Spindrift
by
William F. Adams, Jr.
1995,1996 all rights reserved

To  -

Necessity
 
		   owns the moment -

		   the rest belongs to
		   hope.
					11-12/2000

Palpable
 
		Floating motes of past
		moments swirl thickly

		as I sift artifacts
		from their time.
					12/2000

Es Gibt Leben
 
		        Out love!
		        transcending
		        all in hope -

		        so ride the wild
		        beyond; so
		        dare to nest

		        within the storm.
					2/2001

I Am of Them
 
		People huddle frightened
	(safely distant from the edge)

	in common chorus iterating
	the rigid rightness

	of their single view.
					2/2001

The Big Man
 
		 The dialog raged
		unending - how to
		avoid burning fingers
		and worse.  He stared
		at the partially opened

		closet - willing the
		dreaded within to
		come out - staring until
		it seemed to swing ...
		but not.  Only

		the night's silence
		intermittently broken
		by his father's
		snarly snore beyond
		his bedroom door.
					3/2001

What Form Function?
 
		Words parade their
		alleles proudly,
		freighting weight

		unwitting.
					3/2001

Run to Ground
 
		        At bottom -
		        at very
		        bottom -

		        life

		        will

		        out.
					3/2001

Fine
 
		    I remember my
		    rage at losing -

		    am I now tired
		    or have I grown?
					5/2001

My Dream
 
		    I was standing
		    in the darkness

		    when a figure
		    formed before me,

		    aimed and fired
		    into my chest.

		    Surprised,
		    I died.
					5/2001

Bad News
 
		        Horror rises
		        like a fog - yet
		        strangely as the

		        air goes cold, I
		        seem untouched by
		        the wetting stain.
					6/2001

Plunder
 
		    The river has
		    my boat, my charts
		    and course - I stalk

		    the gravel beach
		    attending foam
		    and fish and sky.
					6/2001

Bloody Well (Mirbeau Suite) 
		    Fear calls me now
		    to the cutter,

		    but passing it
		    by, I choose life

		    unlimned.
					7/2001

The Blue Otter Grill (Mirbeau Suite)
 
		By a night-quiet lake
		- the moon presiding -

		autumnal breezes trouble
		summer-laden trees as

		incandescence escapes
		the small-windowed place

		and life surges within.
					7/2001

Curable (Mirbeau Suite)
 
		    Warm eyes glint
		    at my smiling

		    no.
					7/2001

Skinny Atlas (Mirbeau Suite)
 
		The glacial
		scratch weeps

		beauty

		one day
		eons later.
					7/2001

Con
 
		          Tell me
		          to give up
		          my life

		          so I can
		          live longer,
		          and

		          I'll say
		          "Why?"
					7/2001

Suspended
 
		      School is still
		      in session.

		      Dry fog softens
		      a leafless day.

		      I lose
		      my place.
					7/2001

Riding the Cusp
 
		       My horizon
		       looms, and

		       I have no lines.
					7/2001

Exuberance
 
		  Life squirms within,
		  this me-not-me
		  that stretches where
		  there is no room.

		  Its whispered pain
		  streaks jagged light
		  behind my eyes,
		  reminding me

		  I'm not alone.
					8/2001

The bear runs close behind,
 
		        the only sound
		        my ragged breath
		        and tearing brush.

		        I know it paces me -
		        one tired misstep
		        will bring it on.
					8/2001

Last Night
 
	              I remember warmth,
	              benign togetherness,
	              a woman's touch, yet

	              nothing words
	              can tell without
	              reducing.

	              It seemed
	              like home.
					8/2001

To the reader -
Spindrift refers to.

My writing is a byproduct of my attempt to reconcile what I see in life with what I know to be true.  I write in poetic form because poetry can record what in prose would seem incomprehensible.  I cannot tell you my reality, but perhaps I can bring you close enough to see it for yourself - and we can touch.

These pieces are often dark, angry, and sometimes bitter, but keep in mind that they are incomplete.  I believe they are true as far as they go. but although I no longer limit their scope to the temporal and secular, I still am connecting the dots: I can infer the brighter image from the overall pattern, but I cannot draw it that way until I reach the corresponding dots.

Thank you for your interest.
				Bill Adams

About the author -
Bill Adams is a 59 year old father of five, living in the middle of 800 acres of corn on top of a mountain in NW New Jersey.  He has been writing poetry for the last few years, as a way of recording his travels.

Acknowledgements:
   To Anne Picardo,
	who first told me I was a poet;
   To my friends: Frank & Joy Becker, Dean Clemm, Joy
                            Owen, Marc Brandeis,  & Ms. Jones-Taylor,
   To my daughters Sarah and Rebecca,
   To my grand-daughter Natasia,
	whose courage to criticise feeds my growth,
	whose generous praise brought this to light;
   To my son Ben
	who told me poets can do what they want;
   To my children, Ginger, Dana, Sarah, Ben & Becky,
  	who ever encourage me toward a better life;
   To Mary Lou Adams - my wife, wisdom and best friend,
	who always knew I was a poet,
	whose courage to criticise grows with me,
	who heals my secret ways,
	who limns my better life:
   I acknowledge debt
	past measure or description,
	past hope of ever paying,
	but manifest here,
   In every word.

Notes: