THE PIANIST

A dallying man; alluring eyes,

a sly lover of women caught

in musical spider webs

fed by charm and wit.

Not naive to women's ways,

you've mastered patterns;

each held in separate nets

thinking they're in a single trap,

not knowing it's a network you've set!

Pursued for specific reasons;

slender hands, a pretty face,

perfect toes!

Can't you see you're afraid;

lest being snared in a trap

of your own making?

Describe hurt?  An ache of longing

or fear of what's gone?

Playing Debussy's impassioned notes;

touching that which you love;

hands unified,

striking each key like twin hearts

knowing when the last is struck,

deafening silence is pain!

Play on maestro; Chopin,

Haydn, Liszt, Vagner;

the heart of your palms floating over keys.

What is hurt?

To love amougst all this beauty;

or not hear a single note?

Rachealgrace Adams...(c)...1/25/12....

Tags: THE PIANIST

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YOU MOVE ME ~

You move me forward feeling words

I don’t understand.

Maps have boundaries

words none;

compelled.

Hand me your seasonings,

I’ll give you flavors.

Are you the moon or sun?

Does it matter?

You move me!

Rachealgrace Adams………………………..1/17/12……………©………………….

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Worth Sharing ~ A Christmas Story

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The Lost Glove ~

Long ago there lay two gloves inside a ladies coat pocket flap.

Inside this deep warm satin pouch, fingers intertwined,

palm against palm; face to face, hidden, were a tiny pair of cloth gloves. Who knew how long keeping each other warm, dreaming, one-day someone would pull them out to see the light of day!

From time to time their tops poked out, always gently pushed back so neither would get lost.  One day this coat was given away, pockets emptied, or so they thought.  Somehow one had gotten stuck!   He was gone!  She alone terrified by the dark.  No idea where he’d gone, her fingers became musty hidden hanging on a strange rack.

He’d fallen in the dirt when the coat was given to the second hand store, till someone stopped, picked him up, tossing him in a drawer with others separated from their loved ones too.  They had no idea each was in the same store, he in the drawer, she on the rack.  From time to time this small coat get tried on, but because of her small size and the missing glove, she’d get hung back on the rack!  Neither glove knew how long, just feeling the dull persistent sadness of being alone.

The day after Christmas an impoverished old woman, with deeply furrowed light blue eyes, white with frost-nip wrinkled skin entered this second hand store. Unkempt hair, a shabby coat full of holes, with rags of clothe wrapped around her hands, knobby arthritic fingers hanging out.  It was easy to see this woman had endured great hardships. Unloved she’d been left on the streets to survive; with only her Savior, she lead her friends there to God!  Long ago she’d lost the thought of how she’d ended up there.  She’d accepted her place as the “Street Angel for God!”  She always knew in her great hours of need, he’d provide for her.  Her job, to save others for him!

She obviously needed a coat and gloves too!  Crookbacked and small, she was having trouble reaching up the racks.   A young girl behind the register came offering help.  Oh, thank you, “she said,” shivering from cold.  That one, “the black one,” please she said.  The girl lifted it from the rack, watching the old woman’s face light with warmth from the simple touch of it.  She helped her put it on, a perfect fit!  Standing there in front of a mirror, suddenly she didn’t look so cold and worn.  She turned as if seeing her youth in that mirror.  Putting her hands inside the pockets, it was then she realized there was “one glove!”  Oh, she cried, I need the mate!

The young girl taken by this old woman thought, there but for the grace of God could stand mother, my grandmother or I!  Overcome with sadness she had the sudden urge to offer any kind of help.  Somehow she knew this person worked for God.

So she told the old woman to hold onto the coat, she’d take the glove and check the “glove drawer.”  After tossing a few a side, she’d found the mate.   Here, “she said,” we’ve got a pair!  The old woman came forward, coat in hand.  Let me help you put the coat back on, you see if the gloves fit, the girl said.  There she stood, in a warm used coat with gloves perfectly worn to fit over knobby arthritic fingertips. 

Both stood for a silent moment, each knowing the going price was too high.  Without a thought, the young girl (remembering what she’d thought earlier) said, “please take these as a late Christmas gift.”  Tears welled up in both their eyes; neither spoke a word.  The old woman seemed not as crookbacked and small when she left that store.

