Hey hey ... Friday is here.

Been chairing more meetings lately. My sponsor ask me to chair one last night for her that she was signed up to chair. It was a Beginner's Meeting. I chose "The Turning Point" for my topic. I enjoyed it more than I can say.

I have been talking to a very new newcomer after meetings lately - encouraging her. She has been attending a meeting every day for the past couple of weeks. She is young, hope she will stick with it. I love to see the young ones come in and get on the safe path. Too much can happen when we are out there in our cups. Sometimes the downhill decline can be so deceiving. That position renders us hopeless. I can see this young lady's eyes are perking up. She is getting some hope back. :)

I love recovery!

September 18



Buffoon


Never juggle knives and butter at the same time or you will just spread your problems around. Passing on the knives is the first best idea, leaving the butter in the dish is the second. I have gotten many funny schemes into my brain; gotten them in with ease, it is the getting them out of my brain I struggle with. Crowbars and coercion have been my favored tools; ineffective though they may be, I am persistent, while wishing to be dexterous. It took me years to realize the problem with juggling is that it begins with me throwing things and ends with disaster if I can’t catch it all. What slips through my fingers through daily living is hard enough what I throw into the fray for showmanship is, too much. I needn’t be the fool flinging my pins when my goal is to stay on them.




Learn a song in case of karaoke kidnapping

*

OLD BOOKKEEPING, NEW PAINTING

What will become of the fine lines
I use to divide good news form bad?
How will I handle life with no screen to keep
the silt from shifting across my personal landscape.

A delicate crosshatch had kept little checks in little boxes
Now the checks are bouncing randomly,
No pattern or restraint.
My old bookkeeping has come to an abrupt end
Leaving many questions and much uncertainty.

I lift the green visor from my brow,
Looking for answers from the periphery.
Taking the long view
I put down my pencil and pick up my paints.

Sling the easel over my shoulder
And walk away from meticulous survival.
The fine lines I have now are in my brush strokes
And even bad news is somehow good.

September 19

Nameless Strange


I am nameless strange and you don’t know me, not anymore. Dismissed as an unread book; sent away with covers torn off. The bad weather that you love keeps you indoors eating hot curry and thinking foolish thoughts. What narcissism separates you and me? After blinking eyes you find our sameness, bend near me and whisper my name.






Have faith in fruit






*
A LITTLE EXTRA HOPE

What will you do with a little extra hope?
Asked my quizzical sponsor.
What good is a little hope?
My retort.

A little hope got you sober,
What can you do with a little more?
Could you take out your dreams
And fly them on a breeze?

Could you throw yourself
Into a wave of intention
And see if you could ride it out?
Breathe easier, smile broader?

Take my hand tighter
And walk the road awhile longer
Before you run for refuge?

Let me ask a better question.
What couldn’t you do with a little more hope?
-----------FAIL-----------

September 20


Toolbox


I know just how hard it is to pick up the right tools. It's like I know I have a hammer in the drawer, in fact I have two, so, why oh, why do I feel compelled to hit things with the heel of my shoe? Trust and believe it is ineffective at best; additionally it is embarrassing. I wish I could say I have done this a handful of times, unfortunately, I have done it over and over, it’s hell on my shoes and worse on my morale. Using what is at hand or foot may seem practical, but it is not prudent. Walking myself through the step by step process; reading and following directions is easier but only when I disengage the lie that says it’s harder.





Build a canopy over elucidation

*

SAFETY IN MY CHAIR

Sometimes
I have to sit with my knees
Tucked up under my chin
My feet can’t touch the floor
At these moments I hug my legs to me.

I feel contained
But somehow adrift in my chair.
I center my mind on breath and pulse
Pure fear flits and flutters
While I gain my composure.

When I feel safe enough
To put one foot down
Then the other and connect
With the world again.

I am leaving home to embark this earthly trek
The journey is there for me everyday
But some days I curl up in my chair.

