July 8

PASTRY




Like French pastry, sobriety gets richer with each layer. As I investigate these layers I approach the buttery center. The fat seeps through the years, makes boundaries crisp and intimacy velvety. Ingredients, which ordinarily wouldn’t mix, somehow blend and counterpoint one another in a flaky shell. Fruit and nuts improve every bite. Though there are times which are a bit crumbly, most of the structure is strong and the invention skillful. Pastry and sobriety are compositions of strength and brilliance, which are meant to be taken internally.


Juggle solutions.
*


Night Clothes and Bed Clothes

Is there any indulgence
quite like that of clean sleepwear
warm from the laundry?

Pulling on jammies over squeaky clean skin
and the little shutter that goes with tired hedonism
is a pleasure without formed words,
left for grateful sounds and little moans.

Hard work creates more than stability,
more than cash flow, more than mere exhaustion,
hard work changes my mind about delight.

It allows me to see it in the most obvious,
most subtle of places.
My bed has become haven, hospital, refuge
and I am tucked up in my nest, safely out of my mind.

Exquisite... your best yet!
 

Now I am off to Santa Fe I think, to indulge in a croissant and some language of the heart.

Thank you for the reminder, life is good... even when flakey. Maybe even especially when flakey. Somedays, the flakier the better. Is that even a word. No dictionary here, and lazy.

But clean and happy, still in my night clothes, still clean skin is happier still. Life is beyond good today. Now to dress in something other than these lovely bed clothes and go out into this bright and lovely day.

Namaste
d

July 9

SHIMMER


The water ruffles over metallic sheen, lap after lap screen the view, and still the gilt reflection shines in my eyes. Hypnotic, the undulence pulls me near. I stand on the edge, gaze, then gawk; I follow the underwater movements and iridescent tremolo. I forget place and time. I lose sight of the facts. Gold isn’t the only thing that shimmers. Sometimes that glint is just a fish. Life is full of fins and fantasy. My sponsor suggests I stop looking for my life in a wishing well.


Think of all beans as magical in someway.

*
Special


Is it the wiring between my ears,
the size of the pump in my chest?
The difference which can be seen
when you look from me to the neighbors?

I know that you feel me to be special.
I feel me to be special, too,
just like you.

Defining that thing, that combination
which unlocks the mundane
is more than just an attempt to point a finger,
it’s a search for that little light.

Close and closer we pull together
and that is special but now I will whisper it,
tell you the secret truth is my ability to play.
Come play with me!

July 10

REGENERATION



When I am grabbed by the extremity of my thinking I drop my mind like a reptilian tail. My feet believe they are in no need of my brain in order to run; independent flight is the action of the day. Far from the time and place of my dissection I find regrowth the problem to be solved. Unlike a salamander’s toe, can I generate my wits to their former ability or must I live out my existence with a docked psyche? My desire curls like a python but dreams of becoming the phoenix.


Smile at your orange wedges.

*

Let God Do What?

I hesitate to let go to God because
I fear that God doesn’t like me, or likes me now,
but doesn’t like me all the time.

I think I got this belief from being the only child
of parents who don’t like children.
It never mattered how good I was,
how smart or thoughtful, well informed, helpful,
I always ended up being treated like I was a burden,
someone to be endured.

If only I was likeable, I would think to myself
and try recreating me to become….what?
Finally I settled on indispensable,
if I could make myself necessary,
then my life would be okay.
People would need me therefore they would want me.

What I discovered is that people who can’t live without me
end up resenting me, by the time I was so important to others
I was no longer important to me, so I didn’t need God’s help
because I didn’t need anything, I didn’t exist.

Over time what I have settled on are a few truths:
People who don’t like kids shouldn’t have them.
And I need God’s help to learn how to want to be here on this planet
since I was not brought to earth by people who wanted me.

July 11

SPONTANEOUS GENERATION

Dust under the bed turns into bugs. My grandfather believed in these alchemies of myth. I thought myself free from the small witchcrafts of threat. The longer I stay sober, the more real is the insidious nature of my disease. Mental clutter does breed all manner of squirming and chattering vermin. Every intellectual closet I leave uncleaned is a brooding box of contempt, false pride and bloated ego. The synchronism of hatchling defects and nursing grudges, fairy tale thinking and firebrand action, mimic Grandpa’s bedbug rantings. I can never turn my back on unswept philosophy or the dross of assumptions I’ve left waiting in piles. Spiritual house cleaning is all that saves me from the transmigration of blood sucking, life-draining phantasm. Supernatural transformation needn’t plague me if I take right action. The difference between blessings and curses is the direction you are going.


Tiptoe into your heart for a peek.

*
A Year for Me



The world is my mollusk
and I am its pennyweight paragon,
witty girl that I am.

