Hats Off To Rita MacNeil

I wrote this piece of poetry for Rita after seeing her perform at Blyth in 1994, and I mailed it to her at Big Pond, Nova Scotia. That is all the address it took, just her name and Big Pond. I received a handsome letter back from her, thanking me for my gift of beautiful words! And she is just a beautiful woman. Nova Scotia will never be the same now. But her soul rides out along the black rock, and the Men Of The Deep will sing along with her spirit, for all eternity.

Hats Off To Rita MacNeil

Porch songs, and music from her soul
Poetry set to a mood of notes, combination of love and sadness,
And life itself, she sets us free.
Most beautiful lady!
You can laugh at yourself and find the deep, ethereal joy
In the sunrise and the waves and the black rock on the shore.
The world’s judgment does not matter, for you have learned to overcome.

I love the candid way you kick off your shoes and make no apology
Your enjoyment is a tangible thing that reaches out to me
Touches my soul
And I let you, dear, sweet woman ~ your smile is sunshine in a sad, lost world
You are not afraid to rock and roll, what surprise! What a difference you make!
I weep and I smile and I rejoice at what you give from your heart
My tears fall as I write; what could I give you in return?

I, in my tiny way, write my thoughts, and would like to someday leave my mark
To share with somebody, somewhere, somehow I might help to lessen
Somebody’s pain.
I am awed by your simple, honest beauty, so genuinely given
So valuable and tremendous, and yet so unpretentious
It restores my hope for mankind, that we may still learn to love, share, and forgive
And strive to be better.

I bow in gratitude to you and I will keep the melody
Part of the creative and loving artistry of music that you weave
Within my mind and my heart
To remind me of your humble soul that gives with no restraint
But with courage and with love.

In memory of Rita MacNeil

with utter admiration, cailin raine

Trails

When I was a very little girl my family went on a picnic at a huge park
There were magical, winding trails that led you by tiny cabins and fairies
It was a charmed and make-believe world and I was totally captivated
There were places where the signs said to tiptoe and I found it easy to obey
My parents must have let me go off alone, which meant it was not far from them
But I felt all alone in the universe and enthralled beyond words, I needed none.

At a bend I was tiptoeing, having read the sign, and then glanced up at a house
The lady who lived there was looking out the window and smiling at me
Years later I had to think that I was likely a cute little sight, brown ringlets
Elated grin, eyes alight with enjoyment, unfettered glee in just “being”
I was surprised to find someone actually living in this enchanted forest
But it did not spoil my fascination with the fairies and the imps and squirrels.

Years later, I realize that I was born with this utter love for trails, forests
Any pathway, for me is and forever will be irresistible, enticing, necessary
I must ramble along it and find where it goes, what surprise is beyond…
Around the next curve there may be a bubbling spring or a tiny bridge
A doe or a buck or a fawn perched and ready to run, hesitating then
Because they feel no danger from me, only my utter love and delight
With the ways of the forest and of the animals who make their home
Amongst the kind, leaning trees that seem to whisper of magic.

cailin raine

Angels Holding Hands

　

I look across my pillow and see angels holding hands

Their wings are interlocking and their light shines down in bands

Their faces smile and joined as such they form a lovely circle

And I supported in their arms enjoy them in the middle.

I feel so very cherished to be at their holy centre

And vow to live my life renewed and do a whole lot better

I know that I have slipped and fell, been lifted up on wings

But when my heart is heavy, my angel stoops and sings.

The music then is sweet and pure and rings within my ear

I no longer have the weight of this world's strife to fear

For my angel's voice is mighty, yet soothing, full of light

He sings of love and happiness, of all things good and right.

He sings until my heart is full of purity and love

And I can face the world again and remember Him above

The road is long and many times I've wanted to give up

But angels come and minister, they stay with me and sup.

We drink until my body rests, my soul again set free

And I can soar above the clouds with angels helping me

I rest upon their lovely wings, nestled in downy white

And when I must, come back to earth and try to do what's right.

