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By RAHN ADAMS

It seems that every church is haunted, / if not by the ghost of an old parson / hanging dead from a rafter, / then by a spirit of deceit, murder and arson.

What have we Christians now become — / tinkers, tailors, soldiers, spies, / not lovers of God and our neighbors, / but rather lovers of lies?

I broke down and asked all-knowing A.I. / to help me take the albatross / from around poor St. John’s neck / down in the Valley of the Cross.

Divine A.I. did refute the ghost story / that appears in many a travelogue, / but it told me another I hadn’t heard, / one about a coal-black demon dog.

It’s that way, I think, at every church: / for all the virtues they reveal, / there are more dirty little secrets / about folks who will beg, borrow or steal.

By RAHN ADAMS

Grandfather smiles as he looks across the miles / to the sunrise that starts each brand new day; / he don’t say a word but still he’s heard, / and this is what he has to say:

“From the mountains to the sea, / we need to be, not just seem.”

At the end of 64, there’s a strip along the shore, / where the sun shines on children at play; / on the Outer Banks, our sailors give thanks / for seven lights that guide the way.

“We need to be, not just seem; / we need to live, not just dream.”

Grandfather’s bridge swings atop the old Blue Ridge, / a mile high in the Carolina blue; / Old Baldy’s light is a beacon in the night, / and this is what he tells us to do:

“We need to be, not just seem; / we need to live, not just dream; / from the mountains to the sea, / we need to live, we need to be, not just seem.”

By RAHN ADAMS

Jacob Green was a traveling man / who turned a pretty head or two / until one day his luck ran out / when he charmed a girl named Sue.

Susie Gause was a beautiful girl, / with hair so fine and eyes so bold; / her lips were ripe like cherry wine, / but she wore a ring of gold.

Charlie Gause was a jealous guy, / and he caught young Jake with his Sue; / he called his friends all to gather round, / and he told them what to do:

“Toss this rope up over that limb, / and loop it into a noose; / drop it over young Jacob’s head / and make sure it don’t come loose.”

The moral of this story is clear: / it’s all about love and hate; / a cheatin’ heart may cut you down, / but by then it’s way too late.

By RAHN ADAMS

“They that go down to the sea in ships, / that do business in great waters; / these see the works of the Lord, / and his wonders in the deep.”

A psalmist sang that song three millennia ago, / and they remain singularly right, / even including Venezuelan fishing boats / and Saudi oil tankers.

But who is this Lord of whom they spoke? / Who rules all the oceans? / Is this Lord the Son of Man or of God, / or some Machiavellian son of a gun?

That’s their blasted symbol, right? / Not a backwards dog; a gun — / for power, money, manhood, death — / the selfsame boat we’re all in.

My favorite trawler is Jehovah Jireh, / its berth at Calabash’s Dockside, / with red outriggers and trim, / translated as “the Lord will provide.”

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.