Outside in the cold she clasped her glove-covered hands together entwining her fingers while rubbing her palms for warmth.  Little did she know, not only was she “The Angel of the Streets,” she’d brought two lovers back together again.  When the gloves touched, palm-to-palm, fingers once more entwined; their wish answered too, to see the light of day; “all three” felt loved and warm again. 

Rachealgrace Adams…………….1/13/10…………..©……………………………………

Tags: Christmas

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                                        Blue  Mountain

Faded painted hides couldn't show the people how many summers ago their ancestors had settled here, or why the mountain was called Blue.  They only knew when the moon was full; the mountain cast a blue glow through the clouds.  When the cycle of the full moon came, they celebrated Blue Moon Day.  They offered sacred prayers for the buffalo providing food and warmth, the creeks, and the lands healing herbs.  Everything they needed was here.

Valleys circled the mountain so the people continued to move each season until they'd made a full circle, then start again.  The mountain had sheltered them from storms, hidden them from wars with other tribes, and when white men passed.  Since the buffalo and other game had disappeared, tribes rode past, no longer stopping to trade horses for wives or buffalo hides.

As Chief, he felt concern for his successor who didn't have the peoples favor.  He knew difficult times were ahead.  His heart no longer beat in rhythm with his breath, death wasn't far off.  He didn't know how long his strength would hold his inner spirit up to do what must be done.  His wife and other whispering spirits called him daily now.

Old bones made it difficult to dismantle his teepee filled with memories of his wife. She’d sewn the skins covering the poles other braves had helped him gather.  Poles he'd carved with symbols for the growth, harmony and health of his family.  A humming bird to keep nature and spirit in balance.  The dragonflies for wisdom and enlightenment.  Several frog’s for fertility.  An elk to give him strength.  The buffalo to provide food and skins for warmth.  For hunting, a beaver.  Several others were so worn with age, their carvings barely showed.

When the teepee was finished, she hadn't painted the outside, knowing he was a modest man.  Instead she'd painted rich designs with earthen colors inside.  After each seasons move, she'd add a memory of the last, so their children would remember.  Here they learned right from wrong.  Honesty, respect, love for one another and their creator.  They'd raised fine sons and daughters here.  They’d long since gone west with other tribes where there was still buffalo, and marriage available mates.

None of this seemed important now.  He'd removed the teepee's skin and piled his poles, leaving them for another brave to use.  Discreetly, he left a belonging or two at the base of any teepee in need of it. Not wanting to draw attention, just before daybreak he turned once more, a heart full of memories, and left.  Taking his buffalo skin, a blanket his wife had made, the long pipe the holy man had made and smoked through many years of counsels; and the flute he'd play each time his village moved. 

The mountain only steps away, he could hear the whispering spirits calling him, his wife's most of all.  It was a hard ascent carrying his four belongings.  Thin icy air amplified the climb making his breathing more difficult.  His old eyes were blurred from the bright sun blazing through misty clouds by the time he reached the summit.

Unfolding his wife's blanket, wrapped in his buffalo skin he sat facing icy wind.  He placed the long pipe across his knees and held his flute.  So frail now he couldn't tell if his skin was hot or cold.  Barely alert he realized he'd been afraid of death.  With his ancestor's spirits surrounding him that fear had vanished as they filled his ears with the whispered silence of peace.

Bent over in the cold wind, his old eyes barely noticed the clouds below.  Straining to look up, he thought he saw two hawks from his youth.  Memories of his life flashed by.  For a moment the clouds parted, sunrays pouring heat over steaming snow-covered peaks. A slow painful melting of zigzagging snow vainly attempted to cling to jagged jaws, the very ones he'd climbed.

He though how vain the attempts we make, to escape death like the melting snow.  Nothing can protect us from the cuts and bruises of our melting lives.  Must we be mauled to know the worth of life?  Slumped over a blind awareness came with the cloud returning him to Mother Earth, peace at last.

................................................Namaste

Rachealgrace Adams..................November 15th, 2009...............©

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THE LIGHT IN THIS DARK ROOM

It’s that day here, in Winnebago Park by the sea that still haunts my dreams waking me sweating like a child afraid of the dark.

