slash-mark makes five
on the Self’s scoreboard information.
None of it a literal depiction
and nor is it a literary description
this being, the Self’s realization.

THIS NOTE NOT A PART OF THE SUBMISSION… this fresh piece, written last week, was a part of a very special moment – a personal epiphany really at age 70– that “It takes courage to be Happy.” Since been written, this piece has been read in two open mics, and well received.
=========================================================================

WINTER SUNDAY

I am defying winter
the cold and snow abound
by bare feet in sandals

even tho there is blue sky
visible thru the trees now
the branches are bare of happy green leaves.

A definition for being stuck,
in a certain defiance, a something
where the observation of a particular reality
is denied, where in that moment
seeing ain’t necessarily believing,
in wondering about the Webb Space Telescope
possibly having revealed an alternate view of the universe
(?really?) maybe it is only supposition
based on quantum physics?

Cold toes brings me back to
white, snowy realism
while questioning the faith I have in my brain,

why did that happen?
When loving another brings the pain
of separation, that great divide.

Twin reservoirs harbor cold water,
thick ice on top too, this winter Sunday
the cold wind blows my grey hair,
shivering, even tho I don’t want to.
What I can’t see diminishes my vision.
I do see the large, lone grey boulder, locked
in lakeside ice. Moose stand ‘way over there
my ears are in perfect order
hearing them call, EER-UGH, from the opposite shore.

—The American moose has a universal call between both sexes, the EER-UGH utterance varies with more emphasis on the ERR “syllable” in the does, and more emphasis on the UGH syllable in the bucks. When this poem is read on public, I am using the buck “pronunciation.”

LAUREN- THE PHOTO OF THE BRICK GOES WITH THIS POEM. WHEN YOU READ IT, YOU’LL SEE WHY…

GOING TO BERLIN IN 1970 -for Hank

They were traveling by train
the whole family, for Thanksgiving
at seventeen it felt like being thirty
courage for the i-am-strong-enough
to face the i-don’t-know-what
speaking German wishing-to-know-words

even so he was in his own thoughts-
Where does genuine live?
Is it In amongst the realizations of the self?

Traveling with another Colonel’s family,
with another son of seventeen
both in railroad overnight sleeper berths
the Colonels had to be in uniform
crossing Enemy Territory as it was
the Enemy’s armed soldiers at railway stops in the dark
warned us not to exit the cars
if the train stopped, must have passports at the ready
should they be demanded by the communists.

It would take all night to get to Berlin due to the many stops
having left the freedoms of West Germany
fluttering on flagpoles at the border.

It was the first time, really, that he was aware,
like no kidding, that the suppression of men could be such
a real thing.

That realization never walked away again
the sight of man’s inhumanity to man
that persisted for the rest of his years

this epiphany became a finely tuned crap-detector
like gauging spoken truths for authenticity
or assessment of mood, or rank, at a glance.

Sometimes both revealing, and understanding, were pushed
into override, with wisps of smoke coming out
he had to get out, away from the despicable source

what of the half-truths
or the lying in the unnecessary competitions
in foolish men’s lives.
Sleep was a casualty of that night.
Excitement of so many AK-47s,
the danger slung on The Enemy’s shoulders
during the travel to West Berlin
so divided (one of the few walled cities left in the world)
the Berlin Wall was a living, breathing beast
the beast was hungry to eat those that loved freedom
the east had walled all around the west city with
guard towers sporting machine-guns overlooking barbed wire.

We were free to think and speak
our minds carrying on the traditions
that was why our Fathers wore the uniforms.

Yet there was Checkpoint Charlie
a passageway out of grey oppression
crossing over into sparkling clean air
the point of cruel suppression, of beyond unfair dictatorship
made by the hundreds of small white crosses
placed to honor where the dead had been murdered

those that had sought out of the chill, shot dead
sometimes having dug under the wire
perhaps hidden in the trunk of a car under blankets.

Those sights stayed with him far into his future years
the detector tuned to not just seeing lies
but to detect the oranges of tyrannical narcissism

he felt as if he had breached the walls of Mordor there
in the east walkers dressed in darks and greys
city streets there unkept, paint on walls peeling

a stark contrast to the bustle of the west side
where there were freedoms even to wear bright yellow
should one want to, and to think unencumbered

he sought the exploration of the Self
ever since, gathering strength
asking The Critical Questions, the hard Q’s
finding his answers where they may be
in a song, poem, or readings of the great works
perhaps in some direct act of a caring sort
observing when life reached that occasional pinnacle
where truth junctured with an intensity

combined with spontaneous, deliberate acts of kindness
produced those moments of humanness
that people remember and talk about for years later.

