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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.

By RAHN ADAMS

The old man lets out his net / one float at a time / across the wide, meandering channel / making an S in the tidal grass.

In these calm estuarine waters / on the mainland side / of this despoiled barrier island, / a full-moon tide is on the rise.

But the milky tide does turn, / and the man reappears / to retrieve his gravid gill net / brimming with salty backwater bacon.

The ebb tide carries him away, / pulling him toward the inlet, / where he must leave the marsh / to cruise upriver toward home.

These are his healing waters, / but they are only half his life, / as tempests and red tides / do pock the rest of his time with strife.

By RAHN ADAMS 

The blues in her pelican painting / always smack me square in the face; / she has a knack for drawing out / what’s hiding in my head.

It was how Michelangelo sculpted David — / by chiseling away everything / that wasn’t a sexy young hunk / in that hard Carrara marble.

I miss seeing those pelican patrols / above the breakers just off the beach, / cruising low, rising, falling / in an oscillating parade of sine waves.

I said “square in the face,” / but her sea and sky are triangles / and trapezoids, diamonds and rhombi / with white space on the wing.

We all draw the same blanks / when we try to reveal the real thing / in the blues we choose / and in the ghostly grace notes we play and sing.

By RAHN ADAMS

It’s been hiding up there for years, / folded over and dusty, / atop the tall bookcase / next to the front windows.

I’ve been wondering for a while / what it was or what it is — / like Schrodinger’s pastel pussycat / boxed up for posterity.

I didn’t bother to ask the artist; / it has been a decade (or two) / since she put pencil to paper / and sketched the iconic scene.

Time flies, as wise Ben Franklin said, / foregoing the bit about fun; / another saying he coined / was to mind your business.

What the artwork was meant to be / is neither here nor there; / what it is and will become / is all that really matters.

By RAHN ADAMS

For better than seven years, / he was a tennis man / through thirteen seasons / in spring and fall.

He fairly lived at the courts / and behind the wheel / that turned on the chances / of a fortunate draw.

It wasn’t about who they played; / it was who they were / as players, as people, / whether good or bad.

“I’m just the bus driver,” / he’d always say / when they won their matches / and grabbed some glory.

But he was more than that; / he knew it in spirit / and so did they all, / getting where they needed to go.