I have spent enough time
surrounded by wet feet and confining shells,
all held at the bottom of the sea.

This is a year for me.
I am going to climb over the rim of my briny brink
and try myself against the fearsome winds of chance.

Although souse is buoyant
I feel strong enough to stand my ground.
Time has come for life, open and raw,
but I shall leave the clams to the casino.

July 12

NOUN, VERB, ADJECTIVE


Model Sobriety (mod`el so-bri`i te), n., v., adj., 1. model sobriety acts like clay. Durable and flexible it molds to any situation. 2. model sobriety is like a clotheshorse; everything you put on it fits and looks good. 3. model sobriety is the 24-hour version of a life-long process. 4. model sobriety is a set of axioms with which we interpret truth. 5. model sobriety is what we put in the window for other sufferers to see. 6. model sobriety is the mirror we use to learn what is natural. 7. model sobriety eliminates extremes in behavior and thinking. 8. model sobriety is the mode by which we become a channel. 9. model sobriety is the definition in and of my life. Noun, verb, and adjective.


Write an acrostic poem for a dog.

*
Old Nasty

My addiction is like a Percheron,
bigger and more powerful than I am,
but what I have learned is that if I treat this horse
with due respect and a guiding hand
from my recovery and my Higher Power
I can harness the energy of my illness
and use its’ force to make my life work.

I can never be the master of alcoholism,
but I can see it for what it is;
an overgrown instinct looking for an outlet.

When I am given my way out I take this beast with me
and when I value that partnership we are both safe.
When I have tried to lock it in a stall
and run far from the barn, it kicks my life down.

When I put my head in the yoke willingly,
together we are led and we do the work
which is fulfilling and rich.
I was meant to work in a team,
I am grateful to have a teammate.

to Sherrie
 

Quoting Sherrie's writing from yesterday:
"When I am given my way out ........
....... it kicks my life down."

I am taking this part I quoted with me today. It is awesome and a perfectly compacted strong descriptor. I told you I sometimes share parts of your writings in meetings but am sure not to take credit for what I say.

What talent and gifts you have with expressing your thoughts into words.

Sherrie, you rock! I appreciate you sharing your writings with us. Thank you.

Here's a (f) for you ...
From your friend who walks with you down sobriety lane,
Brock

July 13

DISTILLATION


I came into these rooms with a mixed mental make-up and a polluted physical chemistry. I have been transformed but only into tiny droplets. The drops are not dramatic but the process is. Distillation of my thinking is a powerful thing. A volatile act of concentration takes place as my brain boils over and the sane is separated from the profane. Purity is a spiritual gift, the result of vaporizing my old thoughts. Many times the night distills the dew and I am quickly refreshed; other times I must cook for quite a while.


Exact a toll for crossed boundaries.
*



Wales



It is safe for the houses to sleep in the streets,
but not for me.
I cannot follow that which is so right and regular
for mundane things.
I am a jagged piece and it is hard for me
to find my place.

The sun comes though everyone’s windows
and peeks around the blinds left down.
I must mind my manners
and not be a nuisance or a bother;
draw no undue attention to my brightness
carry a basket to hide it in.

And while every river can drown its sorrows
in the rush of the downhill sweep to the sea.
I must stand here stock cold sober
and bear the pain appointed to me.

July 14

KEY


I asked for the key to my problems. My expectation was a metal instrument with which to unbolt the lock to my desires. What I was given was a systematic explanation of the symbols on the plan of my life. This has been a wonderful gift and I have benefited greatly, but first I had to stop brooding about the loss of my wished for trinket. Putting names on my map helps me stay off cliffs and out of rivers. The code is broken; I can decipher direction and intent. The compositions of life’s offerings fit and harmonize in unimagined ways and create archways strong and unbending, giving me access to reefs of beauty and rest. I asked for the means to open a door but gained entry to the world.


Don’t lug excess baggage, ship it.
*


Sympathetic Strings


A guitar with 28 strings generates much sympathy
from the cords which were not strummed.
Pluck is contagious and inspires much harmony and verve
in the vicinity in which it shows face.

Sympathetic strings vibrate in response to the jangling
around them but are tuned to their own notes.
Much distortion adds to the depth of the sound
created by this throng.

Can you hear my life?
How a disturbance in my life rings
in the lives which surround me?
How I twitch and chime when things are twanged
in the lives of my neighbors, my friends, my kin.

We make the music of care,
the discord of reaction.
To every move there is a sound,
to every sympathy a harmony.