Every now and then I know I'll see them at my bed

And know they've come again to wipe away my fear and dread

I bathe in His own glory as their light shines down in bands

When I look across my pillow and see angels holding hands.

cailin raine

Valentine Hearts

Forever hearts wrapped in Valentine paper

Clumsy attempts at love ~ we were so young

Then… hearts joined with white organdy and flimsy lace

Red roses to represent the true love we shared.

Years later, hearts still together ~ but a little weary

Around the edges, blurred a bit by time

And holding hands.

Now a few gray hairs, but worn hearts still joined

In gratitude for all the years spent as one

And we are not so far from the young lovers

Of yesterday.

Tomorrow

One heart may have to go and one might stay

But still they will be joined by some unfathomable Force

Still wrapped in Valentine paper… which has grown

So very strong.

One heart will leave for a time… then the other will follow

Reach for me across the veil, as you lifted the veil years ago

And I will be there with you.

cailin raine

The Sisterhood Of The Traveling Bag

for my sister, Carol

Remember the “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants”? just a silly movie
Well what about the “Sisterhood of the Traveling Bag”? it has
Already traveled from Alaska after all, back to our country
And who knows where one of us may end up yet?
The traveling bag may tell a story, as it collects the thoughts
Of either one of us….or both….as it sits on a shelf at our place
Who knows what the traveling bag is thinking? “Boy she needs
A kick in the pants to get her going with that publishing!”
Or “She needs a solid voice to tell her it is ok to have her very own world!”

The Traveling Bag might be a catalyst to contain
All kinds of little wisdoms passed back and forth, oh at
Birthdays, the odd one, not them all, or at Christmas
When one almost expects to unpack the Christ child
Because right now He seems to be so near.
Or when one of us falls ill, or gets hurt, Heaven forbid
But none of us ever knows what is around the next bend.
Or it could be at a wedding, imagine even at this late date!
I think that I may have already earned a pattern of surprise
Good or bad, like jumping on the plane for Tennessee to meet a stranger
And you were there too, a part of the absurdity, a part of the experience
And making sure I had James Redfield along for company!

Maybe the Traveling Bag, will write its own story in the words
Written on cards, on letters, in our smiles or frowns, or just in our hearts
Maybe the Traveling Bag can be a kind of bridge, with ropes
That reach out and remind us of the continuity of family, the realness
That cannot ever hide, because there is a blood tie stronger than life itself!

And so the Traveling Bag sits for now with you, at this Christmas time
And hopefully there will be many, many more,
Because as the same blood courses in our veins, the same as the parents
Who moved on and left us behind for now, like them, our lives might
Be long and the journey fruitful, happy, sad, but most assuredly
The lesson we were meant to realize.

love from your little sister,

cailin raine

Magic In The Valley

for my Mom
　
A special voice had called me to the valley for awhile
I had driven with the laundry for my Dad with a sad smile
Mom had gone on over with the angels sweet you see
And all that there was left that day was the quilt she’d given me.

I’d hung it on the line for the wind was gently strong
I stood there on the lawn with my Dad as it hung
Then I looked to see the rainbows in the sky placed there for us
And we marveled at the two of them, they brought a sacred hush.

I looked at the quilt pattern of red and pink and white
And I saw her face then shining, as in a special light
Her smile was in the centre, it gave a tender glow
And I knew then she was watching us, way down here below.

How could I repay her for all she’d done for me
How could I let her know, how could she ever see?
But then I saw the tear which down the quilt had left a trace
And I wept for the the magic in that Beaver Valley place.

Her tears had brought a happiness, ‘twas in that sacred glow
The rainbows stayed there in the sky, ‘til the sun had slipped low
The autumn leaves were lit with a blaze that burned in me
And I drove away with certainty, and I knew that she could see.

cailin raine

One More Step Towards Myself

for J.　
　
Gently sinking into the comfortable haze of living day to day
Without demands, without having to even get out of bed!
Softly waking with no hurry, no real commitments, no rules
Maybe you did me a favour after all, firing me, our time was up!
I had come to the end of a stage in my life, I was eager to move on!
Looking back, I realize you were yet another control figure,
And I needed to grow up enough to put you behind me with relief.
The links are like chinks in a fence, built one upon another, joined.
There was a fence around me, self-made really, although I blamed
Everyone else.
It was me that allowed the feet to tramp on my being, the dirt to sully My soul.

