By RAHN ADAMS
We have been lost / for too long now, / ever since we stumbled down / from the mountaintop.
The gorge is deep; / its river is wild, / with crashing falls and the stony roar / of whitewater.
We cannot cross, / not without help, / though the other side is closer now / than ever before.
Rescuers come, / their hands extended, / so that if we slip, / they are in position to catch us.
But are we strong / enough to look and leap / now that we know / just how lost we have been?
By RAHN ADAMS
Remember when America’s watchword was HOPE, / and our leader was young, / so fit and whip-smart, too, / a family man, decent, faithful and true?
Now we’ve had ten long years of LIES, / a new gilded age that hasn’t made us great, / but it let a geezer who’s greedy and fat / be the world’s biggest asshat.
He thinks he’s the KING of the world, / and I’m sure he is in his own mind, at least; / he is like Leonardo and Lil Pip, / each guy going down with his sinking ship.
I blame all of us, not just the MAGA crowd, / because even if we didn’t fly his flags / and vote for the louse, / we chose poorly for the Senate and House.
There is one Group Of People, though, / that should shoulder much of the fault — / all who ignored the rule of law / and gave a thief the keys to the vault.
By RAHN ADAMS
You know what’s said about assumptions / and about not being prepared — / two lessons I learned, though not that well, / some thirty-nine years ago this weekend.
“Kindred Spirit” was getting married, / and she had invited beach-goers to attend / her wedding on undeveloped Bird Island / late on the last Saturday in September.
Without asking around, we had expected two hippies / and their bearded guru on the beach, / not three finely-dressed folks on a boat: / a teacher, a lawyer and a judge.
And there we were, wearing swimsuits / and carrying nothing but beach towels; / I did have my camera, though, so I hopped a skiff / up Calabash Creek to the reception.
But Dockside’s door stopped me cold — / “Shirt & Shoes Required,” the sign read; / with my tee and flip-flops back on the island, / all I could do was smack my head.
By RAHN ADAMS
It’s time to come together / wherever and whenever we can / to save what is left / of this once sacred institution.
Our chosen paths diverged / years ago in this yellow wood, / where we had walked / no matter what the weather.
Our focus was different — / yours, on the ground underfoot; / mine, on the rise and fall / of the hard road ahead.
Now, in retrospect, / we did see things the same way, / though your persistent pace slowed / as mine quickened.
But separate paths can converge, / when things once hidden / rise to be seen / in light falling through the trees.
By RAHN ADAMS
In the years we lived on the coast, / we knew a man who called his fears, / his failures, his trials, his tears / all by the very same name — “boat trouble.”
He was a guy who worked on land, / so we couldn’t help but wonder why / when he stubbed his toe or got poked in the eye, / “boat trouble” was to blame.
Even when he didn’t lose his head, / he’d wave his hands like a mime, / and the redness in his neck would climb / up to his stubbled double chin.
“What’s the matter?” we would ask; / and he’d glare at us like a mad hatter, / though he was shorter and fatter, / and he’d always say those two words.
“Boat trouble” was the standard reply / when his reputation was on the bubble; / he kept his ego from turning to rubble / by never having to say why.
By RAHN ADAMS
If, like a honey bee, we could fly up and away / on some sunny Sabbath morn, / what should we prepare ourselves to pollinate / but take care not to let our productive presence adorn?
What if we seek out some sourwood / with our flight over hills and vales, / and we alight at some lakeshore or reservoir? / Or just buzz into town for a paper, two coffees and Saturday’s mail?
Wherever we might decide to hover, / we shouldn’t risk getting only a narrow, stained-glass view / like the mesmerized congregant / who sits way too long on his worn, red-cushioned pew.
So, why might we not linger there? / We’re not mean robber bees with stingers for guns; / I mean, nature’s laws are always in motion / and, in turn, rule everything under the sun.
It’s because, like Apis mellifera, / even a calm church may be full of golden honey, / but there’s still venom in that hive / that can end — for the love of money — the unwary intruder’s life.
By RAHN ADAMS
“Once there was a way / to get back home,” / the barefoot beadle chanted / as he crossed the road.
There’s another way for us / to reach the other side, / not just by slumbering / or singing lullabies.
The heart of this matter / is choosing what is right / and good for others, / not only for ourselves.
We’re taught that lesson / day in and day out / by lords and ladies, / knaves and damsels in distress.
We may only win / in fits and starts; / but we cannot fold / when we do not hold the Queen of Hearts.
By RAHN ADAMS
Not wanting to look funny, / he sits on the middle shelf / with Pete the Pecan Pelican / and Old Baldy’s keeper Cap’n Sonny.
He’s the Big-Belly Boy, / given that epithet some 44 years ago / because he’d never met a cookie / he didn’t enjoy.
Grandpa gave him the name / in reference to his girth, / and it has stuck like hot honey, / a madding moniker for 3-B’s shame.
He just finished another circuit of the sun — / no, not Grandpa, / who rooms with Jesus now / (which, I’d say, ain’t a ton of fun);
The ol’ Big-Belly Boy, who turned 67 / but gladly stays on his middle shelf, / a helluva long way / from anywhere like heaven.
By RAHN ADAMS
The end of the summer / carries with it a feeling / of ambivalence toward nature — / that is, toward the passage of time.
“Where did these last weeks go?” / I ask myself and others, / then add for good measure, / “The 4th feels like yesterday.”
“It must have been the heat,” I say, / “or maybe the humidity / that shifted time into high gear / and stepped on the gas.”
But remembering those sultry nights / with windows wide open / and recalling the sea’s heartbeat / in the crashing surf
Make the end of the season / the first and last reason / I try to understand / all the time we spend in houses built on sand.
By RAHN ADAMS
Sometimes sideways / is the only sensible way / to see something / that seems tangled and topsy-turvy.
Cosmos are like that — / the gangly flower that grows / everywhere / from open fields to roadside ditches.
The name is Greek / for “ordered world” or “jewel,” / for the regular petals / and the golden, star-shaped florets.
An artist I know / painted some hot pink cosmos once, / but could do it / only by turning the painting on its side.
Order was still there / from the painter’s perspective; / but I had to stand / to one side for the world to make sense.
