Ode To Tree

“If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” Unknown

Ode To Tree

In the wee hours of dawn, the night still hung on in opaque darkness, her ghostly image lay on the ground, worn out by years of torment from wind, rain, hail and snow, sunshine and light summer breezes.

As you fell so silently in the night, you took great care not to crush my flowers beneath you. No damage was done to my flowers, but your branches lie crushed to the ground, thank you tree for saving my flowers.

I looked at her with sorrow in my heart. I held a branch and spoke to her softly. “Thank you my old friend for the comfort and protection that you gave in all the years you stood bravely before us. You protected birds and cats, people and dogs. You cooled us in the summertime, as well as a protector during the harsh winter months”. I was pained to see her large limbs cracked and broken, a sorrowful site. I will miss her whispers and the solace I felt beneath her branches.

I looked up and down at her trunk, the cancerous knobs of years of growth stuck out like pimples on a teenage boy’s face. At the ground where she broke free of her confines, barely a root exposed. She lives infinitely underground. This will always be her home. Rest In Peace, my dear friend.

May the heavens sing with joy for what you are about to offer for in just a few short hours your limbs, branches, and trunk will be cut up into small pieces and fortify us in gallant warmth throughout the cold days of the North in our fireplace; continuing to comfort us as we nestle your parts in a neat, pretty pile, strike a match and watch you burn. You will come to life again in hues of blue, orange and black. And after you have been cremated, your ashes will be scooped up carefully and spread out lovingly in the woods as you rejoin your family of trees.

It is noontime now and I look out once again. I stare at you lying on the ground and watch birds flit and flutter in and around your now dying branches, paying homage to what was once their home; your new spring leaves start to wilt in sadness.

We shall replace you with a pine or a maple, but I will never forget you tree, as this summer I sit where you once stood, sipping on a gin and tonic. Cheers! Celebrate life! And grow more trees!

Fallen tree


Through Glass

Music. For all intents and purpose, sustain me through the Good, the Bad and the Ugly. I make it mine own. Through Glass continues to help me make it through GBU.
~A.C. Rae

Through Glass

I’m looking at you through the glass
Don’t know how much time has passed.
Oh God it feels like forever and no one ever
tells you that forever feels like home
sitting all alone inside your head

How do you feel
that is the question
but I forget you don’t expect an easy answer

When something like a soul becomes initialized
and folded up like paper dolls and little notes
You can’t expect a bit of folks

So while you are outside looking in
describing what you see
Remember what you’re staring at is me

Cause I’m looking at you through the glass
Don’t know how much time has passed.
All I know is that it feels like forever
but no one ever tells you that forever feels like home
sitting all alone inside your head

How much is real
So much to question
An epidemic of the mannequins
contaminating everything

We thought came from the heart
but never did right from the start
Just listen to the noises
(Null and void instead of voices)

Before you tell yourself
its just a different scene
Remember its just different from what you’ve seen

I’m looking at you through the glass
Don’t know how much time has passed.
And all I know is that it feels like forever and no one ever
tells you that forever feels like home
sitting all alone inside your head

And it’s the stars
the stars that shine for you
And it’s the stars
The stars that lie to you

Who are the stars?
Who are the stars that lie??

The stars. They lie.
They. Lie.

Now listen to the song and sing to Stone Sour–Through Glass

By The Sea

Your salty kiss on my lips like the taste of the sea, the gentle wave of your hand caressing my cheek, my heart is the pound of the surf strking hard against my chest. The Tavern, where two lovers meet. ~A.C. Rae

Disconcerting is my mind in want of her as we sit inside the stone tavern nestled beside the unsettled sea, the skies dark grey with an impending storm on the horizon, a flash of lightneing blinds my eyes.

I sip of the brandy before me, the content of my speech wanders into poetic sultry as I seduce her with words only she comprehends.

She sits quietly and listens, a page of three, and I, distracted, a single drop of amber liquid rests on her full bottom lip. I quiver with anticipation imagining the taste of brandy from them; I am mesmerized, sensous feelings arouse my mind, as the thought of my lips on hers overtakes my will to refrain.

I lean to her, a moments hesitation only to drink her in once more before I press my lips to hers. Her kiss, so soft and sensual. Something stirs inside me and awakens my soul. I feel alive again as never before.

“My Love,” I whisper. “Let me take you now.”

A soft sigh escapes her sensual lips, hesitant to part hers from mind, but smiles against them instead. She runs her fingers through my unkempt hair, my blue eyes pierce her soul. Her hands rest upon my face like velvet against the stubble of my ruddy cheeks.

“For you, My Love, I shall go to the ends of the earth.”

