John Nakata
 
Sonnet 1
I wish I could paint the beach for you–
Its grandeur could crystallize the salty sprays
Perspective independent: where you
Stand, no conflict of beauty passing days.
But I shudder at my unsteady hand–
A single stroke, sloppy, needs many to fix.
And what color are sand crabs on sand?
Lovers’ true hue? their vanishing tracks?
And would you see the sea? Or must I add
My voice, compounding one already dumb?
If I could speak the sea, why even tread
On baser colors that fade in the sun?
Though flawed and shaken, my thoughts run clear:
Unless I paint, I cannot draw you near.
 
Sonnet 2
Look not, sweet girl, at Father sitting there
Focus–you know that Bach Partita well,
But double stops stop with hasty breaths of air.
Calm down–he will hear and you’ll have much to tell.
So soar, and suddenly be the symphony–
Dull life’s clamor with two strings in harmony
That gesture toward higher forms and fantasy.
Release–let revelation rise slowly.
But Father’s slouched in an easy chair
Firmly grounded in Sunday sports pages;
He hums as if to background "muzak"–you stare
At ceilings, walls, empty chairs, and floor tiles.
And what is the sound of deflation?
You whisper with a growing silent groan.
 
Sonnet 3
You walked, unfettered, off a precipice,
But all the while, extended hands toward me
That slowly changed to wings–slight, silverish
Like common doves with new vistas to see.
But I, thought-cuckold, crept forward and peered
Through branches–false protection for my face–
And rank, indifferent, cardinal traits seethed
While quipping down your companionless space.
So I, too grounded, couldn’t say goodbye.
Instead, with eyes cast down I wished
Your form to shatter branches and cry
Of new scars–though by then you had vanished.
Alone, I realize your great leap off
Required looking up–not towards myself
 
Sonnet 4
Horatio:
His thoughts were light and floated unchecked through minds
Too hollow–always lifted up with air.
No wonder that consciousness’ hollow reeds
Were wont to sound a note of horror there.
But fault its nature not, for light is light
And sailors see brilliance from mastheads
On glitt’ring seas–a joining rejoining of sight
Whose source only the brave fool searches twice.
Across the widest sea he found his peace
Within a single, salt crystal seen by few
Who, though flooded, will claim Neptune’s place.
But consider that crystal on crystal builds flood gates anew
While holding fast a rainbow beam of light
Depicting focused, tempered forms of fate.
 
Sonnet 5
Your presence, even then, a part of being,
Mediating cries stuffed between breaths
And suckling–Fleshy exuberance pouring
Forth, engendering warmth like thick silk swaths.
Rubber. Its true taste exposed the first lie.
Looking up, I see a moon face blurred–
Suddenly, you were born. A focused kalei-
docope. A small shudder growing outward,
Passing through sudden lungs and confused toes.
Clumsy drumlettes reach for the distant moon
And now unwelcome milk from a bottle flows,
Quelling a new voice but threatening to drown.
The itch of wool is slow-burning rage.
Trapped, I do my best to cry orange.
 
Sonnet 6
An orange cries–snatched from brothers
Like a mouse that flirted with the Falconess.
You dig nails into taut skin. It whimpers–
But you’re only testing product-freshness.
Lifting the orange you block out the sun.
High priestess, you assess center-of-mass
With surgical precision. Then, you thumb-
Blade traces the embryonic split–stress
Fracture erupts.
Silence is sweet–then pungent.
Your sticky hand finds me with its offering,
And I, simple bystander to you pageant,
Am subsumed–like orange to color–desiring
Flesh like a hungry child-bird. Admittedly, though,
A single piece of fruit is never enough.
 
