Poetry from Julian Raine


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 rain

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



cucumis sativus


every garden should have

at least one bush champion cucumber

shaded in the milky green patch




inside the loom the threads still spin


it’s wonderful

to come back into your work

and find something there

in the old disregarded pages

that you’ve thrown out

into the great garbage bin

of the forgotten mind

where its crawled its way down

into the dark basement

and left for dead and gone and gone

but one winter day

while cleaning out the empty cellar

you pull it out from under the old house

and brush the cobwebs

and shake the soul to dust

and find that the old edges

have brandished into shining brass




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




across the years


let the ours not be distant

nor the miles of the mind

its slow and wounding blow

nor the rivers dried between

for the heart is near

and fuels the mind

and long is the river

that mends

the threads to grey

so if by each day

that begins the mourning sun

a mile i should come

with footsteps to bring us near

yet where the hard of hearts

the road is long and winding

but i put a mile in my shoes

i put a mile in my shoes

and by each day i walk

the hours wept onto the stone

over fields and high wood towers

over distant dreams from summers past

with the kiss of flowers at my feet

in the tempest of the raine

where the blue of the coming wind

as the days sweep gently by

and by each day i walk

a little closer to you




But I belong to it, my life’s work

Where the old house

Tangled in the wildwood growth

Hangs the apple blossoms on the windows shade


That place in the wander of my memory

It dreams and in through the wood

It dreams the moon on the pier of the sea

It dreams in wheat fields and wildwood flower

Where the shadows of light do seldom follow


It is the road that leads me here

Away from the summers red and red and red


And 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

And where the night-spells call

I walk the shadow of the wood


But if I could, cut its thorn

And offer you the rose


What color would you prefer? Red or Rose




i look for gold in everything

i find it in the waters of my youth




In that summer we drank dandelion wine

Poured into bowls and cups made with chips

Of broken earth and ash and dried birds milk


We sipped at the setting sun and drank

The dew from the dry leaves, the country

Cracked our lips, our skin and brittled

Our hair into a copse of grain


And we became the country..as far and as

Long as the eye that carried it, we hung

From its trees and the solitary towers that

Taught us about the length of eternity


We hung from the window pains

And stretched into the barren height


We perched the telephone wires

And the bell-towers

Turning pages of poetry from the tongue


We drank as the mills droned into the harbor

Where the flatboats stilled by the waters-side


We drank as the red wheel plowed into the

Fields of wheat, as the dead souls trudged the

Distant mile, bearing down against the ground


We drank as the frailty of nature washed itself

Upon the shores, sucking up the dried fish-eggs

The mullen, the moss, the white lilies of the spring


We drank from the voice of god, stewed

And purged from the gallows of the gut


We cut at the root and to the leaves, the

Ardent blooms, the fragrant provisions

Of the earth with the raw of our hands

And let its color steep in the kitchen pot


We claimed the rose, the womb and petal

By petal we kissed the mouth of death


We drank to the poets

And poured the wine

Into the dry ground


The poets that sold their labors to live

Hammering at the line as the clock carillon

Rung in cathedral squares defining the hours

That had gone and the hour of the coming dawn


We drank the furrow of the brow

Deep within the brain and

We were a part of it, apart from it

Apart from ourselves


We drank into the night with our sad songs

And hid our dreams under the cold wood


We spat dandelion from the tongue

And shouted boldly all that we knew


We drank the prisoners free

And the mercenaries free


We drank to the conception of birth

And the deception of death


We drank and we were old and we were young

The children in desert blue and yellow wire


We drank to love

And love above all else


We drank the dead earth within us

We drank away our sanity

We drank up fame porous from poverty


We drank to god and to all our gods


We shouted at liberty

Called her a fool


We wandered the highways of billboards

The rivers and shined our diamond teeth


We palmed our lifeline

And left our pursuits without a trace


We examined the bats and worms and spiders

And flies that lived inside of us and drank

From the wine to drown them


We were the cast-iron-poor drinking the blood of a

Murderous blade, the working class who dig and

