The Reeling, Lost Leaves

Leaves lurching in the wind like drunken sailors

And don’t tell me that is a trite term

Because that is exactly what they make me think of

Sailors on the docks in port at old-city Quebec

I was eighteen and free and there was a French boy

Who loved me and thought I had rejected him

When in fact I was only too shy to tell him

That I thought he was the most scrumptious thing

I had ever seen, black hair and black eyes and a carriage

That brought eighteen year old passion to a quick peak.

 We walked through the vintage streets hand in hand

Past shops and bars and inviting, romantic little haunts

I was wrapped in the feel of his skin and the smell of his hair.

  

But back to the leaves… the wind is patchy, coming in spurts

So that the leaves do this peculiar dance, akin to Indian powwow

Like Mother Earth herself, boogieing, a war dance!

A rolling in love which takes me back to the French boy

Why am I all caught up with this ancient memory of lust

While I watch the pitching of the leaves from my quiet window?

  

I wanted him to stagger and reel and sway towards me, relentless like

The frolicking loll of these vagabond leaves straying over my lawn

I wanted him to wander all over my life and keep moving in a dance

Reaching me in a heaving moment of declared desire and love

I wanted him to know how he had touched my young heart and soul.

  

Now I watch the leaves play a rock and roll while my mind weaves

This memory of the boy I could have rocked and rolled to eternity.

cailin raine

Ode To My Sister 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 “special” and extra little touches

“Shirley” meant 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 this Sister candle for you

It represents 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 service.

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.

with love from your sister,

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 my head.

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.

My heart rests in the Beaver Valley, and it knows that I will always be able

To go home again. 

cailin raine

Like Creeping Charlie

She had lived her life tidily

Never shifting from the parental molding

Careful not to stretch too far beyond the brink.

Slowly the stiffening had entered somewhere

Inwardly she had shifted into pain and then

Found a constant companion in grief

When had the happiness melted away?

Like the ice on the old pond up over the back pasture.

One day she sat by a stream and let the cold water

Sift against her toes, cool and clean and new

And realized that she had stopped feeling

Had butted the flow of life inside of herself

Until she no longer knew who she was.

Why had  she let the mold lie in her chest like stone

Encased in a hardness that did not allow tears?

Why had she let their opinions matter when her own heart

Had words beyond description and rays stronger than the sun?

She took the hand of her tiny boy and walked home

With a new awareness, a new hope

She would not let them stifle her any more

It was her life and her heart and she gave her spirit

Back to herself.

   

Inside the house the sun entered through the rear kitchen window

She peered out at the lawn rippled in tufts of incessant weed

It was like looking into the window of her soul

She saw the creeping Charlie that had spread all the way to the fence.

She walked out to the tool shed and took the hoe from the rack

With renewed strength she hoed all that creeping Charlie

Pulled and hacked and ripped and cut until there was not a shred of it

Left behind.

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 stillness, 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 deer

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

The Sisterhood Of The Travelling Bag

for my sister Carol,

Remember the “Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants”? just a silly movie
Well what about the “Sisterhood of the Travelling 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 travelling 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 Travelling 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 Travelling 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 Travelling 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 Travelling 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.

with love from your sister

cailin raine

Magic In The Valley

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 examined 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 teardrop which on 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. 

  with love to my Mom and Dad

                                                                                          and to my Beaver Valley home

                                                                                                          cailin raine

                                                                               

The Gift Of The Red-Gold Light

For Victoria

  

Little granddaughter of mine, silently sitting

In the old, downstairs hallway

Ancient house with voices in its walls

Quiet, surreal, a living, breathing thing

Even the kitchen door cries its longing…

But the silence has led me to investigate

Where is the chatter and where are the giggles?

I slowly peek around the doorway to find

An angel squatting there on the old wooden, floorboards

Above the carved, front door there is stained glass

In reds and golds and amber, like a church

Softly the crimson shadow beams across the hallway

Through the air like magic, and you sit enchanted

Sweet little face upturned to the red and gold lights

“It’s magic!” says your expression… and you let the beams

Fall across your hands and arms, watching the play of red on gold

Enchanted little face, enchanting little girl, playing in the sacred lights

Cast by the old house, its voice and wisdom speaking another language

One that your four-year-old self can hear

And I, a grandma, struck still by the magic and the sweetness

Not daring to move, not wanting to let go of the moment

A memory captured in time, imbeded forever in my mind

Blond strands of hair about your innocent face

Rapture on your features, awestruck by the gift

That the weathered, old home can bestow

Letting the light play, dance, and then, follow you

Enchantment worth a million smiles, mine

Still on my face years later at the sweet, angelic memory of you

As that little girl in my hallway, years ago.

 With forever Love, Grandma

         2002