Betrayal
Max Adams
 
Last summer I sat at a beautiful bar
Late one evening in the Florida Keys
Accompanied by two friends of mine
And the fourth of my Long Island Iced Teas
It was getting close to closing time
So I ordered a fifth and a sixth
When in walked Helen of Troy
With her younger, sexier ‘Sis
I instantly noticed their interest in me
And I immediately noticed their busts
And I clearly understood my feelings for them
To be the big L word Lust
I stood atop the bar
And began to confess my love
Speaking from the heart
While soaring like a dove
And as you’ll later see
As you’ll have later read
What I remember saying is far different
From what I actually said
I remember standing on top the bar
And telling all the people
That in all my life, in all my days
I’ve never seen their equal
The beauty held within
Their eyes of baby blue
Were the most breathtaking vision I’ve ever seen
In all my years one through twenty-two
Their smiles, their grace, their lips of perfect rose
Their bodies, their hair, the way they wore their clothes
Defined for me perfection
Defined for me true beauty
I’ll love you both forever I shouted
As if it is my duty
At this I finished speaking
And came down from atop the bar
And spent the remainder of the night
Making love to them under the stars
That’s the story I remember
My precious memory
But my friends tell a different tale
For the events of that evening
That is not the way it happened
That is not what you had said
And after they told me how it really happened
I wished that I were dead
It seems that when Helen and her sister
Walked in through the bar’s door
I attempted to stand up on the bar
But immediately fell on the floor
And it is from the floor I shouted
Attempting to confess my feelings
The words that I carefully selected
As I stared at the bar’s ceiling
And it is with these words
Spoken by a man whose love was clearly true
That I pleaded and begged
In my intrepid attempt to woo
The beauty held within
Your eyes of baby blue
Are the most breathtaking visions I’ve ever seen
In all my years one through twenty-two
But in all honesty ladies now I must confess
If I could have one wish I’d want you to undress
Your smiles, your grace, your lips of perfect rose
Your bodies, your bodies, Oh I want to rip off your clothes
Ladies don’t you fight
Neither one be bitter
For instead of choosing between the two of you
Tonight I’ll make love to sisters
I’ll love you both tonight I shouted
As if it is my duty
At this they came behind the bar
And beat my little booty
At this betrayal of my memory
I asked my loyal friends
Then whom did I leave the bar with that night
And spend the rest of the evening
Oh you don’t remember
Came quickly their reply
You left with the One-eyed ugly woman
You met at the beginning of the night
The one with the mustache
And all of those fever blisters
She was the size of a house
No wonder you thought "they" were sisters
You never should have ordered
The fourth of those Long Island Iced Teas
And that’s the horrible story of how
I was betrayed by my memories
 
YOU CAN’T CATCH ALL THE CHILDREN
Max Adams
 
A night just like any other.
Man and woman walk.
The woman kisses him goodnight, thinking the date is through.
The man disagrees and attempts to take things further.
 
From a distance "her savior" hears her cry!
Quickly making his way through the parking lot,
"her hero" beats the man for he knows him,
and knows he deserves to die.
 
He punches and kicks the animal,
until some friends pull him off the bloodied mess.
They now look at "her Knight" with eyes of fear.
She thinks he is simply wonderful
 
Many years quickly pass.
The "brave man" reads the paper,
only to cringe at a picture of a rapist,
who can only be the bloodied mess.
 
Tears form in our "champion’s" eyes,
as he reads of the animal’s work.
This is my fault he thinks.
It does not take a genius to realize
 
that if the "guardian" had killed him that night,
the beast would not have hurt those women.
The world would have been such a better place,
if only that monster had lost his life.
 
He shuts down, puts his emotions on a shelf.
No one can forgive him, for there is nothing to forgive.
For he alone deals with this,
until he forgives himself.
 
Mindless Ramblings of a Hopeful Romantic
Max Adams
 
It does not take a keen eye to see the world’s madness.
Historians focus on past famines, plagues, and genocide,
grandparents are quick to point out depressions and other trying times.
Unfortunately, one doesn’t have to look in the past to find sadness.
The quest for true happiness is a limited quest, for our time on Earth is brief.
During my time, without endeavor, I bear witness to things that tear my eyes,
and thinking on grandparents and historians, I suddenly realize
that one doesn’t have to look in the past to find such desperate grief.
For all it takes to end a dream or destroy hope is to believe no one cares,
and once that is accepted, all that is left is a society living in fear.
As these visions envelop me, an angel’s voice rings in my ear,
whispering "remember." And I smile as I remember you are always there.
You’re in my heart and on my mind and I thank the Heavens above,
that I will never have to look in the past to find the splendor of love.
 
 
I apologize
Max Adams
 
This poem is not a poem
But more like an apology,
For I refuse to share my secrets
Let alone my memories.
 
Every memory is my own
And to share just one with you
Would open the door to my heart
And invite you to walk through.
 
However, I have no vacancy in my heart
For someone still lingers there,
And despite how hard I fight it
I still feel her everywhere.
 
