IMAGERY

A child’s voice raised in song

A minute away from snowing

A dancing bag in the wind  

Heart beats

A kiss

The touch of another’s hand in mine

A smile

Tears

Electric air before a storm

Hurt

A dog on a path between trees without a master

Falls colors

A road to nowhere

A lonely gray field

Framing a sun with my hands

A frozen lake

A broken steeple clock

A dead tree in a green meadow

Snow between mountains

Clouds of a storm

Concrete buildings crowding streets

A baby’s footprint

Seashells

A boat under a sunset

An amber sun caught between trees

The blink of an eye

An empty swing

Cartwheels

An icy highway

Wind chimes

A pen out of ink

A locket

A child’s stick drawing

The moons edge

Sunrise

The lines of desert sand waves

Flame colored rocks

Purple deserts

Drifting clouds

A church choir

A clear starry night

Black and white shadows on the top of a forest

Sun rays peeking through fallen branches

Diamonds glistening on emerald leaves

An empty campground

A path with no footprints

Trees I can’t see the tops of

A child holding a camera for the first time

The smell of a puppy

A bird’s song

The smell of sage

The old man in rags against a stone building

Waves of an ocean

Steam rising from gutters

Flying above clouds

A beach without footprints

A volcano’s lava

A sails first wind

A mustang running

The first time I held my child’s hand

The base of twisted tree trunks

Springs first purple wild flowers

A country fenced dirt road

Pick cherry blossoms

The smell of lavender

A tree that won’t die

A broken spirit

The birth of something I can’t see

The bridge I’ll never cross

The hum of a voice in a voiceless forest

Trees of amber in fall

A belly full of life

A field of wild poppy’s

Reflections on a glass pond

Remembering a life of things I left behind ~

These are God’s finger prints.

Rachealgrace Adams……10/24/2012

Copyright protected

BITTER CHOCOLATE CAFE

I’d come home expecting you beside the vase of my dying rose.

Melted chocolate lay in a puddle;

had I left you too long?

Longing to satisfy this bitter sweet craving

I went back to the “Bitter Chocolate Café”

It’s difficult to peruse a bar when the

items for sale are dimly lit.

Something dragged me from my shopping

into a rose colored light.

Suddenly “I” was a fine piece of chocolate,

melting in the thin cover I wore.

My scent just right,

He’d found his Bitter Sweet Bar!

Rachealgrace Adams…………..11/03/10………………©……………………………

MOULIN ROUGE

Still a charm and grace about her,

almost the same as that first night at Moulin Rouge.

 Her father had brought her, hoping for a match.

Breathtaking in red velvet on her father’s arm,

no one guessed she wasn’t part of their class.

He in his silk top hat, cigar in hand

made no excuses when he held out his hand.

Modestly she took it, not knowing by doing,

the ruling Madame’s sovereignties would

pass into her innocent coquettish hands.

His status and manner beyond reproach, married yes,

but no matter for a woman of her class.

No questions were asked,

the decision made when to her father; he tipped his hat.

Her heart pounding when she lifted her head,

his eyes meeting hers

answered any doubts she may have had.

 Wine and dinner Mademoiselle, perhaps a waltz or two

 as the evening wears on, he asked?

He’d stolen more than just a heart

 when he’d reached for her silk-gloved hand,

 lifting it slightly kissing her hand.

A tightly corseted gown made it difficult to breath,

 yet with that single kiss

the soul within her breasts did heave.

It was common in those days for a gentleman

 such as he to have a mistress on hand.

 He’d taken her a virgin, teaching her well.

 She made the unpardonable error of loving this man.

For her, the years passed lavished with love.

 Educated in manners, introduced to society,

 escorted to matinees, concerts,

 all the fashionable theater’s latest plays. 

Any luxury was hers including a penthouse apartment

 across from La Moulin Rouge.

For twenty plus years he’d kept her, loved her,

adoring her beauty, never straying.  

 He appeared each evening at half past eight,

 usually staying very late.

 Once or twice a year, his wife went abroad.

 They’d travel to Monte Carlo or Madrid.

  He loved to gamble; she brought him luck. 

