Oh-three-thirty
the “am” is implied
it can be considered (in military speak)
as zero-dark-thirty
either way, wakefulness is present
outside the sleeping bag cover in camp.

Yeah, still dark outside
my hound and I go out
and the in the darkness
all one has to do is look
up. There is the splendor
of the night sky, clear, starry, unobscured.

Funny how neither of us even thought
about the night critters that may be about
he relying on my presence for safety
my reliance on him for his superior night vision
and sense of smell to warn.

What pictures are there painted in the dark
with steadying brush in hand, trying not to drip
dusky colors off the palette?

Looking up, at the show of night sky
there is no admission, save wakefulness
the theater is quiet, as if in anticipation
of the drawing back that thick purple curtain
still no noises, the dark is silent.

My eyes only see the the vision of the stars
that I am native to see
over the treetops to the left
are such bright pinpoints
close together enough to be a cluster, perhaps
one must be a planet, intense light from there
I shall have to find out which
still I realize that the visions
from the Webb space telescope
are far more lustrous, clearer.

Returning to the tent
the hot coffee is waiting
mist curling up off the coffeepot spout
like some close up nebulae in the cool morn.

I am full of wonder
not sleep, that was a thing of an hour ago

awaiting the sunrise,
and its chase of the darkness into the distant west.

Poem copyrighted 2023, Ray Whitaker

A steam engine train chugs
down the tracks in the Alberta wilds
great clouds of steam
exit from the engine down at the side
the whistle sounds, echoing off the gorge
while snow falls off the tall pines.

It is a black engine
great silver coupling rods rotate the dark wheels
a pilot cow catcher moves first on the front
the locomotive turns with the track, towards Calgary
into the wilderness around the bend
away from Medicine Hat city.

Chugging into the back of beyond
staring out the window of the moving train
on the landscape outside, there is a moose.
It is as big as the annoying perplexity
left upstairs at home
on the dresser in the white framed photograph.

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-dector
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.

She had left so much here
the carloads taken to Goodwill
numbered, now, beyond ten
he’d kept a count, tho, if pressed
he’d not admit to it

too much there to allow in
it was only to go out

elsewhere.

Which thoughtlined to such a different place
one of today the multi-colored thoughts and pictures
in an everyday, always anyway, person’s mind

all jumbled together
with feeding the dog
the oatmeal for breakfast
the judgement living in the bathroom mirror
and changing the bedsheets just ‘cause it is Wednesday.

She had left so much behind.

He had so much left to do.

What are we doing as poets? To whom are we writing? It cannot be only for ones-self, not only for some sort of self-edification.

I write for the everyday person, for those pictures in our minds we all carry. So many great poets have gone before, I’ve nearly let that intimidate me in the past, causing an unappreciated inertia.

However there is a lot to say, today, in today’s world, in our global experience… as well as being Poets of Witness. or Poets of Agitation. Not that those roles aren’t important, they are indeed. Indeed, as well, there is a lot to say that makes a real contribution to the reader. A lot to write about, to reach into everyday experiences and promote intriguing thought in our readers of our particular niche within Poetry.

Gotta Love Creative Writing!

She just showed up with it one day

the patient I cannot name here.

She had been one of those few patients

that I’d allowed myself to get too close to

guess that we had come to know each other

over the several years it took

to get two, t-w-o, double lung transplants

such a vivacious twenty-something

progeny of excellently smart parents

that somehow had given her the cystic fibrosis DNA

the stupid rare gene that kills some folk faster than others.

We’d likely done eight or nine bronchoscopies

The usual protocols, monitoring for what we were monitoring for.

I always tailored the music in the suite to the patient

and her broncs had become a contest of a sort.

She’d try to ask for something i didn’t have over there

in the collection only on CD’s in the player,

this was pre-Pandora, or Apple music, or anything like that.

She’d giggle when I couldn’t produce it

settle for something like what she’d asked for.

Wheeling her up to the suite from Out Patient Surgery

she’d taken a CD case out from under the hospital gown

“take this you old Respiratory Therapist Hippie Man”

She’d kidded again, she was like that.

“You gotta play this when I come”

it had some greats on it, James Brown, Nine Inch Nails

just to name a few -her fav’s.

The affinity we enjoyed had progressed from a sterile smelling procedure lab

trust abounding to take appropriate care

She would look up at me

as I handed the prepared sleepy-time meds

calling them the “I don’t care, and I don’t remember meds”

and say those words with me in unison

as if to a four-four time signature along with the tune that was on.

She’d enjoyed eight more years of prolonged life

from her two transplants.

her deadly Cystic Fibrosis was aggressive,

and the second set of lungs

were to play in the same minor key as the first.
at her age in her late twenties.

I was in the room when she told her parents

no more surgeries. Couldn’t do it again

a combo of couldn’t and wouldn’t.

I just happened to be there having come by to check on her

heard she had be re-admitted and was very sick

lungs full of mucousy shit that had her at death’s door again

that is the way of pulmonary Cystic Fibrosis

(It is relentless even with the best care)

when her parents came in and she chose to surprise all of us

with her announcement.

Such moments are beyond tender

beyond intimacy, and well into anguish

I shook her Dad’s hand, clear that it was time to leave the hospital room

her Mom followed me out into the hall

“Did you know she had made this decision?”

shaking my head “NO”,

i tried to be professional while wiping my left eye’s tear

Mom said “we have been dreading the need for this conversation,”

and, “we knew it was coming.”

I did my best to console her

out there in the hall, and she just asked me

to leave her time to be alone with her thoughts,
and then Dad appeared from the room

leaving the door to it open

her Mom leaned against the hall wall, crying

looking at Dad, I touched her shoulder, and walked away.

c Ray Whitaker, 09/22