I can spot them now, without lying to myself, I can pick out the words
I know the gestures and the silly lies, I will never again let someone
Take my place.
Or control me.
My Dad always said that the pendulum swings, one way and then the
Next, and it does not stay in the middle!
It is the centre part that is hard to keep, it is the balance that is difficult
To reach.
But now I see that the reaching needs to be done, it needs to be
Completed.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life,
And I finally choose to make my journey count, really count, not just
For me.
But for those who may be watching, and maybe it will help them
Find their way. 　

cailin raine

Dark October Night

Cats calling in the night
Cries loud and eerie and sad.
They stalk and prance as they choose
No one tells them to claw or snake away,
Or toss a baleful glance to anyone who dares to walk the alley.
They jump to the heights of the tall fence,
So that they can sit and rake their tails in swaying motion
And cast an evil eye on the pitied and mere mortals.
Feline hearts pump as one with those of the witches.
Together they are joined by the task of the night watch,
For blackness is as familiar as their own foul breath.
Jagged teeth edge fetid lips as they yawn unconcerned,
Breathing the stinking air with satisfaction.
No fear mounts in their stealthy souls for the hags
Who chant and sing in uncanny mantras,
At the edge of the woods where the moonlight lies strong.
Cats are of their breed, molded of furtiveness and craft, of sly and sleek
Black as the hard core of night,
Hard as the calloused soles of work-worn feet,
Souls carried by bloodied mangled paws
Down a lone, black, alley street.
They stop to watch the witch at the garbage bin,
Envying her catch, watching her lick the scrap of meat,
Longing for the slimy taste again upon their roughened tongue,
Bloodied with mangled rats and the dark red blood of the moon.
At the midnight hour they soar together in magical suspense.
If you are very careful you may see
The flash of ebony,
Carline and cat outlined in silhouette
Swiftly pass the sharp silver of hard moon,
And disappear into the bottomless depths of hell.
Then, one night again soon
You will see the kitten new,
Slinking in ancient rhythm,
Black, black as the dark coal of the bin.
And just for a moment she will turn,
Watching you with the evil eye of the witch
Who rides and returns to claim her own.

cailin raine

The Perfect Dance

for my daughter, Tanis S. L. Ireland

　
A stride that speaks of fitness
Not just a truly healthy air
But each muscle speaking for itself
Comfortable in its frame of reference
Swimmer, athlete, every muscle toned
Easy movement, unaware of effortless pace
A ramble born of countless hours, breathing in puff mode
Work born of determination, pushing on
Leaving comfort zone for another higher one
The mother observes with maternal pride
The silhouette in black is perfect, swimmer’s shoulders
Top the ideal body profile, angles sloping downward
Dark slimness outlined by the white, chalky gravel
Hard background to match the hardness of arriving
Laps and laps and run upon run have shaped a newness
This painless gait now at home in itself
Possessing a marathon strength
Acceptance shows in subtle space…faultless form a choice
Mother heart bursts in lioness smugness…but also a sadness
Because this feline spirit from her womb does not need her
She has become this strong woman all on her own
She treads down the rocky slope of laneway
Unaware that she performs the perfect dance.

Love forever, Mom

cailin raine

Forest Romp

I’ve made it out to the forest in spite of the frosty cold, air that points fingers
Into warm creases and spaces filled with body heat, to steal comfort and make
Me work harder, walk faster, quick short steps that keep the cold at bay
I tramp through the trees, the path worn here and there by snowshoes and skis
Deep, sharp footprints of deer hooves, some big and strong, some tiny, dainty
Prancing or scampering tracks, mottled by shuffling or trudging boot marks
Long streamers of sun-shined ski dents showing the way over the glossy trail
I enjoy this solitude, the icy breeze sends little shivers, the blue sky sits still.