July 15

THE RAINBOW


“What is with that look of concentration?” asked my sponsor.
“I am trying to see the gray.”
“The gray?” she queried.
“Yes, I heard at the meeting that between black and white there is a lot of gray.”
“Ah. Well, my darling, I don’t want you to have black and white thinking, but what lies between black and white are all the colors, the full spectrum.”
“What am I to do with this information? What do I do with all those colors?” I asked in shock and confusion.
“For right now, just remember that all the colors aren’t blue.”


Set out your clothes and plan their day.
*

Blocks or Points


The decision must be made; would I rather be criticized
for having done something that is imperfect
or be criticized for having done nothing at all.

Disapproval from others is not possible to prevent.
What I do in anticipation of it is in my control.
I can spend life running from trouble,
chasing peace through underachievement.

Or I can step-up knowing that gravity works
always to pull me down
and that this is neither gift nor burden,
it is simply fact. I

I must choose when I will stop tripping
over stumbling blocks
and realize them to be turning points.

July 16

MAGIC WAND
“Why are you wearing that hat and waving that star studded stick?" I asked my sponsor.
“Isn’t this what you want, a magic wand?” she replied.
“Whatever are you talking about? I don’t want you to play wizard.”
“Don’t you? You thought walking into your first meeting would------poof-----make you all better. When that didn’t work, you held your breath for 90 days. When that also proved a disappointment, you let the air out of your blue face and started the white-knuckle routine for one year. At the end of twelve months, you released your arthritic grip and started scheming for a new sponsor. But the new wicked witch sent you scurrying back to me. Then, it was a relationship with undying love that would break the spell you are under. Now tell me again how you don’t want me to use this magic wand on you?” said my sponsor with aplomb.
“I guess my behavior gave me away. Go ahead, say your incantation.” I closed my eyes and waited for her words.
“Show up and do the work. Keep an open mind,” she said as she waved the cudgel.
“That’s it?" I asked.
“Well, yes, but I have to come back every day,” she grinned.


Set the table for breakfast just before your midnight snack.
*


Rounder


Back again, yes, that I see,
but change is not the same as return.
What I know of you is your past.
I believe the past because I know it.

If there is a new you to meet
that remains to be seen.
Even a chameleon sheds its skin,
though I doubt its intrinsic nature
is altered much in the process.

So flash your smile and wind your words
into the thoughts of those with whom
you have no history.
I’ve been exposed before,
the virus doesn’t conquer me, I am immune.

Once bitten makes me wary
when you come around again.

July 17

TIME TABLES


I know the train is coming and I want to read the schedule. I hear rumors that the convoy going to Feelings will arrive in two years. The five-year expedition to Getting My Brains Back seems unlikely but is often commented on in meetings. Excursions to far off destinations such as Functional and Reasonable have me on my feet in gleeful anticipation. Still I wish for a clear mapping of time. I feel I could leave off worrying about the how of it if only I could be sure of the when. This cavalcade of adventure would be so much more palatable with a well written itinerary.


Sell yourself but not short.
*

Horse Play


The sequestered equestrian rides alone through the night;
the wood is as quiet as she.
Passing no one;
speaking not a word,
she slips into the paddock without a nicker or a neigh.

I long to be just as she,
not silent sentinel,
but living a whist fleet life,
a power unto myself.

What stands between are my hurt feelings
and my longing to be loved.
I can’t blame myself for either,
but work to heal and grow.

Nagging need is a pestilence I will be well rid of;
the irredeemable past is luggage for a catalog,
not for hauling on my back.

I will mount up and ride my great round stead,
the night is mine when I am ready
the path is there I know.

July 18

FAR OFF PLACES




Meetings too near home are unsatisfying to me. On smooth, simple days local meetings are fine; I catch a meeting, just slip it in. On rough days I yearn for an out of town meeting. After these many 24’s I’ve come to realize I need the ride as much as I need the meeting. Like a discontented baby I need more than just a trip around the block. The comfort of taking flight in my car is equaled by arriving at some far off AA. Fresh faces and new-takes-on-old-woes are an antidote to my colicky attitude. The drive back offers me a sense of triumphant homecoming. A good meeting can be had anywhere. Sometimes I just need a change of place or change of pace.


Keep a lock of your own hair.

*


Cicatrix and Love

The mark left by injury is indelible
though it may heal, the consequence remains.
This is also true of love.
I am branded and changed by your affection.

The improvement wrought in me does not leave when you do.
If you stop loving me,
can you no longer remember my name,
my face,
my sigh;

I am better for having had your love if only for a short time.
Good medicine offers lasting results;
the miracle of your love is my health.

The blush in my cheek,
the revitalization I feel is traceable to you,
to the days you held me in your heart
and the nights you held me in your arms.

And though I want you back in my world
the best of you lives on in my life.

