Poetry from Julian Raine


Tales of the kite: Shadowed chronicles of a high flyer.




Into the hours and the ours of the night

The light once from red, now silver palmed

The raine, the carousel of summer roses




baby it’s cold outside


and the front tire on my bike squeaks and squawks

like a whistling bird caught in the frame of the cold cold

yeah, this is where a good live in boy

would come in handy

to walk around with a tool belt

and fix stuff like squeaky tires

and fist open tough spaghetti jars

and get things down from the top shelf

and carry the groceries in

and haul the iron from the junkyard

and soften the hardware-mechanisms of my body

how i’ve gotten by on my own all this while

i’ll never know





lone grey wolf


when i take a bath

i think of you

and i think of the raine

and through the window

when the light turns to lavender


i think of you

when i wrap the dry

towel around my body

and fall into the sleep of my dreams

in the mourning light

when i first open my eyes

i think of you


i think of you when the sun

comes in and there is light again

and i think of you when it turns to grey

i think of you when the stars

wish across the sky

or when the wind is cold

or when the train whistle blows

or when the leaves fall around me

i think of you

and my mind fills with memory





You know it’s gettin’ bad when you come home

And find a note in the fryin’ pan, that says,

‘Fix your own god-damn supper’

And you’re the only one that lives there





My Date With Hank

I hawk the black jewelry box and the butcher knife

For a cup of coffee, a paper, cigarettes

And a spoonful of pillowcase-capsules

That i wrap into the lint of my right pocket

In line for coffee i get wedged between a man

And the ghost that grows the man inside of him

He has all the charm of an old poet

Boldly boasting of a month long waltz with death

Coaxing the dancing parasol in the room

Who gently nods and smiles and crosses her legs

‘My balls swelled to the size of coconuts,

My legs as thick as birch trees, he recounted.’

His throat hits the air in summersault

And cigarette and the promise of survival

I clear my lung before it clouds again

But i blend, my pale cheek, into the wallflowers


Of floating marigold

I get lost there in the cluster

I get lost in the eyes of a child

A little reddish-blond called by her mother –

Emily brushes at the hem of my skirt and smiles and smiles

Raising her arms up to me

I fall for her immediately

I fall for the old woman

Left to the corner

Where the shadows of light do seldom lead

She’s twisted into an oval jar

Of rotten spices

Smiling between

The lipstick vanilla coke

Of yesterdays long ago

I can’t breathe in hear, i think

There is no room in hear, for me to breathe


My mind escapes to the window

Of winters grey

And i’m already racing

My eyes are watching

Across the street

I have a date, you see

It’s a big date for me

He’s been waiting for me there

Patiently, Patiently

I saw him go in

I saw him come out again

Stand there, on guard of the door

Waiting on my approach

His black hair streaked back to a widows’ peak

His cold red face glaring at the day

Standing at the book store across the street

I dance with all of them

The old woman


The child

And the poet

And i make my way through

I thumb the whispering shelves

Flitter through the dry leaves of Tennyson, Yeats, Thoreau

Waiting. Waiting for him to come and find me

Come find me knight, i recant to myself, my day is fading

Ah yes. There he is, The Golden Pony

The Thoreau-Bred

A lord above his Tennyson

Look how beautiful he is

Born again from the yeat of god

The ink still wet behind the ears

The Continual Condition Of Hank Charles Bukowski

I open the page

And he takes me in

Lays me down

Spreads me out like a porno star on page 22

And fucks me until the paper runs through




Glamour Clamor. Where Is This Chain Enamored

Surely Behind The Looking Glass







tonight i prayed

to the crowning

krown of kings


king top toupee

o god o lord

yu who have no hair


could you bring me

the jackalope

of hearts


the yellow girl

and the number five





thumbing dimes

for lose


i turn the calculator on

i begin adding things up

things like


and El Sombreo

things like loneliness and longing

and 23.72 bar tabs to show for it

things like 24 and 39

36 DD

once a c.

sea-saw sea-saw

and long winded stories

that begin ‘once upon a time’

little things like butter and eggs

and it’s always the little things

that add up

and wear you down

to nothing





what is the main highway

going north, he said

highway 101, i said

best class i’ve ever taken




Milk Maids and Dirty Linens


Crevice In The Earth Pussy

Earth Cream Sunday Come Early This Year










blind date

i could spend an evening with a man


a movie


the full catastrophe

and then i come home

crawl into my bed

my bed of ‘leaves of grass’

and read a few lines

written from the hand

of the old man

and i feel closer to him

in just those few words

than any other man alive


the man

who i went to dinner with

who tried to feel me up at the movie

who bought drinks

and drank too much

and left with another girl




No money’s Heir for the Air of a dead Poet.

Even the word is too expensive for Rhyme.




Where above the dancers move

As a could of birds

Over the fields of wildwood flowers

That i walked as the days wept through

These are the memories i call home





The sounds of the summer-air and scourge
As the winds twist their way through the wood
The littering flocks flay from their nesting
Trees, applauding at the grey winter sky

But i have not the courage nor the self possession
The moths and beetles they all chase at my tales, i
Scurry on useless legs that plod on the brain, i am
A hollow stream rushing wayward in the wood
And tangling into the mourning of winters grey

One day, it will be that someone will pick it up
One mourning in the sun-glass windows of my mind
That i’ll find it sitting there on the end…stand
Collecting dust from dust
And memoirs from the mulch of ash


’i look for gold in everything, i find it in the waters of my youth’





memory comes


as a scent in the air, maybe

or in the cracks on the sidewalk
or in the colors of my clothes
or in the raine

as it falls
from the grey
and it reminds me
of the way i felt
the way that i was, then
when i was a child
and all the moments

in between
sort of bind together
the child to the old woman

i am to become
they belong to each other
and all at once
they belong to life

just as they belong to death
the dream that dreams from life
as we are as much the earth as the earth itself
the old blood the rivers vein

the cacophony of the earth

and the quiet of the earth
or the flower

to all the things that need to be
the flowers sweet




and as for me


there is a beauty in knowing
like a ghost or a new born bird
humming into the air
you try to catch the bird
by breaking at the air with words
but the birds will bellow
and the eyes do turn
and the night-spells call
and i walk
the shadows of the wood




A painter must look deep within the well, to find the true value of yellow


Julian Raine is an accomplished visual artist and the author of numerous books of poetry. Some of her pieces (a number of which are displayed elsewhere in this issue) are up for sale; please contact julianraine@hotmail.com for more information.

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