He remembered Berlin all his life.
His walking up to the communist wall of Checkpoint Charlie
seeing the machine gun in the guard tower
ranging his steps, following his direction
(his Mother standing there wanting to scream)
as he gently removed a loose brick
from the wall just by The Enemy’s gate
even the western Military Policeman directing traffic
watched him step back away towards safety.

Taking that red brick
an act out of a youthful sense of invincibility
became a brick in his own wall
the brick was in his study even now
holding a honored place on a shelf
near the volumes of philosophy
becoming a power cell in the course of his life
a light shining into the darkness
showing what it means to be a real human in the world.

I DON’T HAVE PTSD
[in Southernspeak]

When I wake up in the mornin’
most any day
everything isn’t broken
lying about in ashen heaps, the smell
his buddies dead or dyin’
one smokin’ wheel of the sideways chopper still turnin’.

I can have
an already-always appreciation
of a new day. Most any mornin’
rain, or sun peering at me
there’s blue sky in between the clouds
and the coffee is good.

I don’t have to clean up empties
or wipe up dog poo cause I didn’t let it out
in time
that time of not bein’ to forget, all encompassing.

My good friend has it tho
and it never fully leaves him
the self recrimination either
whar forgiveness ain’t
nor the compassion jus’ be missin’
he fight this time an’ next for the clear blue.

My friend has seen mor’ o’ the dyin’
than I will ever
even after a career of hospital intensive care work
where my role in it were to stop tha’ dying.
His was to cause it, that ther’ black
when we look each other in tha’ eye, we know.

The following poem is my entry to the contest… as well as being a poem about an experience with a moos in the wilds of Colorado. Being camped near Monarch Pass [elevation 11.350 ft), maybe a couple thousand feet lower on the banks of the North fork of the Arkansas River in June of 2023. I trust that you’ll enjoy the piece, and leave me a comment or two! Respectfully submitted, Ray Whitaker

BLACK MOOSE

It resonates with me
my encounter with another mysticism of nature
at the edge of the mountain glen.
While chancing to be near it
the large, black mass standing stationary in the aspens
as if to be unnoticed by being still

a bull moose eating leaves from above it’s head
a thin line of silver fur
going from mighty shoulder to mid back
young antlers soon to be a fierce armament
now in velvet, growing
as if to scoop up the world.

Moving closer
keeping a mature pine betwixt
the likely over a thousand pounds of magnificence
and my wonder

thus occupied I did not worry
when he stopped eating
looking in my direction
standing there wondering about me perhaps
as he stood in the dappled sunlight.
Astonished at the proximity
noticing the depth of these brown eyes
pushing souls together, mine to his
brown, mine, to brown, his
iris’ different, mine round, his oval

being in the moment of no thought
now wondering if he had a name
no feeling of fear in that closeness
only around twenty paces separating us
the sun shone on me as I looked
and as if I felt that regal power-black fur
a strength, assurance, commanding the ground
he stood on, like owning the very earth.

He is next to my tree now
having moved so silently
and keeping the thick pine between us,
our eyes locked still
getting what each other had to give
my consciousness mingling
with the being of this immense creature
his long neck craning around, reaching nearly in my space.

I moved away, breaking the mesh
keeping the pine tree between we two
having realized this tree
was woefully small
having become a wood beetle now uncovered under the bark
I retreated to the next few tall pines nearby.

I am the Rhinoceros Beetle now.

Our conversation had not ended
tho no words had been spoken out loud
no malice felt, only a near wistfulness
from the moose and I.

Like a translator would be appreciated
to move the instances together somehow

staring into each other’s eyes
for longer still
feeling the thoughts
each having our own insights
of consciousness
and intuitiveness

that powerful rippling muscled black now moving away
my humanness moved in this moment.

Even wanting to know where all this would go
I did not follow deeper into this thicket, his woods.

MORNING EXERCISES

I

I write to the world this day
to sense the wonder
asking it to remember the chances
of it’s beauty.

In writing to the world this day
it is the joy of simply Being
of participating with your God
in bringing the depth of a springtime thaw.