September 21



Mercy


The rearview holds the vision, the sad figure on the corner as I drive away, all that is left to me are memories of G-d, the rest I ejected and sped from as fast as I could. I cannot face what is left when I make G-d homeless and unloved. Though living together was tough sometimes, living alone is unbearable. Nothing cooks right, cleans right, tastes right or smells right, even the moon won’t rise right when I am strictly on my own. And G-d wasn’t built for the streets, that corner is not someplace my Higher Power fits in. We are meant to be together and apart the world spins off its measure. Pitiful is what I am, so I swing around the block, fling open the door and take pity on G-d and go home.








Make time for lullabies
*
BELLS

The bells are ringing but no one sings
There are no peals of laughter and that’s just fine
For pleasure is not he only response to sound.
Shock and distain are other options, too.

I have what I want in relationship to the buzz in my ear
Equal opportunity attitude, pro and con.
Some songs bring joy when they end.

I have to lower my expectation of pleasure
And value my distaste for tinkling sounds
Or any other preordained sweetness.

September 22



No Jin



I molested the touch control lamp. I had no trouble turning it on, but could never figure how to turn it off; therefore I let the light shine in the daytime. I called looking for guidance, “lick your fingers then try again,” was the glib suggestion. I offered that I was not interested in becoming that intimate with said lamp. Sometimes connections are made easily, other times they cannot be made at all, still there are times the renewal of a connection is determined by my willingness to up the ante. Am I willing to put a little spit into the effort or will I leave the light to burn?








Invent small pleasures

*

WILLING PIECRUST

I lay the crust of my will over the pie plate of Gods’ will for me.
I must have the willingness to trim off the excess.
I hesitate--- I worked hard to roll it out.

I know from past experience when hot issues come up
These tags and hanging-ons burn and drop
Sometimes ruining the flavor and appearance of the whole.

It is easier to cut loose the things outside God-given intent.
I get the pie in its entirety when I crimp and bend
To the shape of my life.

September 23



Peace Time


I have been to the wars and through the wars and now sit on the stoop and wonder; will I learn to live here in the world of everyday after having had to spend so much time running for cover. Each time I return to what I believe is my home I sit and rock trying to pour my soul back inside from my hipflask where it was held for safekeeping. I try not to spill a drop for it is worse than shed blood and harder to rebuild. My soul has grown pale from confinement and lack of sun, but it still exists and for that I pat my back and suck on my Lifesaver; I could have done worse, was unable to do better. I console myself with the knowledge I never started the conflict just learned to survive it.





Substitute action for apathy



*

REMEMBERING

Remembering is the oxygen my brain pumps to my soul.
Remembering gives me mobility and traction.
Everything in my life that is positive depends on my remembering.
It keeps apathy at bay
And complacency locked in some far off cupboard.

Remembering gives today the misty sweetness I have grown to love.
I can live to my potential and enjoy the process.
Watch misery move away.
I can dream the future every night
Because I remember who I am and what I am capable of.

Never can I be haunted.
Memory keeps me from reactionary visitation.
Though some fear the past
I know holding it in a close embrace
Allows me to dance to the rhythm of truth.

September 24


What is Dear?


I am angry that I was taught I must hold on for dear life instead of being taught that life is dear, but they couldn’t teach me what they didn’t know and couldn’t know what they had not discovered for themselves. I wish I had learned earlier to love the life I was taught to cling to, but I am grateful I have been bound to life long enough to find the joy in it. I have found that knowing joy causes me to cling all the more, cling in sweetness to what was once such a bitter task. I am angry for what I wasn’t taught, but sadder still for what they didn’t know and all that is lost in their lives to ignorance and tradition. I wanted better for them and they wanted better for me and this is the circle which closes around the dear that I hold onto.




Make room for running starts

*
FRUSTRATING IMPROVEMENT


Improvement is frustrating, lonely and yet exhilarating.
It somehow starts with moths in the stomach
And ends with warm soup satisfaction.

Struggling, waiting, followed by further struggle
Progress made by tugging one string then the other.
It is hard to accept scaling the ropes alone
But tottering assent is always this way.

Once at the top I realize how easily I could slide to the bottom
Sometimes friction is all that keeps me up.
Establishing a new altitude is challenging.