I stop high on the trail above the river, near a wooden bench, listening to the flow
Of the polar water running beneath ice, encased in long, thin, possessive sheets
Along the edges of the river are more deer tracks, evidence of their frolicking
Happy, romping marks reminding me of poetry, and “where angels dare to trod.”

I always feel the spirits resting in the trees, I stop to put my hands on bark, rough
Satisfying, it feels strong and durable, the essence in my life I miss most of the time
The big hands I long to have caressing me at night are missing in my life, the stolid
Tree trunks remind me of male muscle, strong arms holding me, I am secure, stilled
And as I lift my gaze to the tree tops that have reached high to heaven with trust
My face is caressed with a soft, smattering of tiny cooling drops, my skin is flushed
Then chilled, soothed, touched. It feels like a blessing from the gods of the forest.

Awed, I ramble down to the river and sit so close to the rushing current, that I can
Feel its body moving near mine, alive, rushing, churning, flipping up twigs and logs
Limbs parting in her streams and flowing within her grasp, she moves even the
Massive bits, and her strength is a never-ending torrent of meaning and measure
A river always feels like an entity to me, her heartbeat strikes mine with depth
Resonates in a part of me few people know or understand, I trail my fingers along
The icy sides of her near the muck of the banks and I let her essence fill me like sex
We merge as one in female need and I envy her catch of rough bark and branch.
　
Ambling back up towards the higher trail, I ascend the sloping hill in sturdy boots
Across the mounds of the forest bottom I glimpse the flashing white tails of does
A few of them darting away and over the wooden rail fence, nervous of my presence
A tiny spotted fawn stops to glance back at me, big, brown, glazed eyes curious
I smile and traipse along, the crisp crunch of boot smacking hard-packed gritty snow.

At the edge of the forest I stop to feel my goodbye, a last, long lingering look
Longing to stay and merge with them, longing to take their heartbeat home.

cailin raine

Coffee Jaws

This piece of poetry is a tribute to my Dad, Merle Weber, who passed away when he was nearly 91 years old. He told us many amusing stories about the “old” days, and one of these stories was about Welly Fawcett, an old fellow who was nick-named “Coffee Jaws”. Many of the folk around Beaver Valley had similar nicknames, but this one seemed to stick with me. The particulars of Welly’s life were not really what I have portrayed in my poetry, but this is what the connotations of the name “coffee jaws” produced in my mind. Whenever I see a lone crow flying, I am reminded of my Dad and his friend Welly, and I pray they both have peace.

　

　

COFFEE JAWS

　

"I'll tell you about "Old Coffee Jaws",

Said the old man to his son.

"Them was the days when there were no laws

That's how the West was won!"

Well there was some laws and the sheriff tried,

But you know ya jest cain't tame

Them strappin' lads that came to drink

The brew that "Coffee Jaws" made!

"Old Coffee Jaws", well he swore a lot!

And his wife, well she cussed too!

No other folk did pay them mind,

Jest came to buy their brew.

Yep, "Coffee Jaws", he done distilled

One heck of a crop a’ beer.

The whole town could count on his supply

Heck, any time a’ year!

"Old Coffee Jaws" would sit and rock

In a chair worn mighty thin.

When locals came he'd wink one good eye,

And give his toothless grin.

He'd say, "Come here lad, let me look atcha!

Do ya think yer old enough?

To handle this brew that kicks like a mule,

Do ya think that yer that tough?"

　

Well, the young lads laughed and they joked a lot

And they'd leave with their bellies full.

They'd stagger into town to track the lassies down,

And they'd shoot a whole lot of bull.

"Old Coffee Jaws" would spit and wink

And he'd walk that extra mile,

To deliver a keg on one good leg,

Then he'd give his toothless smile.

With jest one leg and jest one eye,

You'll wonder why, "Coffee Jaws?"

But the old man once had lost enough

To make him think and pause.

There was a night when the moon was bright

When "Coffee Jaws" was young,

And he could see, had both good knees,

When his best friend done got hung.