I’ve never been able to sleep without spooning your pillow! 

Darn thing is nearly flat now; surprisingly it hasn’t disintegrated, clutched, as it is every night. 

Polishing the old Winnebago I’d just bought, 

dirty, sweaty, hair clinging to my face, a hand tapped me.

I turned looking into a face; hair scattered about

like a child who’d just ran off the beach.

You had the nerve to throw a wet rag in my face!

Lost, looking for a friend?  Likely story I said.

You were new here, just docking your schooner,

oh ya I thought, my lucky day!

Most people never experience that moment when two people instantly connect. It was like those words in that movie,

 â€œThe Bridges of Madison County,”

this kind of certainty comes once in a lifetime!

You had your schooner, I my “Winnie.”

We were creative people seeking freedom from society.

  No one had hardly a cent, or cared. Living here was the dream!

Neither of us knew when we scaled that rocky path to the beach that day we’d be inseparable. Jumping aboard your schooner, grabbing a blanket and that funny looking old radio with its bent antenna; we’d spend that afternoon laying there listening to Yitzhak Perlman.  One of his pieces still floats through my mind.  Like his music, your voice captivated me while you stroked my hair. God!  That dimpled grin!  You were that someone who took my breath away. In one afternoon we laughed our way into loving one another.  You asked if I sailed?  I said, “never been,” but loved the sea, one reason why I’d had my Winnie parked here!  Would I go?  Sure!  Ok mate, tomorrow we’ll see how the wind blows.

Has it really been over thirty years?

We didn’t need much, the “Winnie” for your painting, a place for me

to write; our tiny patio over looked the sea.  Even then this park was overgrown with trees, tiny herb gardens in pots; the whole place reeked (hippy’s) lived here.  We actually had “tourists” drive through from time to time.  I imagined they wanted to see how the “other half” lived.  Funny, I found myself thinking, you don’t know what you’re missing!

You painted, I wrote; we sailed.  I’d never understood the exhilaration of sailing until you!  Wind catching our sails; the mixed texture of saltwater in my mouth, my body baking; both wet and dry.  You understood the sea, propelling us into incredible speeds.   I remember the wind suddenly stopping.  You’d tell me, “just lay back, enjoy,” knowing she’d kick up, catch our sails and I’d get that sudden rush.   I’d never felt so alive.   I’ve lived it over and over, swearing I could hear those rippling waves topped off with flying white foam saying, “are you woman enough to stay abreast with me?”

 Sunrise’s out there, sunset’s painting stains of flames in my eyes.

Stars so thick they thinned the blackness of night.  That unforgettable sense of being alone; yet so much a part of this world, God calls earth!

Cleaning your schooner one day, you couldn’t

get a grip on your breath.  It wasn’t long after that we learned

nothing could be done; it was only a matter of time!

We made memories knowing time was the enemy, promising not to waste a minute, living each breath. Somehow we made months last like years.    Our favorite restaurant, that corner table; we loved their strolling singer, his guitar held by a shredded strap.   He always smiled when he saw us; he knew we didn’t understand a word.  We didn’t care. 

. When you were too weak to paint, I held your hand through each stroke.  When I couldn’t find my words, you handed me a “different pen.”  You taught me to live without fear.  Surrounded by friends we flourished in shared encouragement.  You gave me the will to live.   God knows how you did it!  I know you knew I ached to go with you.

Your friend Sam took us out for one last sail.  Afterwards with love,

 handing him your schooner knowing he’d treasure the memories you two had shared. We slept on “our beach” every chance we got.  I remember kissing your cheeks, running my fingers through your hair.  Late at night when you couldn’t breath, we’d go outside lying in our lawn chairs side by side; salt air seemed the only medicine keeping your lungs pumping air.

 I remember thinking why must it be I, that’s left behind?

Is that why tonight I smell salty air?

Your last breath in my arms caused the silence of that night.

  I held you for hours in pillows soaked with tears,

as the warmth of your body left me with the coolness of death in my arms.

Somehow I managed to kiss those lips I loved more than life a final

Good-bye.

Our friends by my side, I carried your ashes to the edge of the cliff by “our” Winnie.  You’d asked me, damn you, to let the wind carry you out to sea.  Who was I to stop heavens schooner waiting for another angel?  This one I knew would watch, waiting for me.  I swear some of your ashes clung to my hands, penetrating my skin.  

Over the years I’ve heard a tune we shared; slept on that same beach;

walked into frothy surf, leaving only one set of footprints,

 not two as before.  Staying here gave me the heart to continue writing; you’d made me promise that.  Occasionally my thoughts clouded; it always seemed during those times you’d hand me another pen full of words.

 My own breath coming in shallow pants now, I can feel you waiting.  Our friends here who remember “us,” know my request.  My ashes, they’ll cast out to sea where another schooner waits, “The Light in Heavens Room.”

Rachealgrace Adams………..August 18^th, 2010………©………………………

Tags: THE LIGHT

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BLOOD RED ~ BLACK CRACKS

While closing these new eyes for a second my Lord

Blood red with Black Cracks hid behind my lids!

Instantly Lord, I knew this was your blood shed for me and

all humanity.

  We are the Black Cracks!

Oh god, the pain that you endured for us

goes unknown most of our lives

 until we cross over into the pain and suffering we cause in our own lives!

It’s then and only then when we turn to you ~

Blood Red ~ Black Cracks

Understanding at last what you gave

freeing us of our own sins

wisely Lord, you included “free will in our lives.”

Free will Lord is the one choice we have between sins,

Blood Red or those dreaded Black Cracks!

These days I’ve only to close these child’s eyes

giving praise, knowing angel wings surround me,

protecting me from my own free will;

 I’ve no desire to remain a Black Crack!

Rachealgrace Adams………………..7/18/2011……………©……………………….

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THE LAST LEAF ALWAYS IS THE BEGINNING

We watch life pass through many eyes.  A baby’s first grab at a toy, that first step full of wonder and joy, eyes twinkling, cheeks grinning.  The wonder of that first bicycle ride, oh the pride.  Schools, grades, playgrounds, parades, friends, graduations; girlfriends, boyfriends, the engagement and then the big day!

Seasons of life pass year after year, some wear bright colors; some fade into all sorts of hues.  These are the times our leaf’s change!

Can you remember the bright hope of youth?  The wondering will that tiny new life wear pink or blue?  Another cycle of life begins and ends, both with no set of rules.

Some grow achieving great heights; never as high as an oak or elm; both through their lives break bones or branches.  Some heal, hardly a scar; others wounded beyond repair.   Crippled, crumpled, raggedy, wrinkled, still sprouting new lives; tiny leaves struggling to survive another season of life! 

For some like blossoms you’ll find yourself bursting with joy only to be cut down as though fire has destroyed paired trees.  Pain so great you can hardly breathe through the smoke of dreams.  God has brought you to your knees.  Why you ask, begging until at last even knees give out, leveling you back to dirt to root again.

Barren, you’ve nothing left or so you think; it’s then and only then that silence begins.  Quiet at first; then a silent crying screaming tears heard by no one but you and God.  It’s only when you’ve crawled on your belly till it’s raw that your willing to listen to God at all.  Here is where healing begins; sap dry’s on tree trunks, tears dry in one’s heart; here is the true reality that all are of God’s making.  There in is lays the birth of the last leaf is the new beginning.

It’s in the knowing that a child was born who gave his life that I would live.  It was never said no one would suffer in this life.  It was said that in faith he who died for me gives me eternal life.  I pray that I’m worthy of this sacrifice.

The last leaf IS the new beginning.

Rachealgrace Adams…..12/14/10…..(c)……….

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FROM WHERE ALL ANSWERS COME ~

Living in faith and prayer, we walk under the wings

 of our Lord learning what faith truly means.

Full of twist and turns; valleys, hills and potholes along the way,

 never a straight path.

We search for answers alone in quiet places; often the quiet so loud

we can’t hear ourselves think!

Don’t leave me in this darkness;

can’t someone hear my cries?

What happened in this struggle to live?

And the Lord answered!

You didn’t choose me, I chose and appointed you that you

should go, bearing fruit; and your fruit shall remain.

John 15:16

Rachealgrace Adams……..2/16/11………..(c)…………………………

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