No longer able to hold back I take her hand and together we meander up the stairs. Patrons drink, engaging in their own person, time and place, do not give notice to our departure.

~A.C. Rae

Last Dream

It hurts to find out that what you wanted doesn’t match what you dreamed it would be.
–Randy K. Milholland

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
–Edgar Allan Poe

The world I see is scenes within scenes unwound to breathe in poetic dreams.
–Zedek Mekkhala

Some say dreams come true, that dreams are the window to the soul. But what are dreams of heartache, deceit and lies? A nightmarish reality awaiting to steal the soul?
~A.C. Rae


It is that dream, again, always the same, never changing.

I shake my head and try to loosen the dream from my sleep.

The dream wants to linger as if it has yet to tell its story.

What is the time? I do not know, but it is still dark.

I whisper to the dark, “What is it you want?” There is no answer.

The pain strikes me as it has each and every time,

the heaviness in my chest presses further down like a ton of rock.

I jolt awake, wide eyed, hot with perspiration,

my breathing rushes out in uncontrolled spasms.

I force myself to calm as I rub at the pain in my chest.

I feel the pain travel down one limb, feeling weak and vulnerable, my will giving in.

Slowly my nerves recover, albeit with unwelcome consequences.

My breathing slows. I sense this may be it.

The dream gives way to reality like a fog lifting to reveal truth

“You will always be alone”, my mind plays tricks as I fight these words inside.

My heart shatters as it slows, the stinging in my chest pulsates with every erratic heartbeat.

He does not want to be with you. He does not need or love you.

He lives and breathes, another lover in mind, but it will never be you.

“joie de vivre, no more,” I sigh, as I settle on these facts,

For the next dream, may be my last.

~A.C. Rae

To The One Who Knows

He who capures my heart, unlocks my soul. ~A.C. Rae


To The One Who Knows

my deepest, darkest thoughts

and desires.

He still remains unknown

for clearly he has shown

no trust in me,

his lies and deceit hath told me so.

Hurt and pain consume,

heart strings tug and rip apart

as the unknown still plays at my heart.

How can he be real when

he cannot trust me with who he is?


To The One Who Knows,

but still

knows not.


But yet…..

To The One Who Knows.

Where does he hide the key that unlocks my soul?

He unlocked my heart, but did not throw away the key

Does he keep it safe in his mind

until next time?

My soul for thee.

~A.C. Rae

A Look Into The Past

There is nothing wrong with preserving the past. What is unacceptable is not telling your story. ~A.C. Rae

Have you ever wanted to live in a different time era rather than the one you grew up in and live in right now? I always have ever since I was a child. I have always felt misplaced like I was meant to be in a different time 100 or more years ago. I love colonial history, pioneer history all the way through the depression era and WWII.

What intrigues me? History, the stories that people told way back then, real life accounts about life, family, religious beliefs, and the facts of life that were passed down through story telling. My grandparents were magnificent storytellers. They captured my undivided attention when they would start to talk about the “good old days”, my imagination ran wild reliving in my head their experiences of growing up and being raised in very difficult times. To them, that was what life was all about. And of course, those who know me best know that I love to ask endless questions.

I also worked in nursing homes as a teenager and a young adult, the elderly fascinate me. Even those who were deemed “senile” were always telling me stories about their youth. I believed what they said because I thought they were reliving the “good old days” as their minds deteriorated presently from the unexplainable disease of Alzheimer. My friends included centurions (100 plus year olds) whose minds were sharper than a whip. These cute little old people were hard of hearing, but told amazing stories of horse-drawn carriages and living in sod homes, reading by oil lamps and candlelight. They never complained about their hardship but talked about how times were hard. A person had to work very hard to earn a dollar, you stretched that dollar to feed and clothe your family. It was a simple life, values and morals meant absolutely everything. A man’s word and a handshake was his honor; that is how he made his accord.

I also have inherited, over many years, family heirlooms that were once treasured and used by my family. The old sewing machine that great grandma used to stitch up great grandpa’s torn overalls from those hard laborious days farming. The Red Wing mixing bowl Grandma used to hand mix homemade cookie dough. I loved grandma’s vintage bread rising pan that she used for bread baking days. With her septuagenarian hands she would gently lay each spongy doughy loaf on a layer of lard in this pan and when the moment was just right, she would take out the risen dough, shape it into a loaf and bake it. You can just image the smell of fresh home baked, homemade bread wafting through out the kitchen. It was a real treat to lather each thickly sliced piece of bread with real home churned butter and homemade chokecherry jelly. I look at this pan now and wonder about what was on her mind as her little hands pumped up and down kneading the bread dough to perfection.

