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It’s called Decoration Day, / when all the kinfolks gather / to tend the final resting places / of relatives already gone home.

That sounds kind of odd, / as if the dead had any say / in going or staying — / along the way, maybe, but not in the long run.

We who are left behind / are the ones with the choices — / not to live or die, / but to remember or forget those others.

Decorations of all kinds — / unlike dates chiseled in granite — / are ephemeral, / for even fine silk flowers finally fade.

What stands is the old fence / of locust posts and barbed wire / that turns worst memories away / so our best ones stay.

By RAHN ADAMS

Sometime around Father’s Day — / the week before or often after — / the man would appear without warning, / ready for a round of golf with his golden girl.

Whether she played or not, / they’d ride together in the electric cart — / maybe he’d even let her drive — / then she’d watch and they’d talk between strokes.

That was their tradition like none other, / though the tracks were hardly Augusta / or even Mimosa Hills back home; / they were wherever he could get a tee time.

But this last Dad’s Day visit was different; / he wanted to play a links course / with lush fairways and manicured greens, / like 18 emeralds in a bracelet on the beach.

On the final hole stood a magnolia tree / and on a lower limb was one blossom, / fragile white within tough green leaves, / like the love between a father and daughter.

By RAHN ADAMS

She was his Carolina lily, / born down South when he was nine, / a farm boy from up North / on the Susquehanna.

They met in college, / her on the fast track, / him on the six- or seven-year plan, / working his way through school.

She wanted to teach; / he planned to preach / and do a little farming on the side / when they could finally settle down.

He had turned his back / on his own father’s farm, / and so going home again to PA / was pretty much out of the question.

What they finally did / was settle on one hilly acre / gifted them by her poor daddy / in the land where Carolina lilies bloom.

Between Sunday sermons, / he cleared trees and tilled soil / on a second acre they bought, / giving them more elbow room.

But on a dark Tuesday in June, / he died and left his work undone, / cultivating one last harvest / on his way to the tomb.

His legacy was hard work / (or maybe it was hard luck), / never hoeing an easy row / when a rocky one could spell his doom.

By RAHN ADAMS

It’s one of those paintings / of someone not in it / — the art of imagining / what’s not from what’s there.

Is it the longboards leaning / against the deck railing, / leaving us to imagine / the surfer boys of summer elsewhere?

Or is it the sand fence / standing at the edge of the strand, / its slats splayed / and bleached in the wet, salty air?

Maybe it’s the pier house itself, / its windows looking down / on what’s going on in the dunes / away from our stares.

Or maybe it’s the clouds / rolling in from the west / to ruin our carefree day, / as if the weather were ever truly fair.

By RAHN ADAMS

The worst part of getting old / isn’t the brokenness / of our bodies or minds; / it’s those bonds that break one by one.

Roxanna knew she was dying, / and she wanted this — / no, not death — / a laid-back image of herself taking life easy.

Ain’t nothing easy about it, / you know, from start to finish; / it’s a struggle / to find distractions from the hardest truth.

Roxanna had seen an image / of a girl playing on the beach, / and she hoped that vision / of herself would calm our fears.

We could see her sitting there / at ease and in no pain, / and imagine her again / when our promises remained unbroken.

It’s better to look west / to the Blue Ridge — / toward the sun setting / behind Table Rock and Hawksbill —

Than to look straight down / upon the bloody ground / of the old courthouse square / in my first and last hometown.

Rising sun or high noon, / death still looks the same; / its hideous grimace should sicken / even the strongest of men.

As for the gray soldier / standing watch for invaders, / or the horde of witnesses exalting / the commodore’s daring deed,

Seeing the fisheyed stare / of a dead man or boy — / whether on a cross or a board — / should be no source of pride or joy.

They see it as win-win — / as either an ungodly outrage / or a damn diversion; / either way works.

The apparent intent, of course, / is that we get used to it / and tune it out / so that we don’t explode —

And not just our heads; / it’s also our hearts / and our very souls / that suffer from their lies and greed.

You know, don’t you, / that the opposing side has already won / just by nudging us / into paying heed.

No matter how ignorant / their words may be, / they win because we can’t ignore / their egregious deeds.

By RAHN ADAMS

You’re so Boone. / You prob’ly think this poem is about you. / You are so Boone.

Above the BeansTalk, / I look past the Baptists and Methodists / to a green valley beyond.

Dark clouds gather; / but like continents, they drift apart / (like our conversations).

It takes time — / more than one big cup of good coffee — / to get the big picture.

Red sky at night? / That just means the storm will come / before dawn’s delight.

By RAHN ADAMS

Of all the places / on this earth, / I pick Kipahulu Park / on this Mother’s Day.

An hour there / compares to an eon / of bliss elsewhere, / said one lucky man.

Facing the point, / one can see the glow / and feel the heat / of its sacred flame.

It’s a place of rest, / where souls gather / to tell us farewell / and bid us adieux.

With the sky so high / and the sea so blue, / I cannot deny / my devotion to you.

By RAHN ADAMS

Like bones in the desert, / shells of all shapes and sizes — / lightning whelks, moon snails and sand dollars — / litter the beach strand after stormy weather.

They are easy pickings / after any storm off the Brunswick coast, / but especially following hurricanes / like Hazel in ’52, Hugo in ’89, Fran in ’96, Floyd in ’99.

I was there for Hugo / and years later for Fran as well, / needing a long ladder after them both / to hop down from the top of the dunes to the hard sand below.

Seashells were everywhere — / layers of them lying with their kind, / as if Zeus and Hera had decided / to run a rummage sale of Poseidon’s gifts from the sea.

If I had come across cockles / arranged to say “86 47” or the like, / I wouldn’t have been surprised; / I would have guessed that God’s own fool had just taken a hike.

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Confused? Read 1 Corinthians 3:18-20.