I must ground myself in a new way.
My talents hinder and aid me.
I must open the correct doors in my mind
And avoid the traps in the floor.

Stuttering through requirements and obligations
I transform but only slowly.
Earning each drop of comfort from a job just done.

Thank you, Daddy, it has been a long path from where we've been to where we are going. I will try hard to stay out of the sideshow.

the girl

September 25




No Dialing Tonight.



When it is late at night and I can’t sleep I wander and putter and plan my dreams. I hold out hopes and wash their faces; pray for rain and clean all traces. Thunderstorms rumble and lightning strikes; I tune up the plumbing and wipe down the pipes. All the paint and promises in the world won’t change me; I’m still lost in the dark without you. Tear stains are friendly till I wash them away leaving blotchy eyes that can’t be explained; an aching heart that keeps on ticking and wishes that can’t come true. Sunday morning is here, too, soon and life rolls on whether you think it should. Tiny thoughts come out to play and sad, sad fears keep them at bay. But the dog is curled up under the covers without a care; I long to disturb her but do not dare. She is the queen here and I’m but the naïve; I’ll tend to my writing and try to be brave. For the dawn will follow this endless nocturne; the whole world will be safe once more. I will cry but it’s all too late; though you are merely a phone call away.





Find the place where noise and music intersect

*
ALARM CLOCK

The dream killer plays its harsh tones.
I pull my lids, so unwilling to wake.
The tip of my tongue dry to leather
Welcomes the wet of my toothbrush
I grin a foaming smile.

I run through my night travels
I mentally wonder the highlights
Ponder the implications and meanings.

Dressed, with open door breeze in my face
I leave nighttime escapades
For daytime pandemonium.
The only thing I won’t leave behind
Is the last image before the gong sounded.

September 26




Green Wood

When a nail is hammered into a living tree, the tree is forever changed. Even if the barb is pulled out the tree will never be the same. If the spike remains and the tree lives; over time the nail will be incorporated, the tree will get on with the business of living and carry the thing as just a part of what it took to get here. What was trauma is trauma, but life is big and the longer it gets the larger the life, is the hope. Piercing experience is engulfed by rings of fresh wood and a will to grow beyond the moment of impact. The tree branches out and even a hundred nails can’t stop that.







Educate domination when you can and cage it when you have to

*

VIRGINIA CREEPER

In a clearing grows a vine
As seasons change the leaves turn pale.
This type of vine grows throughout the woods
But does it grow pale everywhere
Or only in the sunlit space?

I see the trembling of the lovely foliage
And wonder the destiny of the flora.
Does growth have a will of it own?
Does it grow to light or is it a must?

Can I turn my face
Even if Virginia Creeper cannot?
And if I can------------
Should I just to prove a point?

September 27





One Street off Amory



Apology holds change at arms length. Apology is the thing I was taught to wait for as a sign that things will improve, but apology is not a harbinger of change it is quite the opposite it is the guarantor of business as usual; no amendment need occur, apology has been made and life goes on with no alteration. Without variation we all stay sick and apologizing for that won’t get us better. Restitution, amends, revelation, revolution these are the things which make the world bright, apology is just a scrap with which to wipe your ass.







Put down your bat, skip your rope

*

ALSO A GIFT

Sadness is as life affirming as joy
But in the same way that people eat together
But defecate alone, joy is encouraged in public
And sadness is a private matter.

Happiness is embraced and discouragement relegated
Even though personal experience shows disappointment
Is often a point of growth.

What beauty and change stem from disillusion
But still it is hard to look directly
At grief and not flinch away.
The temptation to fain pleasure
And leave sadness swept under the carpet is strong.

It is an unwelcome job to be the defender of grief
A job which should be unnecessary to defend
We are not giants who can step
From one mountaintop to the next.

September 28



A Verse to the Wise



Encoding truth into poetry makes reality survivable by giving readers the opportunity to dig truth up like diamonds. Throwing certainty in peoples faces like cold water give them a wake up call but nothing to embrace. The beauty of semaphore is the dance that need not be understood by everyone who sees it. Communication through device leaves headroom and breathing space while acceptance might be reached. The current of a conversation often leads me to face the facts, but a tsunami of candor could drown me.