The snowmelt engorges the stream
a long male member pushing down

the meadow below awakens with it
there is a newness to the banks
with the stimulated green
coming from deposits of a fertile brown, fine alluvium

beavers repair their woven dams
spreading water over stream banks
the long winter’s nights have given work to them
see them smile as they cut new limbs to weave

the farmer looks back on the newly plowed field
satisfied that the new shoots
will raise their green heads
towards the sun.

The poets write to give
a sense of the wonders
the beauty of broken winter
the people rely on us to do so
to remind them that their paths
aren’t necessarily muddy.

If even for only a few moments
the readers and listeners to the words
that even the mighty oaks
grow new leaves to shade us.

II

Forget what justifications as there may be
giving a elusive credence
to the crimes against humanity
the narcissistic despots propagate

the killing
the dying
an un-natural cycle created by constructs
of pursuing wealth above the spirit.

Stepping over the pollution
of plastic washed up on our ocean shores
ignoring the warning barks of our dog brothers
telling us to beware

we are all animals, children on our solid continents
unheard are the cries
from a wounded Mother Earth
that is rebelling against the wounding.

It is the lance from the picadors
bleeding red drops to the arena ground.

III

I write to the world this day
to again feel warm wonder
asking it to bring forth the new growth
of it’s beauty.

In writing to the world this day
to the joy of simply Being in tune
with your God’s sent purpose
in bringing growth to this spring’s thaw

touch the sprouts emerging
see the little yellow birds
on the tree limbs happily in the white flowers there
feel the smiling warmth of your dog brother

have seeds of wonder grow
in your place, from the ground of what is possible.

We poets write to give away strength
sourcing the pictures of their universal wonders
the people rely on us to do so
showing the beauty in the winter breaking
to remind them that their paths
aren’t necessarily rocky

focus on what color your beauty is
and that warmth from a bright and gentle sun.

Poem copyrighted 07/2023, Ray Whitaker

PINUS CONTORTA

Coming around the final red rock
a group of which perches precariously
on top of each other
it had been a steady climb up
the last thousand feet, ascending,
reaching for the infinity of a cloudless blue sky
having seen the top blonde rocks
those that might have been whitewashed
in the sun up there for maybe
a thousand thousand years

these had seen the cultures of man come
and go, likely some blood shed in doing so
and also clean births of new stars
with the meteor showers

the pines growing up there
twisted , moved about by the winds
and events that danced around
their brown and red trunks and green limbs
reaching for sanity
from the frailties of men.

There was a hearth circle
in the only flattish place up there
cinders in it nearly washed away
by the rain of time’s passage
still, a few were nestled
around the inner border of the circle.
A rock overhang overhead
carbon from the smoke stained it’s roof
a testament to the antiquity
an intensity of flames leaping, swirling so long ago

what shit had been shot while seated around
watching the fire’s anesthesia
shadows on faces, so far off in the dim past
the conversations have blown away with the smoke

no synthesizer music here,
likely a soft native flute
perhaps some drumming on a nearby log
or the resonating rasp made of armidillo shell
moving the rhythms of those seated
in conversation, on the events of their day.

Did a light-headedness come from a new birth
or perhaps a discovery of delight
of a successful hunt
the careful killing of brother bighorn sheep
enough to feed all of them
along with finding a new chert vein in the rocks
nearby, to make their projectile points,
or did a darkness come into their lives
like a terrible encounter of a loss to sister catamount
who was also hungry for fresh warm meat.

The pines are twisted,
moved by the human discourse.

Strength remains, even when the wind stops.
Poem Copyrighted 4/2023, Ray Whitaker
Photo Copyrighted 4/2023, Ray Whitaker

There is time you spent looking
somewhere in the course
of the day
or days
or weeks and months
maybe even years

for that certainty of presence.

This is where you are no longer any sort
of impostor
of fearful
of lacking
of emotional
or dramatic

when the only thing there is, is that you, yourself, are.

those noises in your head are you
however not you

the illumination from introspection is many thousands of years old
from the masters it is possible to experience
the presence of who you are being
there is a grayness before the shining bright white
the smell of this work is the odor of freshly cut grass
and the sense of it, is that what you are looking for, is no longer missing.

That what was missing was always there, even so.

Poem copyrighted 01/2023, Ray Whitaker
Photo Copyrighted, 01/2023, Ray Whitaker. “Snowstorm over The Garden Of The Gods”