Dreams, like clouds
visible to the eye
just out of reach
time to pull the clouds down
step on them like a magic carpet
flying high above the pines
to foreign lands and islands
painting rainbows in the sky
smiling all the while
until my heart calls me back to the ground
to play in the sand
find my oak tree
and lay my head down
© Anita Adams 2018
As the hour approaches, the reality of your physical self no longer present here on this earth floods me with memories and tears that know all too well the anguish you must have been feeling before you let go your last breath.
You were loved. You were beautiful. You were admired. You were creative. You were larger than your tall frame. You were Sunset on earth.
I will miss you my friend. My heart aches.
Although I am not there physically with all the rest who love you, Willie sings in the background Stardust.
Rest in Peace Sister Moon.
Love, Anita
Slowly he smiled as he saw her silhouette across the smoke covered room. She appeared to be drinking a cup of hot steaming coffee.
Just yesterday, they met at the white house. You know, the one on the market soon to be sold? The one with its ship-lap exterior – circa 1950’s?
As they entered the house, they both noticed the heart of pine flooring. The smell of freshly mopped floors with a bit of apple cider vinegar and water. This combination left behind a sheen on the wood, and the rooms smelled fresh and clean. The smell reminded them both of an earlier summer. It’s as if someone had left the windows open on a summer day and allowed the breeze to blow through the fresh smell of blooming jasmine, honeysuckle and roses.
It was about 3 p.m. in the afternoon and the sunlight filled the living room. All that remained in the beautiful bungalow was a rattan arm chair, white wooden dining table, brass floor lamp with an ivory silk bell-shaped lampshade complete with a foot operated nightlight floor switch. Above the fireplace mantle, a few houseplants – two African Violets, one – white, the other, purple, a small green fern, and a well-tended purple shamrock.
He asked her to hold her arms out as he placed one hand gently on her waist and he began to hum a waltz. Guiding her with his hands, they danced! All other thoughts abandoned, but this one moment in time. Just as they were finishing their waltz, his phone began ringing in his coat pocket. She asked, aren’t you going to answer it? He replied, let’s pretend it’s asleep.
…Never to be underestimated.
Those who are kind, do so out of this special place in their heart.
I’ve met a few people in my life, and recognize the difference between genuine love given (kindness) from those seeking something in return for a favor done.
The difference is this…
… no expectation of a gift of any kind in return. Friendship remains intact and conversations and interactions continue to carry with them their natural rhythm, playfulness, joy, sorrow, triumphs, losses and love.
I’ve given to many people in my lifetime without remembering who or what, and upon occasion, one of these persons will come back to me and say, ‘Hey, thanks again, just wanted to give this back to you.’ I look at them and say, I don’t remember giving this to you. It makes me feel good to give without expectation of something in return. Occasionally, when I can get away with it and have a few extra dollars, I will buy the persons coffee behind me in the coffee line, or bring someone flowers to someone who isn’t expecting anything but my presence. It’s a gift of love and kindness.
© Anita Adams 2018
what does it mean
what will it bring
what are your dreams
mine are filled with some of these….
writing, hiking, and more snaps
travels, walking and taking naps
a grandson arrives in Februar
so does the winter and perhaps more white hair
in the Spring, a little more sunshine gives way to plant more trees and a garden to til
up to my elbows in poetry, a book and art
no day or night should pass without a kiss to my heart
peace I believe begins with me
seeds to be sown one letter at a time
A is for Alicia, B for Bed, C for Cathy, D for Dad, E for Elephant, F for Faith, G for Gretchen, H for Home, I for Italy, J for the Joy still unknown
sow seeds of love and peace, of green trees and saplings, breathe oxygen into this space
© Anita Adams 12/29/2017
Walking up the sidewalk to a home I used to live in many years ago,
The wooden door swings open and my eyes adjust to what was once familiar, is now quite changed.
As I enter my past home of 18 years, I notice, there are many rooms and hallways.
Winding around a few corners, I stop in what appears to be the center of this elongated home in a narrow room with hardwood floors with white ship lap walls.
The picture-less walls are painted in Navajo White. The room’s contents contain one azure blue two-seater fabric sofa along the right side of the room with a rectangular window above it. There are no curtains. The window frame is thin, black metal.
Just beyond the position of the sofa, is a four-legged antique kitchen table, circa 1960 with a clay red top and a single seam in the middle.
The ceiling, white bead board. There are no rugs on the floor, nothing on the table or sofa. There’s a view from the narrow window of the treetops only and the house is silent.
A friend of mine now lives here. I’m quite surprised at how she has each room designated for a particular purpose. A living room. A writing room. A kitchen. A bedroom, bathroom. I’m asking myself what is this room? It finally dawns on me, this is the waiting room.
This dream of the Waiting Room represents to me a time of introspection, a time to be still, a time to evaluate purpose and direction of life. Is a call to slow down and pause. A time of transition.
©Anita Adams 12/2017
as a young woman to dress becomingly in the eyes of men invited unwanted EVERYTHING
i chose to wear black as a cloak of invisibility
wearing black sent a clear message about the wearer
who did not wish to
be seen
approached
talked to
safety is paramount
wearing black allows the wearer to survive another day
has been traumatized
being seen is unsafe
in survival mode
black is safe, color is not
© Anita Adams 2017
Called to Write 