 For her, the blind side of love

 filled endless nights of passion

 in magnificent suites,

the touch of desire on rose petal scented sheets.

This night was special,

their anniversary of twenty years passed. 

 She’d hoped for the day,

 but nothing had been said.

It must be a surprise?  She had her bath drawn,

a mixture of milk and rose petals to soften her skin.

Toes barely touching the floor her maid

 gently drying and powdering her body

 with his favorite perfume.

Then casually draping

 a favored delicate pink dressing gown

around the same body as twenty years passed.

 A favorite pearl comb he’d bought her in Monaco

loosely lifted her hair.

She waited in the house he’d bought her

 on Saint Augustine Street, number eight.

Half past eight came and passed.

 He’d sent no note, no flowers,

 no notice of his intent?

Half past twelve, denial stopped!

 Icy fingers of twisted fate

 shattered her brain seeding madness.  

  He’d been drifting in late, not staying as long;

 even missing a day here and there.

 S he’d hid disappointment well;

 a tear never shed until  his cab door shut.

Twenty years, twenty years, ticked in her head!

The screaming headache,

 each time

 her head knocked against the muted blue wallpaper

 “he’d” picked out! 

Insanity was in control now

shoving her against her bedroom wall. 

She knew should she live, what life laid ahead.

 Her eyes telling the dark ending

 in the soft blue eye shadow;

 turned purple in death shallow glare.

A limp hand still held one shoe; the ones he’d always untied.

 Her comforter askew; the pills on her nightstand! 

They’d find her here slumped,

in her hand a torn bit of stationary with only two words

 scribbled there~

MOULIN ROUGE

Rachealgrace Adams………………….3/08/10……………©……………………………….

I AM A JEW SHE SAID

Her halo headdress of bronze

with a gold mask exposed her eyes.

Burnt singed cracked edges surround what once

was an innocent Jewish child’s crown of thrones

belonging to her heritage.

She lies in the afterglow of furnaces melting

from the heat of the closed oven’s door before her.

They didn’t take the usual time removing her ragged clothes.

The thin laced collar running over her shoulders and tiny breasts

have left what’s left of her body tattooed.

There’s no shame on her face leaning to her side

on the concrete slab where they’d thrown her.

She wanted them to see her eyes

before they pushed the lever down

closing her into pitch black darkness,

her cheeks a glow;

her nostril’s wide still breathing those who’d gone before her.

Her lips fully rounded with a slight part

hushing out a new ghostly whisper,

I am a Jew she said,

I forgive you;

You know not what you do ~

Rachealgrace Adams

Copyright protected

4/29/12

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,

 “The 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 breathe, 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

Copyright Protected

SOLACE

In each human soul a heart is tenderly held

protecting it from tragedy’s left behind.

For the hand that once was held over the white tip

of a candle flame; tears of aloe heal.

There too flow the tears that weep for you.

Nothing heals the haunting midnight dream.

A silent clock sends a breeze through your open sash

waking you in rumpled sheets.  Leaving the comfort of an old bed,

pulling on your flannel robe, bare footed a familiar path takes you

across cold pavement towards thick green moss growing toward

what’s left of old perennials; snapdragons, dahlias and mums of gold

still languishing around an old outer vine covered cottage.

Here you found solace in words; until callused finger tips

gave way to arthritis slowing completed thoughts to answers of days

long past.  Somehow you felt the terrible responsibility of speaking

for those unable to speak from bloodshed, maimed and broken bodies;

liken to the cries of a weeping violin, therein was release.  Writing

spoke with dignity what you could only utter in vulgar words.

War had shattered your body.  Love had broken your heart.

When words dried up before your task was done, you’d pray

for death and go on. Your friends were boys when they’d left for war.

With courage and strength they’d become warrior’s fighting till frightful

deaths or endurance ran out.  Those who survived came home

with horror-ridden memories.  Some would succeed in burying

what lay heavy in their hearts; others tormented,

unable to reassemble normal life’s.  They’d stoked inner courage

to save another; failure the loss of a brother.  They were family;

we the strangers then.

They fought for those too weak to fight; they fought for us!

They dreamed of coming home, not knowing a taunting public

would meet them at gates full of ridicule for what we’d sent them to do.