July 19

THE WATER YOU DRINK


“Anyone who has to be dragged to water doesn’t deserve a drink,” said my sponsor.
“What about raising the bottom?” I questioned.
“I’m not talking about that. I am discussing people you try to convince into recovery. The folks you try to accommodate. The ones you attempt to bend reality for. These are the type who will piss in your well. Let me be clear, I am not concerned with the individuals who piss in the pool, which is rude and disgusting but basically not life threatening. When your well is defiled, when the place you draw your drinking water from is used as a chamber pot, your life is at risk. Don’t ever pull your pants down over someone’s fresh water. Don’t let anyone squat with their bare ass over your sobriety.”


Play in your play clothes.
*



Rings of Color against Butterflies

Resistance I can accomplish directly;
impedance requires magnetism from an alternating world.
I can drag my heels and live life in a sandpaper shack
making everything a chore,

What it takes to throw furniture in the path of progress,
slamming doors and turning off the lights
that is more than I can do on my own.

This takes the cooperation of my disease and me,
the monkey-hoop, which is effort and clever repartee.
Look how well we do it, too.

Distracting possibilities, staving off humanity and the humane,
may not sound like much, but it takes up our whole day;
Goodness is such a persistent little grub.
It takes a concerted effort to prevent it from chrysalis
and failing that, still more determination to make sure it doesn’t fly.

July 20

IT’S MY PARTY



The party I was throwing for myself in addiction was nothing but a very long wake. There were no smiles, only murmurs of what might have been. I was filled with tears I couldn’t cry and mourned my death as I caused it. When I took off my little black dress and stepped from this shroud, I closed the bar, clicked the switch and the dirge stopped, the funeral ended prematurely. I walked into AA where I learned to be the life of the party.


Make a safe space for your radical tastes.


*

Taking the Field

Humor is an illustration;
a joke an explanation.
I learn far more from the smiles than the jeers.

Laughter carries me; an action,
which tears can’t always accomplish.
It is hard to live with constant descent,
but wit is a quick impassioned friend.

Thoughtless conformity is an evil companion
I prefer the company of those who play.
Life is too hard from the sidelines;
I would rather take the field.

July 21

SYMPTOMATIC BOUQUET


My bouquet of symptoms took root in alcoholism. I displayed these blossoms to few. I thought I could keep these problem posies to myself. No need to worry, everyone has a bit of manure in their lives; mine will hardly seem strange. Planted in addiction, things grew in a dramatic way. Pruning became unworkable; drastic measures were required. Uprooted and exposed, these virulent stalks created the need for help from better gardeners than I. Thinned and repotted, these character traits have fruited with many a lovely harvest, none of which could have happened had I been left in the family plot.


Make your mind a womb you can return to.
*



Rules

There are rules about breaking rules.
You can do it this way, but must not that way.
Cross this line and you get dragons;
cross that line you get a good natured slap on the wrist.

Beneath the reflective surface of law
I have found many shoals and sandbars;
rocks and outcroppings,
layer upon layer of blue depth I can only partly chart.

I also find inquiries in this matter meet with the
same reaction as asking about: yeti, crop circles,
or what was kept in Uncle Author’s spare room.

Those willing to talk about it I often fear to hear from
and the reluctant to speak I fear to pursue.
You see this investigation is just another thing
from under that sea.

July 22

HOLD THE LINE



Relax is not the same as give up. Unwind is not fray. Let go doesn’t mean never grab hold. It is important to have moderation in all things including moderation. Exuberance and enthusiasm are wonderful in their season; too much and I could get an adrenaline addiction. Make sure your song has more than one note and make sure that you sing more than one song in your life. Change, interest and excitement are vital to my existence. Like my sponsor says, “if you take all the spikes and ridges out of your life-line, it means you’re dead.”


Give allowance to yourself.

*
The Landscape of Words

Paint takes time to dry;
I work with words.
I say azure and you are there with me,
even if I am far from this mortal coil.

My pigments stay fresh as long as you know blue,
as long as you can hear me, read me, see me.
I paint 6X8 cell and we are imprisoned together,
trapped,
till I tell you of the key I slipped into your shoe.

I love the flow of watercolor,
adore the mushy paste of oil,
but nothing beats the world we paint
and repaint here on this page.

July 23

QUICK------SAND!!!


“Don’t ask me how deep the quicksand is,” said my sponsor, “it’s your job to get out of it, not to quantify it.”
“I’m not sure how to get out. Will you come and get me?” I ask her.
“No, Darling. If I get in we will both be down for the count. The only chance we have for me to help you is if I stay out of the morass with my feet planted firmly on solid ground.”
“What if you can’t get me out?” I cry.
“I will go get more help.”
“What if all of AA can’t get me out?”
“Angel, my hope is, that if there was no way out, you wouldn’t even know you were stuck.”