I have glassware, bottles, knickknacks, crockery, postcards, greeting cards, pictures, jewelry, clothes, christening gowns, personal affects, books, toys, furniture, oil lamps and quilts with the old “turkey tracks” stitching and assorted bedding and blankets and doilies. Back then, nobody threw anything away! It was all passed down. Of course, my favorites are the old photographs.

I love the worn out cookbooks and handwritten recipes the women referred to daily in the kitchen, almost like their bible. Grandma would have “pish-poshed” at the fact that “nowadays” we cook with convenience foods in a microwave oven. “That’s not cooking!” She would say with a laugh. “It’s got to be homemade. You need to put love and labor into it so when you eat, it is more enjoyable and you appreciate what is put into it.” One time after supper I was complaining about doing the dishes. Grandma said. “Dirty dishes are a sign that we have had something to eat.” Profound? Yes. She lived her young adult life raising children in the day when food was scarce and what was available was rationed. Have you ever heard of Victory gardens or canning and preserving your own food?

I dream of having a big ol’ country house to fill up with all this and more. Yes, I live in the country in a modest farmhouse. My dream home is much like you would see in the movie “The Notebook” or “Fried Green Tomatoes”. I love old houses like this; there is so much character, so much history. Houses talk and all one has to do is stop and listen. I want a big country kitchen with a big butler’s pantry and to cook from an old-fashioned cook stove while sipping wine brought up from the old wine cellar. I already enjoy cooking with home canned foods and homemade ingredients. My mother and grandmothers taught me how to preserve food, one of the most valuable and treasured gifts along with their storytelling they have ever given me. They taught me to be self-sufficient and to let nothing go to waste.

This love for “old” things brings me to my love of adventure into the past. I explore abandoned farmhouses, barns, buildings. One time I found an old car in a barn that had been shot full of bullet holes. I wanted to know what happened. Who “hid” the car away in this rural area? Was it an “old-fashioned” bank robbery? A lover’s quarrel and her “old man” found them in a fit of passionate ill-repute? I long to know the stories behind abandoned farms, homes, and buildings. Why did they come here, why did they leave? What were their dreams?

I love museums and can spend hours in one if I am allowed. I ponder over how people lived back at the turn of the century as I would wander from one antique of interest to the next or perusing old photographs, ledgers and journals. I was even privy, once, to have come across an old photo album. As I scanned each picture, I felt an odd sensation. Each person was dressed impeccably in their Sunday best and seated as if ready for Church or the yearly town hall Saturday night dance. Only then did I discover that I was looking at a post-mortem photo album, or, pictures of the dead. This was a practice during the Victorian Era where child mortality rates were high. Think I didn’t have questions at that time?

I am sure my ancestors would have given anything for our modern conveniences, but then would they really if they knew just how technically savvy we have become? Maybe medicine, no doubt about it as mortality rate was very high back then. In our families, we have had many young children die of influenza back in 1918, scarlet fever in 1922 as well as a 3-year-old toddler drowning in the well and many family members fighting against each other in Europe back in World War II.

Childhood disease took many lives early, as well as heart disease, cancers and communicable disease. With modern medical technology and its advances of today, we are no longer concerned about these. Our life spans have been greatly lengthened through medicine. My paternal great, great grandfather was a country doctor and was noted to have successful home remedies. One of his remedies people caught onto in this century, manufactured it and call it a Neti Pot. Hmmm. He also published a book on home remedies and country “doctoring”.

There is so much more I could talk about when it comes to the past, but that would turn into a novel. It is a fun subject to converse about, to be inspired through others stories and I feel everyone has a story to tell and to write. Storytelling has changed throughout our recent past. People almost never tell the old, old stories and we lose face of who we really are, were we came from and our roots. If you don’t know much about your story, learn as much as you can now and write it down for others to read. Pass them along to other family members and in turn they can tell their children and children love stories.

HOME is where your story begins.

~A.C. Rae

Life Is Like A Cup Of Coffee

“There’s only two things in this world that a real man needs: a cup of coffee and a good smoke.” Johnny Guitar (1954) – Johnny (Sterling Hayden)

This short clip below says a lot, putting life into prospective. Please, take time to read and listen. I would give anything to know who its author is and ask a million questions, but if one reads and ponders what is written, the answer just might be there, depending on what you are searching for. It’s crazy, but I would have picked a simple white cup. Why? Because that white cup is simple and plain and just as important. There’s nothing like holding a hot cup of coffee in the palms of both hands and running your fingers over it’s steamy rim. Inhale deeply and the aroma takes you away, a smile flits across your face and for one moment, in a likewise busy day, you forget everything, feeling satisfied. My grandmother always started her day with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Now I know why. I admire her wisdom over a cup of coffee.

~A.C. Rae