So in case she ever wishes
To return her love and trust,
I am compelled to leave her be
So apologize I must.
 
 
My Muse
Max Adams
 
Tonight you will be my unknowing muse.
I see you from across the room:
you laugh and smile with another man.
To me none of that matters. I understand
that for you to be my muse
I must never be the man you openly choose.
Yet, you will if for only a night,
be my adulteress, as I sit here and write.
It is your beauty
That inspires my greatest story.
Questions of what might happen,
and what we could be
race through my heart and soul.
Your laugh makes
writer, pen, and paper whole.
To address you or touch you
would only degrade us.
For to be my hand’s guide
you must remain in my life only
as my unknowing muse.
With those questions
and a lingering fear,
I am able to write
what my heart holds most dear.
 
 
Do I Exist?
Max Adams
 
Just when I begin to feel pride in the society
and generation to which I belong,
I turn on the TV to see the epitome of both…
a woman willing to sell herself for money,
a man willing to buy himself a wife.
People have to ask: What is the next step?
Television shows entitled "How much
to sleep with my wife?" or "How much to buy
my unborn baby?" Wonderful. In my society,
one question always
lingers on the lips of every mouth.
How do I know I exist? In a world
that has seemed to forgotten everything
and everyone, how do I know I
exist? Once asked, this question opens the doorway
to many doubts and fears. In a world
where fiction and real life paint an abstract
portrait on the canvas of my mind using
only shades of gray…how am I to answer
any question let alone question my
own existence? I have no choice but to answer
the original question with
the answer of no. How do I know I
exist? How do I know my life is real
and that I am as important as the next human being?
I don’t. Someday I
might find an answer, but for now the answer
to this question is that there is not an answer.
Just like people don’t know if a Rollercoaster
at an amusement park
is going to fly off of the tracks when they ride it,
I am not sure if the ride that is my life will lose its course either.
That is if the ride that is my life finds its destination.
Until then, I will just sit back, hope for the best, and enjoy the ride.
And just maybe, if I have enough nerve,
I just might put my hands up in the air.
 
Restricted By So Much
Max Adams
 
Restricted by so much,
I long for just one real touch
of love, of humanity,
from someone I love.
I hear her voice,
I feel her breath.
However, I have never seen her face.
My dreams will not allow it.
She is unknown to me in reality.
Yet every night she is in my dreams.
I will continue to search for her for I know she must exist.
I refuse to believe I am in love with only an idea
that comes to me in the form of a dream.
Instead, I believe my dreams are telling me to find her,
that, somewhere, she dreams of me
.
THE WOMAN IN THE PICASSO
Max Adams
 
Perfection I thought
when I first saw the painting.
Hanging there, in front of me on the wall.
I scanned the painting once more to find true beauty.
A young woman with hair as red
as the sun coming over the horizon on a day when clouds were exiled from the morning sky.
Her lips matched the color of the most elegant rose I have had the privilege of ever witnessing.
Her eyes made me remember the clearest waters of the Keys.
Her face was very much like that of Lauren Bacall’s
when her heart belonged to Bogie,
and I stood there wondering if anyone had ever thought so as well.
Yes, I decided to tell her so myself as I leaned ever so closely to the
painting careful not to touch the glass.
As I spoke, I imagined her perfect face allowing hints of red to fill her cheeks.
Could it be the woman in the painting was blushing?
No, of course not I thought as I turned away from my newfound infatuation.
And as I did so, we exchanged smiles.
Hers one of knowledge, mine of humility.
 
RAGE
Max Adams
 
Perhaps, my favorite feeling is "Game Over."
"Game Over," is the finale of the game or event
I am currently involved in at any given moment.
No, let me correct myself, I should qualify that,
my favorite feeling is the split second before "Game Over."
When you know you’re about to lose (because winning lies under another name),
You know it’s over, everything you’ve tried so hard to achieve.
You have just enough time to blurt out "It’s over!"
Then it’s over. You are over.
I suppose there is a sincere freedom
in knowing your fight is finished.
That split second where you realize all is about to end.
Different people react in different ways.
Some swear and rage.
Some sigh or gasp.
Some scream.
I’ve heard many screams over the past twenty-three years
I have been addicted to life.
I’m sure that this moment provides a rare insight
into the way people react just before they die,
when they lose in the final game of life.
Personally, I rage.
And it is that rage that blinds me from describing
what I have seen and what I know.