Limit your limits.
*

Before Ophelia

Young women drown themselves before Shakespeare
immortalized, memorialized Ophelia.
But having a poster child changes us.

Cautionary tale or rallying cry,
Ophelia is a hand to hold on dark cold days
when the light is hard to find
and everything seems bent toward destruction.

Not that I think she solved anything
with her despondent act
just that she stands in the familiar frame
I find myself in from time to time.

When I imagine I’ve invented the wheel
it makes it harder to step down and walk.
Ophelia’s fate makes it easier to get off depression’s bus
and find my way back home.

July 24

WAKE


Don’t worry that you might spoil the procession by getting out of your coffin. You don’t need to lie there waiting for the lid to close. People will walk past saying, “so sad,” and “too bad,” but don’t lie in state to keep them from feeling their trip was a waste. Just because the crypt has been purchased doesn’t mean you are ready to go. There are still opportunities to dance. Don’t die for love, glory or pride. Don’t die before your time. Death is only an honor if you lived every preceding second.


Learn to use your appliances well.

*

Speak!


Are there songs a bird must not sing
while communing with the flock?
Do fish learn to restrain their expressions
while schooling?

Or are we the only animal
versed in the language of taboo?
I wonder when I hear the cows
lowing in the night are they giving whispered voice
to things they longed to moo about all day.

I know what to keep inside,
things too flamboyant for out of doors.
I understand to keep body and soul together
I must keep down and hush,

But when I complain to my pup
does she comprehend or is it
just blah, blah, blah,
in her world of, ‘speak it like it is?’

July 25

THE LIVING DREAM



Throwing yourself into the river in pieces drowns you as crumbs. Casting aside love and longing makes you less in your heart, and your soul stops beating. Pitching your tent with critics and complainers leaves you out in the cold on warm summer evenings. Crest the hill to meet the rising sun; orbit the constellations without hesitation. Petitpoint the pictures in your mind, then set them to music. The world is your dream. Live it into reality.


Picture your voice.
*


God

I need help.
I need help availing myself of the help
You have provided me.

I am embarrassed to lack the ability
to complete all the steps necessary
for achieving the goals you have set before me.

I see now that it is always my turn with you
and I can stop standing aside
believing that I have had your attention
and must now do without.

I do not want to ask for more;
I don’t want to seem greedy.
I forget that you know my heart
and that you trust me.

I am going to make that a two-way street,
maybe a four-lane highway.
I need help,
thank you for being help full.

Love,

Sherrie

God help me be better than that. God help me.

July 26

TO SLOOP

When I was a tanker I carried such a heavy load. The diesel cycle ran, combustion occurred at regular intervals and my internal temperature was terrific. The fuel sprayed and things went round and round; the cost was high. Now my principal means of propulsion is the wind in my sails. Conversion was difficult, and though I found the rigging and mast a fascination, the ballast was a heavy load to bear. The price of stability is responsibility. Cargo is something short-lived, to be cast off at the next port. Incumbent discretion is welded to my keel and will go with me to every harbor. As a tankard, liquid was transported or consumed; as a cutter, dependability keeps me tacking into the wind. Now, my outlay is low and my rewards are high. I carry only what I need. I am free, a sloop upon the sea.


Map your body.
*

Keds

If I gave a child a pair of sneakers
would I refuse to help them to tie them on?
Would I want this kid to wear them open,
tongues hanging out, laces dangling and dangerous?

Or worse would I want the child
to have to lug the sneakers around;
the kid feeling the need to treasure the gift
and protect it from use or wear?

I hope that I would not be this sick,
misguided or deranged.
I have to say that I have given up believing
in a crazy God.

But this doesn’t mean that I can’t
drive God crazy with my insane behavior.
I have to stick my feet inside my shoes
and lift my foot for help.

I must open my mouth to ask,
then pay close attention so I can learn
to do it on my own;
all the while not beating myself up
that I can’t do it already.

July 27

GRAFT


The bottom has been cut out, my underpinnings stripped from me. Budding ambition whittled down, transplanted, saddled onto the rock like stock of other people’s sobriety. Taped to the leg of my sponsor I heal and grow. I splice my thinking with the rich ideas of improved living. I cling to the cleft; divisions made from the people, places and things of my past leave me split, primed for fresh growth and opportunity. Never again do I need return to the sordid acquisition of power or control. There is no gain when I am bolted to position and influence. Graft is graft for good or bad. I don’t have to grow where I was planted.


Subtract your assets from your defects.

*
Un-imbedded

This week I have decided to be braver
about where I invest my time, not all of it mind you
but a portion of my diligent yet strangely unproductive time.

I have to say I am realizing that I hide
in pretty much every area of my life
and that is no way to live
and a really bad example to offer.

