Half Fast Living @gaillardiapress.com

By RAHN ADAMS

It was thirty-seven years ago this very weekend / when the late Arthel “Doc” Watson became my friend — / well, if I can say that about a guitar god / whose talent I had long worshiped from afar.

He was picking at Sims Country Bar-B-Cue that Friday evening, / and he agreed to sit down and talk to me / before that Saturday night’s last show with the Blueridge Ramblers, / a string band from Boone.

“I’ll do the interview,” he told me, / “but only if you have your questions written down.” / Naturally, I agreed and I did intend to follow through / until, shucks, I worked the Oyster Festival at Seaside.

The festival was that Saturday as well, / and I had to cover it all day, everything from oyster shucking / to bullshooting — a nice way to say telling lies, / a skill at which even Presidents now excel.

So when Doc asked if I had questions in hand, / I could have lied and said, “Yep, got ’em right here,” / but I told the truth, that I’d been very busy. / Doc just nodded “OK” and talked to me anyway.

 

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.