He was hung for a crime that for a time,

They all believed he'd done,

But "Coffee Jaws" knew, it was jest the brew!

As for reason, there was none.

So "Coffee Jaws", he made a pact

With his dead friend gone to heaven,

That he'd drink no brew even though he grew

The best crop under heaven.

"Coffee Jaws" grew old drinkin' nothin' cold

No, jest his coffee cup

Graced his old hands for he had plans,

Of joining his pal yonder up.

So he rocked and he winked and he smiled and he thinked

As he drank that blasted stuff....

His choice that night and his coffee life

Had sure bin gol-darn rough.

In the end they amazed at the way he'd grazed

On only his coffee brew,

And alone at night they'd smell coffee light

As past the sky, …a lone crow flew.

cailin raine

Drumming

There was a drumming in my heart, even way back then
Just a tiny mite trudging about the farm in my wee rubber boots
But always a drumming and I knew I marched to a different one
That was alright with me because I never could see the sense in phony
I could always see the pretense and I despised it in my wee girl way
They wondered why I shied away, why I didn’t even want to belong
Because to “belong” meant to compromise in a silly, counterfeit way
That never did make any sense to me, still doesn’t and I am glad!

To be me has been a different path to walk, but I glory in the difference
I march to that distant beat, and sometimes it is very near and I love it
It is in the gentle falling of the rain, it lurks behind the clouds, in sunbeams
It drums itself into the ways of the squirrels, birds, cattle, and all beasts
It grows in the leafy branches of the trees and in the gentle flower petals
I cherish this rhythm in my heart, I love the cadence of my drum
Djembes, ancient, native, but real and kin to me, I bask in awareness
I am content within the wondrous beat of my spirit-filled, mahogany drum
Keeping time, I feel the heart beat of the earth and melt into the sky itself.

cailin raine

Camilla

Ode To Jessica Tandy

'Tis twain I've passed your way and learned an older wisdom

Immense treasure of seasoned mind and soul

Extraordinary woman more beautiful now with age.

She would have bathed in oils!

She would have come dressed in a silken robe!

He would have waited for her in the bed,

Smoking black cigarettes from Bohemia.

She would have stood at the foot of the bed

He would have stared!…puffing on his black cigarette from Bohemia.

He never really smoked!

Turn down the lamp to crawl naked into bed

And openly caress small breasts with nipples translucent and light

He would have left the lamp on, he wanted to look at her!

The lamp stays on so that we might see.

We go back to before

We all go back to before

And know that we should have come

Ah! We should have come!

I go back to before

And walk merrily down a gravel country road

With Mexican hat perched on my head in jaunty flirting manner

And I take the hand of the love-stricken boy

And I never, ever let go.

"She goes down to the seas again

To the vagrant Gypsy life

To the gull's way and the whale's way

And the wind's like a whetted knife

And all we ask is a merry yarn

From a laughing fellow rover

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream

When the long trick's over"

(quote from the movie)

For life is but a trick

And we are here on stage

To play our part and learn our lines…

Grow more talented with age!

And age is the best gift

For with time we master all

And in the last closing scene

We're the fairest at the ball!

So dance Camilla in the clouds

And wear your silken robe

Feel golden with your pretty breasts

And play your violin old

For old is where the beauty is

And where we all must stray

Finally the last chord is struck

Forever, in Wisdom's arms we stay.

cailin raine

Poem For Shirley

You were angel hair on Christmas lights
Bright smiles and a hearty laugh!
You were “By Golly” and gifts from the heart.
You were life-packed letters from afar
And voice tapes from Europe filled with fun.

“Shirley” meant excitement and magic
And a special air about the farm.
When you were coming home
It meant “exceptional” and extra little touches,
Exquisite taste and impeccable décor.

My biggest regret is that you lived so far away
Too far for a daily chat or a routine drop-in
That is why my Sister candle gift to you
Sat in my closet waiting for the next visit
Why do we take so much for granted?