Exhaust reaction with reason


*
DENY ONE---DENY THE OTHER

If you want to deny the problem
By necessity you must deny the solution.
Resolving a problem whose existence is rejected
Creates a split in the crust of collusion.

Often times the convolution and reconvolution of addiction
Causes a bloated roiling mass
That rolls through the streets of sanity.
How can a wedge be cut in a creature so dense.

How can I work on piecing together remedies
When I am readily assured by fellow sufferers
There is NO DISEASE?
Can I trust my personal depletions?

Can I employ faith to a resolution
When faith is utilized to fortify
The contagion I/m told doesn’t exist
But if not faith what?

Could be entitled Self-Portrait
 

This sure is you. Glad to know the Left Writing Femme.

Hello, all :)

Just wanted to post a quick update.. Have been MIA lately due to taking care of myself. That included a 10 day stay on a locked mental ward, 10 days at a crisis house, and a couple of weeks at a sober living. I am now on my way to a residential treatment, and will be in with the other males, so am pretty happy about it.

I have about 70 days clean and sober and am taking my meds as I am supposed to. Life is good and getting better, day by day.

Thank you all for your past and continued support, will get on here to post when I can. Hope that everyone is well and I will be checking back here later tonight, but will be offline for 2 months or more after tonight, due to being in treatment.

Love and Light,
Tony

Good luck with your treatment, TenderKnight!

Wishing you well,

Sherrie

September 29


Kicks


New balance is more than a brand of sneakers. New balance is a joyful revelation made possible through constant vigilance. I am tap dancing into a vision, no more soft shoed wishfulness. I can lift my feet knowing I can keep my up right posture; my musculature robust from climbing the steps and accepting direction. This bright tempo delights me; I feel stretched, supple, able bodied. Life off the balance beam offers me the world in which to embrace my equilibrium.






Pick up your toys, pick up your chin and move on


*
CATCH

How can my sensibility catch my intellect
Or find a map with enough information
To get my heart to the current location of my mind?

What are the common markers recognized by soul and brain?
I know the pulse of my wrist
Is counter pointing the firing of my synapses.

My life signs run their course
And I struggle to find the intersections
I long for more than signposts and curbing.

I would like parallels, paradigms and conclusions
There must be a place of common home and hearth.
I am looking for the depot of my life
I hope I hit it before I hit the coast.

September 30



Moniker


The Hurt carry on the tradition, would never think to give it up, don’t even know there is that option, strap on their weapons without a second thought. How can there be a second thought when there never was a first. Hurt is a reflex and it moves its way through the world like dominoes tumbling; everything’s knocked down before you ever saw it standing. So, what’s the use anyway? So, I fall down and in that action push you forward and we are all together in the mud, but it is so hard to recognize anyone in the mud, including myself and especially you. If I hurt you that makes it hard for me to see anything about you except my wish for your departure, which I subconsciously hope will take away the guilt I can’t afford to feel. If I make it out of the mud I can’t afford anything, but if I don’t pay up I’ll be in new mud soon, so I must break tradition and the first step toward that is seeing it and the second is calling it by its name.





Open up your secret vault and unload

*

BATTLESHIP

If the first is a guess, what is the second?
Paranoia or worse.?
Action is a blessing, reaction a debilitation
And to twist from reaction to self-doubt
Sinks the battle and the battleship.

When I can’t make sense, the gift is stepping back,
Better to put my hand down than to lose the farm.
When I find myself in a minefield I can walk gingerly
Or wait for aid to come from above, air rescue or other.

The option of rethinking every step sets me dancing
The tune which begins this hurky jerky polka of death which
Stems from the metronome of criticism playing in my ear.

When I am overwhelmed with critique
I give up acceptance of chance or joy of spontaneity
Throwing myself into a pit of apprehension.
I am safer being wrong occasionally
Then unsure forever