DWELLING WITHIN
I hesitated in the doorway
grasping the painted frame
for the wood’s strength to come.
The universe sent it
many coloured molecules flowed in
thus standing with new intentions
facing forward toward the ochre sandstone gorge.
Winds blew brown dust-devils by
these having the faces of the past
those having smiles or frowns on them
some moaning with delight,
some screaming loudly,
others wisely pointing out the lost
disappointments, then the winds stopped
leaving new patterns on the garden walkway.
I could not, and would not
dwell on the darkness behind,
on that which made me hesitate
nearly causing wet tears, and hugging the door
now swinging open
blue sky beckoning
seeing fresh rain off in the distance.
We are only what we choose to be, don’t you see?
There is no dust in your eyes anymore.
A door opens, it’s rectangle a shining possibility.
FRENDSHIP HOMAGE
Don’t want the intimacy of a phone call
even less desiring of a cold text
wanting to hear the inflections
in person
those emotions colouring your voice
and mine, too, in return.
Wiping a dramatic tear away
seen, a long array
as if in a room full of mirrors
all reflecting inwards
where the subjects in the mirror’s exactness
are marching off proportionally smaller.
Wiping another tear
away. This day
knowing of a countenance
unappreciated, unrequited
where Da Vinci’s fingers do not meet
on the painting The Creation of Adam.
I miss you
and the possibility mislaid.
EMPTY BAG
Being here
where ever it is
a place between life and death
in the position of many confusions.
From the past
there were two great binding loves
of which, since
there have been no equal.
The voices of those in today’s room
are without real joy.
saying exactly, only
what must be their truths,
and holding away at arm’s length
a certain happiness
as if they could not be loved,
would not be loved.
A used up allotment
standing here in strength nonetheless
those two greats are in the distant divide
stock still in fog, not waving.
My horizon has no definition
no trees to mark the distance to
or from as I walk,
backpack on, in a loincloth.
In my right hand
a vessel with the water of life in it
my left hand’s fingers are clasped
tightly around an empty sack.
Ray Whitaker - Is an American poet from Colorado, USA. Ray is intent on becoming a part of International Poetry endeavours, having been published in Bali, England, Ireland, Belgium, India, Greece, Pakistan, and the US. Ray was a Delegate and read his work at the 2023 Panorama International Literature Festival, sponsored by Writers Capital International Foundation of Athens, Greece. He is also a Delegate to the 2024 Panorama Festival 2024.
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