The worst thing about hiding is it doesn't keep me safe;
it just subjects me to different evils.
It reminds me of that poor reporter
who was imbedded in a tank.

He died from not moving, his blood pooling and dehydration,
so the tank kept him from getting his head shot off,
but killed him in a different way,
so in the end he wasn't safe and neither am I.

I believe in prudence as a good policy, I do,
but there is much that could make me
stronger, happier, better,
if I lift my head a bit and reach out my hand.

July 28

JUXTAPOSITION


Right next to this world is the globe that I came from. The landmarks are similar but these spheres have little in common. The angle of refraction illuminates the place of my origin. The source of this light is legend. On my home planet, the existence of sobriety is cast off as myth. I held on to this tale with my heart. I slipped the gravitational bonds of crazy one night by the glow of the ready button on the coffeepot. Here and there intersect at only one point, a room with some chairs and a circle with a triangle. The meeting was on Step One and it was a good place to jump in.


Put a leaf on your tongue just for fun.

*
Clap

I know how to put my hands together,
but I am unable to clap.
It’s not that my palms can’t locate each other;
it’s that I cannot find the beat.

I sing; lilting rhythms rolling from my tongue.
I keep time and drum the tattoo of jingle dress dance songs,
but when my hand comes against its mate something is off.

Faltering nuance plays havoc with my exuberant desire.
I want to join the crowd in syncopated applause,
yet my brain drops out.

Because the gap is too far to leap
I must walk around to the other side
and by then I’ve lost the moment,
the world has moved on without me.

I used to think I needed to run my routine a little faster,
but now I realize I need to learn to leap the gap
and trust the beat to find me.

July 29

2 CHAIRS



Math is the language that moves closest to the speed of my brain. The language of recovery slows my thinking so I am more than numbers and clicks. I need not race my mind in an effort to win. I am my prize; the victory is mine if I can embrace who I am. I can use numbers to figure whether I am more or less, but owning who I am must be given to the talk of the soul and heart. My nashamah is not an astral projection to be theorized but the seat of my emotions. The only way to discover myself is through deep and loving conversation, so I had best pull up two chairs.


Play colors like music.
*

The Regulator


Face to face the clock stares me down.
I nearly dare the mismatched hands
to beat me at my part.
Their never-ending round-house
drops me to the ground.

My foot work is no equal for eternity.
Fancy days and star lit nights distract me
from the fight I’m losing,
directing my thoughts to what I gain.

If I turn with the hours,
dwelling in the moments,
the clock and I are friends,
no more mad-dogging, no time to lose.

Time is with me till the end,
it is not the death of me;
it’s the time of my life.

July 30

DEFINITIONS


I am close to my Higher Power but I have no words to describe It. I have found it best to say nothing unless asked. When I do speak, it is always about the path I took or the way I held my face. I know the things that changed, and the wind that blew. This is not the sketch most people seek. My skin is brown and my smile broad; this is not from over-exposure to beams of light. Closeness warms me. I glow from standing near. I know the face and form is different for every day; I must not stop for definitions.


Taste silence and smell the words.
*




The Acts of Hope

I cover my head when I pray
in hopes that God wants me sheltered.
I attend meetings to keep alive the hope
that sobriety is the end of isolation.

I talk to the people in my network
hoping I have something helpful to share.
I sit down to the blank page with hopes
that HP still chooses to collaborate with me.

I pick up my paintbrush filled with hope
that color is still my friend.
I inhale air along with hope that each breath
is worth the effort and I am worthy of this life.

July 31

MY BABIES


Too often I have abandoned the infants of my creativity to doorways and charities. Having little patience I did not raise them to their intended station. Joyful parentage need not stop at the cutting of the cord. Downplaying the importance of each birth, I would leave beauty and art to be foundlings and the province of others. I can share the guardianship of these precious gifts and be more than a brood mare for cunning and craft. I have neglected things apparent for the promise of each new conception. Overpopulation weakens the body of my work and leaves my portfolio listless and immature.


Touch your finger with your nose.
*

Charmed by Snow


Warm weather snow falls in fat full flakes;
I am living in a world of dreams and sweet peas.
Sudden dustings sparkle and surprise
leaving as quickly as they came;
yet the world is kinder now.

Beauty is an ambush of the heart.
My breath alters, accelerates,
speeding me to a smile, an illustration of joy.

Crows walk the edge of the hedgerow,
prattling on as they do;
snow to their ankles and food on their minds.
I drive over the mountains
discovering myself as the recipient,
the receiver of all this great gift, this life.