In lighting the Sister candle for you at your service
It represented all the gifts I wish I could have given
All the time I wish we’d had
All the miles that kept us apart
And all the love we shared in spite of everything.

Now that Sister candle sits in my living room
Beside my favourite picture of you, and behind
The dried, white rose that I kept from your celebration.
It still doesn’t seem right that you aren’t here with us.
I can still hear your magical voice, or catch a whiff
Of fragrance in the air, and glimpse a gossamer spirit
Dancing ‘round the Christmas lights with angel hair.

I hope you are happy, dancing in heaven with Gord.

You are lovingly missed on your birthday Shirley

Colleen

Good Girls Holdin' On

( alias ~ ode to the women of divorce )

　

Girls, women, ladies graze like cows in the field chewin’ their cuds

Waitin’, watchin’, holdin’ on to what they have been taught

Told where to go and what to do….

Movin’ heavy bodies to the beat of the current music or the farmer’s whip.

Inside they’re plannin’ their escape

Through the fence and over the pasture to where the grass is greener

On the other side

Anything would be better than this!

Honey tits to suck on

Givin’ milk and sustenance to everyone else

Good girls roped in and corralled

Put in place for breedin’ and feedin’.

Some special fate is calling

But it has to be loud enough to be heard

Over the spittin’ and the fightin’ of the men in charge

The females trot to the time of the man clock

Their hands move around in the circle of shame

Goin’ round and round and there never is an end!

The time machine all wound up

Knowin’ there are unlived lives in its veins.

The men strive for great chemical reaction

Results that show in size and gain

Dense heads frying new lard into their brains again and again…

Is it any wonder we are bored?

Daily hate kills kind of like forever

Some of us brave enough to smoke little doobies to forget

A defense from the shitful world of men in control

Punchin’ knobs, clocks, buttons…all wound up for more of the same.

　

We sit at our kitchen counter smokin’

Where home has become hell

Holdin’ on, needin’ to glimpse the light or a hint of fragrance in the dung

Suckin’ tums to combat the acid

Growling deep within.

cailin raine

Going Home Again

It has always been said, that you can’t go home again
But those people who said that, forgot all about the heart.

When I think of home, it is the valley and the river
Which housed me as a child in Beaver Valley.
The hills enveloped me with wonder
The rocks beckoned to me, to come and explore
The river called its song across the fields
And I would always follow.

Alone, I trudged, just a little girl, along the banks
Up the grassy slopes, way, way up to the rocks
Where caverns and caves whispered of excitement.
I learned to trust myself enough to crawl along the ledges
And sit with legs dangling over the valley.
To drink in the fresh air and feel the kind sun on Old Baldy
Was home for me, and for the golden eagles who soared above me.

The old farm house perches still, on a knoll with new owners
Familiar and dear, but with a fresh classy look, bright paint
New windows and roof, verandahs adding opulence
It blurs in my mind, and I am again the little girl on the lawn
With dolls and bears and cats, each one named, each one happy at home.

At night when the stars twinkle, I know it is the same sky
That looms over my real home in the valley
I am kin with the moonbeams and I sparkle with the dew.
As I think of Beaver Valley, I know I will always be able
To go home again.

cailin raine

November Days

The sky looms overhead in heavy slate grey
Bordering autumn with a blanket of calm
Lines drawn now, separating light, azure days of summer
From grave and serious moments inherit in the dying of the leaves.

Groups of geese fly in roundups overhead, practicing
Perfecting their formations for the journey ahead
Their excitement feeds the air with expectation…
There is a waiting mood blowing in the breeze.

I wait as well, with a wintry acceptance while my car
Has her yearly oiling, an oil change and smooth tires
Replaced with big, gripping, safe ones, prepared
For the snow gusts, the ice storms, and winds to come.

The garage sits in a matching grey décor, melding
With the sky, quiet in its reflective stance, molding
Itself into landscape, cold, dreary, but necessary
“Must get the job done; it is time; let’s be ready.”

The geese are shifting, ever moving, rising to the heavens
Tonight they are out in droves, all the leaves are gone
The big birds land in the freshly plowed fields, dive-bombing
Showing off, loving their prowess, eager to be on their way.