Water the line, nourishing the dry stone.. to yield

The years left behind, the harvest of ones disparity


We were existentialists

Estranged from everyone we knew


We told our secrets to the winds

And through the leaves revealed


We drank with the blackberry bushes and

The cattails toddling along the drainpipes


We drank

With the wood pigeons and the spotted

Owls, the finches, the wrens and sparrows

And we kept them close at hand


We drank and swallowed the earth

Of our human form

The blood in the vein still warm


We were the blind leading the blind

And through the eyes of the soul we see


We were the black waters boiling, the fires

Burning and this silence that slows time


We were the catfish and the bluebird

The whistling love-struck meeting in mid air


We were the wild-flowers and honey

Bees, this room with propensity


We bore the scarlet sunsets

The sparrows in the eaves


We washed our feet in the iris root

Cut our hair, its yellow moth

And tied it from the clouds


We soaked our bones

In the milk blood

And churned our stomachs

Into a wilderness of green


We watched the mouth of the moon

Turn down the sun to night, we

Watched the nine birds in the branches

Turn to stone, we watched the season

Of autumn come into its own


And the earth was rich with us

The years woke with us

Slept beside us

Wept into the quiet hour

And the memories

Cut deep into the flesh

The stone, the root

The summers steed

The old bones of our blood

And we knew them as our own


We were broken from the womb

And bathed on the river water

Climbing the summer maple

To the sky


We slept beneath the crag, along the thatch

Under the sun-thaw of an apple tree

Barking at the branches and thirty miles long

Dreaming on the boughs of the sleeping branch

The half-light of the autumn branch that plumed

With moss and dust frogs and stately buds


And under the coverlet of mourn, we woke

Dressed in a hundred crows


We had pulled the evenings silver from the twilight

We had pulled the morning under as the sunlight

And filled upon its gorge of blood and breath


We had swallowed away the hours

The months, into the years

Drank a thousand drops from the fruitful blades

Until there was nothing left for life to grit or bear




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








out there


in the fields wet with dew

in the orchards of apple and vine

in the leaves where light is shown


in the hours

and in the ours of the night

the light

once from red

now silver palmed the raine

the carousel of summer roses


yet somewhere still



out there


there is you

and i

and you and i alone


standing in the spotlight of the sun






As summer drops its golden dust

We leave the scattered leaves for autumn

To break apart the split apart

Into a thousand golden bits

To dress the winter ghost

To come and take us from our house

And so be it that in winters bed

That summer will keep its green

These years that rose to red and set fire to emerald eyes

The flesh from flesh its clot of blood that silver seeps

Will he never come again

Will he never come again

It’s long since dead and dead

Not long, not long from the years


Not long from the mind when i think of him

But dead and sweeter still as death decays it

So let the knight and be the moment still

The hour-glass

On the mirror of the night

That i should send wishes from wishes tossed

A penny to hear the song

Of the river that whispers through

Not long, not long, until i kill the sun

That vile sun that darkens the day from us

The sun that seeks its mistress to the moon

But the knight and the day, they can not be

So let not even its memory be

Dry the memory inside the bone

Now dead and gone and gone


My beloved Sun

My beloved sun where you lay

Under the night of dying stars

We were all things

But these eyes that will not weep

Born as beauty as beauty itself for love

The heart it dreams

We were to every kiss its taste vanish’d from the lip

To quick from kiss to kiss that fades the long ago

Its bitter sweet poison that bites

Into the flesh and hollows the bone

And yet it was that i took with you and you with i

Into fields of yellow flowers

Into fields of yellow flowers

Where a bird from a bird plucked the budding seed

Under the shaded tree

And you and i and i

A dream




i want to dew

with you

what the hummingbird does

with the flowers nectar




Where the seagulls dance on the blue beneath the sun

Where the sea lathes its memory upon the shore, there

Time seems to slow its drip like sweet golden honey




Julian Raine was bon in Deer Lodge Montana in 1972.

She began writing at the age of 27 and has subsequently authored and illustrated 26 books of poetry, experimental and dadaist works,

5 cookbooks, 3 children’s books, and an art autobiography. She divides her time between her work as a writer and her work as a painter.

In her collections of acrylic, sculpture, and mixed media works are over 500 works of art.