August 1

GAME PLAYING

My Higher Power doesn’t play me like a board game, doesn’t monopolize my time or put me in jeopardy. My trouble is my own. I pursue trivia at my discretion. I take or reject risk at will. I scrabble my thoughts and am sorry when I make mistakes but don’t expect to live in a candyland. When I stick my hand in the mouse trap, or fall down the shoots and need to climb the ladders, I know the game may not be over, but it is far too late to play let’s make a deal.


Keep a game with you.

*
Porcellano


Some days I feel like a porcelain doll;
hard head, hard hands, hard feet
and everywhere else is soft, gormless.

I feel useless and act out my feelings,
stumbling through a day of pointless inactivity.
I know that I belong on a shelf
or propped upon the pillows of a bed,
not fine enough for curio or collection,
merely someone of marginal decorative value.

I have gotten away from the meaning of me,
the thrum of God’s intentions
and am trapped in this world of elaboration;
everything is embellished and nothing is real.

It is time to put my foot down.
To feel the earth solid and right;
to catch my mind and take it out
of its greasy spin from what is descent.

I am not a China doll
and it is time to walk away
from these purloined thoughts

August 2

TOOTH FAIRY


I slide my hand under the pillow and am disappointed not to find a quarter. I feel I deserve one though I didn’t leave a tooth; I did leave my bite. I’ve toned down my bark a bit too. It has not been easy; I have spent much of my life snapping and growling at the world around me. I have shortened the leash on these reactive behaviors, many I have put to bed all together. Improved conduct is prize enough but I surely would enjoy a winged visitor if only just for fun.


Applaud your performance.
*

In Plain Sight

When there is a problem, I hide.
As the good places diminish
I end up standing behind a pole.

The trouble with this is
that something always sticks out.
I try weight loss, I suck in my tummy,
I try to blend with the scenery.

Once spotted I act nonchalant;
“I’m just hanging around with my skinny friend;
nothing is the matter,” attempting to cover
with a casual aside what is apparent to everyone but me.

I would be better off parading naked
than endeavoring this piteous disguise.
I can’t fool the crowd and trying to makes a fool of me.

What I have forgotten is that clarity and diligence
removes the target from my back
and makes me invisible to almost everyone.
When I solve my problem I solve this problem too.

August 3

SHARING


Please take a bite of my PB&J. I made it myself. It is fine as it is. I slathered the bread and cut it so neatly; still I can’t help but want to offer some to you. I know that to stand and smile next to you, watch you lick the peanut butter from the roof of your mouth, have you dab the jelly from the corner of my lips, will make this sandwich even better. You bring so much to this meal, something bright and so clever. You bring you. I can pull things together and set it all up but somehow my creation is never quite complete until I share it with you.


Withhold a convoy of criticism, advance a brigade of cheer.
*

Big Name

My name has a foreign sound;
my head turns when it is called.
I recognize this as training not identity.

I remember teaching the dog her name.
I called it while petting and praising her,
soon the name was hers.

Now, I think of God.
Did we call long and loud enough
to trigger name recognition on a vast intangible?

Is this how we tagged and labeled the unknowable;
assigned it a place on a shelf;
somewhere to be called up from?

Does the noise sound as strange as the syllables
of my name sound to me?
Does it matter as long as we answer?

August 4

ACCESS



Writing to you, my Sweet, allows me to give what I have available at the moment it comes into my possession. You reading me lets you invite me in when you are ready or willing, possibly both. I can store succulent treasure for you without the least consideration of freezer burn or apathy. You are here when I want you, yearning and prepared. I am yours for the taking in the classroom, the bedroom, or even in your bath. I can whisper or shout to you, rant or tell jokes at you. You can embrace or ignore me, introduce me to friends or keep me your own personal province. We are intimates because I bare my soul to you and you take me into yours.


Recommend your assets.
*

Sleep Tight

Did you dream?
Sleep the sleep of faultless souls?
Or twist the sheets
as in that Gilbert & Sullivan treatment?

Are night time wrestlings an indication
of decadent daytime activity?
Or is it all simply a matter of happenstance?
Possibly something I ate, thought, wished for?

I think to myself,
I should not have gotten into that unmade bed,
should have made it up; the bed and my mind,
should have straighten out the crumpled mass
of discarded dreams from yesterday and started fresh

But instead I climbed in with it all tumbled and tossed,
lumpy and coarse, no smooth sailing in this tangled sea.
What time I would have saved by leveling
the playing field and plumping the pillows.

All is not lost, there is always tonight.
Sweet dreams straight ahead

August 5

STUBBORN


When the donkey won’t move forward it’s time to stop running. No need to make an ass of myself through force or coercion. The dumb animal may be mute but its actions speak. Reluctance is a warning. If my animal nature is balking, listening not shoving is the preferred course. Super intelligence can’t best good horse sense. I must stand with my intuition; that creature depends on my survival for life.