For their afflictions we offered them wormwood and gall!

Some loved over there, a woman, a culture they’d never be able

to bring home.  We greeted their broken hearts with sticks and stones!

Some came home to wives or lovers; everyone’s innocence was gone.

The world was mad at everyone.

These times retreating to this garden offered peace; comfort

from the pains of yesterdays.  Daily walks accompanied the long lulls

sitting on a wood shat bench; bent over holding a tear soaked face

in your hands.  A heart over-wrought; wrenching out sobs you couldn’t

hold back for all the friends who’d not come back.  Red swollen eyes

watch large black bumblebees suck from flowers what had been

sucked from your own life.  Understanding your own pain you learned that

one life couldn’t speak for all; only offer peace.

Your heart is still haunted by the love ‘you’ lost over there, and those

since your return.  You reclaimed your life; but at what cost?  Here

as you lean against the cracked peeling red brick painted planks,

why hadn’t you taken time to repair what’s sheltered you; drying

your tears from time to time?

Standing alone under a indigo moon lit sky an occasional white

firefly flutters.  Free from prying eyes loosening your robe tie,

it drops crumpled in moss, exposing a worn out body that longs

for the innocence of youth once more.

Can you feel me under foot within the moss?  I’m your lover;

the one who never left your heart.  Through all the nightmares,

pain, regrets, incomplete thoughts and acts; I’ve always been there.

It’s always been my voice haunting you with remembrance of my touch;

and the scent of my lightly perfumed body.  In this moment we’re finally free.

Surely this is heaven in the Midnight Hour!

Rachealgrace Adams……a rewrite of 6/20/09…….on 10/1/10

Copy right protected…………………©…………………………………..

THE HUMMMING BIRDS GARDEN

She’d rose at four a.m. hot in a thin cotton gown.

A fan above her bed cooled what seemed stale air.

Crumpled over the edge of her bed, a red kimono robe.

She lit the flame sending the scent of fresh coffee brewing through out her cottage.

 Cup filled to the brim, her dew covered garden calling.

T’was her custom meditating into the beginning of each day.

 Odd, this morning her music rang a sad reverie of life’s passing.

  Sipping French Vanilla sweetened coffee,

a smell of approaching rain filled the air.

 Those tiny Vinca red annuals she’d bought yesterday

needed planting, along with a red brick border,

the same brick border needed on a neighboring bush too. 

Dressing quickly, gathering necessary tools, vigorously she accomplished

her goals.

Finished, she quenched sweaty thirst with a mix of cranberry apple juice,

sometimes mixed with green teas.

Still the sad lament of this mornings songs carried her mind to distant times.

She never clearly understood how each plant stirred different memories?

What meaning had their separate blooming times?

The iris’s always first to bloom lined her cottage with a brilliant purple

and yellow glow.

Red daisies followed by wild flowers of pink.

 Thick small bushes filled with purple flowers.

A large desert sage (the center of this garden)

welcomed an early humming bird with red and white flowers profusely

springing along its branches.

 Between delicate frail pink colored lilies

 long thin stems swayed waiting for flat white garlic flowers blooms.

Last the trumpet vines requiring daily twisting through the lattices lining the length of a long concrete covered patio,

these her beloved Humming Birds favorite.

 Was this going to be the year she stained this concrete a soft Sedona red?  She knew colors permeated her entire life’s thread.  

Long ago she purposely laid no plans of any “Blue flowers” here.

 That she’d had enough of in life ~

Those blue times weren’t permitted here, haunting her enough in thoughts.

She’d learned with the first river-rock she’d laid,

 this small plot of land was not just the earth, “her mother” calling her.

There is a heaven on earth!

  From our mothers womb the verse of life begins.

  Like ants we cluster in cities made of sticks and stones, mortared bricks

forgetting to this earth we’ll return.

A single dragonfly soared back and forth like the swaying pendulum

 of an antique clock, another reminder of time spent.

Clicking Humming Birds wings told her days are numbered.

  Tend your garden better than you treated life

ensuring your essence returns in someone else’s garden teaching

them the revolving doors during life!

Rachealgrace Adams…………July 22^nd, 2010……………..©……………………