I always feel kind of left behind… I am left to weather the storms
Figuratively and in reality, my car gears up like the geese on hefty tires
The geese rise once more from the fields, forming their military lines
Each gets on their way, functioning as they must, they are gettin’ ready!

My car engine hums, the tires crunch on frosty gravel, my fingers are cold on the wheel
The hind geese honk with encouragement to their forerunners, calling “All aboard!”

cailin raine

Love Stained Page

In Loving Memory of My Mother

Reta Mae Genoe (Weber)

1913 - 1996

　

　

‘Tis the weeping blood of Christ that is pressed upon this page

Brought by my departed Mother’s love, just beyond the grave

The weeping light, white lily brought this crimson blood to life

And stained these pages with its blood, to help lessen my strife

Stained here to remind me that the Son died on the Cross

That there was great Atonement , to help me conquer loss

For daily struggle in each life, stress and pain and more

Moves us to be stronger and to walk towards that Shore

Lord knows I’ve walked some wrong paths, swayed from following Him

The rainbows, sun were hidden and my thoughts of God were dim

There were Changes ever straining me, pushing me to grow

What lies ahead is God’s will, and He watches me below

　

As I turn these red, stained pages, I see the beauty there

And am moved to look to Heaven, then bow my head in Prayer

I knew there was a Reason that I chose the lily white…

She is there blooming in my garden to remind me what is right

I thank the Lord for Mother, who still gives beyond the grave

The rainbow, cardinal, lily, rose, with love to me she gave

And so I pressed the lily white against this Holy page,

Watched her bleed her Message and grow more beautiful with age.

with love

cailin raine



There Is A Place

　

There is a place where I sometimes go

I think we converge there in symmetry

At a vortex in time where it is easy to connect

We float suspended in a cosmic ether of love particles

To discuss in clarity and understanding,…our growth

Maintaining a supportive and necessary connection.

How many times have you awakened and felt

You had been on a journey and had seen an old friend

But your body had never left your bed?

An ethereal touch remains, and a new found wisdom lingers

Something of another is left in your soul

A nameless quality of change that is welcome

Familiar and new all at the same time.

Rebirth happens all about us

Each morning as the sun peeks its smile just above the horizon

Its spirit calls out a “good morning! its a new day!”

Petals, crops, leaves, buds pull toward her

Opening in new growth and embracing the warmed air.

We too can choose the new dawn, and write upon the clean slate

Wiped fresh by the dew and the night.

Choose your letters carefully, for they spell out today

Your next step in becoming who you are.

cailin raine

Summer Song

　
Out here on the rocks, indented with fossils, are scratched initials and memories
Echoes of voices past, linger and toss, then sit in the stone shadows
Reminding me of brown, sturdy, sandy feet, straw hats, and strong bones
They stay my heart with their summer song, playing its magic in the long afternoon.

Out here on the rocks, the outermost shouts of innocence reverberate
Running and tiny toes clamp themselves beside me in ghostly print
An elder’s guiding hand clasps the little one, dear, beside the slower soul
In my mind’s eye, I see the clear gaze of the child, trained on the horizon
Watching the sun blaze its way into regretful descent, leaving behind one more day.

Out here on the rocks, the smashing water wings the air with puffs of soft wind
Treading time with the higher tendrils of breeze floating against my arms
Higher still, the upper air currents carry the gulls along happy trails
They scream their joy, call out their life, their sturdy wings sky-scraping the evening.

Out here on the rocks I watch the golden pathway paved upon pewter liquid
Shimmering in bronze towards the sun-god of the sky, now cast in blue shadow
Against the robin’s egg hue just above the horizon, its centre burning bullion.

Out here on the rocks, strands of peaceful thought drift like sand in the air
Caressing my temples with cotton-gloved fingers, stroking my mind in languid rhythm.

Out here on the rocks, I have come to sit alone, to drink in one more September night
Before air chills cold, rocks sleep under ice, and frost creeps over the last memories.

cailin raine