Balance your shoe with your foot.
*

What are We Fighting For

Instead of competition for dominance
we would benefit from cooperation for survival.
The struggle to become the very best destroyers in the world
very well might make us postmortem champions.

Why is it that the lions don’t work to eradiate hyenas?
They could, but they don’t.
Why not, is the ever present question on my mind.

I have no answer as to why we strive to conquer.
A thousand platitudes come to mind,
but nothing fast or tight, nothing that holds water.
So, the question remains; why are we hell bent?

August 6

ALICE


Because I even wore out my welcome at the Mad Hatter’s house, I can sit on my hands at my sponsor's table and listen, listen, listen. If I had been able to make a place for myself with the looking-glass folk, I could never have let myself lose my eccentricities and join in the fellowship. Going down further than a rabbit hole, I lost my need to chase or scramble after bunnies for time or card tricks. No more illusions for me. I am awake and shaded by the tree of AA branching over me. Sisters I didn’t know take my hand.


Dance with change.
*

I didn’t mean to make you laugh

You think I’m witty, well, yes, I have always been like this,
no one knew quite what to do with me as a small child,
but I have grown into this acumen,
or possibly grown out into it, is closer to accurate.

I was dark witted when I was young,
I think of myself as less so now,
optimism is a blessing I have gained through the years,
it feels good and I keep it close.

I need to be a blithe spirit to travel the road I do.
Tears have their place, I know that for sure,
but I rather not go around with a puss on all day and all night.
Additionally it is so much about perspective; you see,
the honey makes the peas taste funny
but now they stick to my knife.

August 7

PRESTO!

Just because I own pointy boots doesn’t mean I can corral the cows. I have in my possession many things of subtle intent, but they can’t just transform me. The wings from Halloween don’t make me an angel. The Big Book on the shelf won’t sober me up. Nothing holds the magic to change me. I can only change with help. Action, action and more action is the magician's sleight of hand. It slides my hand from glass to grace. I don’t need to pull a rabbit from my hat.


Play with your oatmeal.

*

I Beg

The embarrassment of need
is a haunting guest who will not leave.
I turn in a tight circle trying to find a way
to detach this wart and move gracefully
from the site of devastation.

But it looms large
and overshadows today’s possibilities
and robs tomorrows gold.
What I cannot do for myself,
the magic I cannot yet perform,
stands between me and contentment.

It stands there wearing your face;
touching my mind with your fingertips.
I pray that you are not the answer
for I cannot depend on you.

I think of you and the little bell rings
and I am hungry.
Desire is a gift, desiring you is the burden
whose shadow I cannot escape.

I close my eyes to the light you emit;
I cannot close my heart, all that’s left is pleading;
please come home and fill me or leave
and lock the door and let me grieve in peace.

August 8

PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS


There is a penny in the bathtub. I wonder who stood in there with loose change. Possibly confusing it for a wishing well, the penny was tossed in. The stories I could tell the hopes that tantalize my mind, elves and leprechauns, dreamers and optimists all trundle through my thinking. When I don’t know the answer, I can now at least look for the best, the sweetest thoughts. I don’t run to the dark and threatening disasters. I have lost the lease to my personal black cloud, the one that used to follow wherever I went. I can smile now and think of pennies from heaven. The first drop landed in my tub.


Think of what a spider and a whale have in common.
*

Stand- Hear


The spins and pirouettes I have preformed
in an attempt to avoid facing the music,
were impressive but futile and ultimately
delayed the beauty possible for me in this life.

When I stop my running and turn on my heel
there is a world of harmony waiting
to take me for a turn out on the dance floor.

Melody is not what I was expecting.
I was so sure I would be drummed out of my life,
not trumpeted in.

My surety set in motion much of my convoluted activity
and caused me great distress.
It is high time I listen with eyes open
and my reactions leashed;

Allowing the tune to introduce me to life
and lead me to my bliss.

[nomedia="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLk7JnB1wQ4&feature=related"]10,000 Maniacs - Don't Talk - YouTube[/nomedia]

Don't talk, I will listen
Don't talk, you keep your distance
I'd rather hear some truth tonight
Than entertain your lies
So take you poison silently
Let me be, let me close my eyes
Don't talk, I'll believe it
Don't talk, listen to me instead
I know that if you think of it
Both long enough and hard
The drink you drown your troubles in
Is the trouble you're in now
Talk, talk, talk about it If you talk as if you care
But when your talk is over
Tilt that bottle in the air
Tossing back More than your share
Don't talk, I can guess it
Don't talk, well, now you're restless
And you need somewhere to put the blame
For how you feel inside
You'll look for a close and easy mark
And you'll see me as fair game
Talk, talk, talk about it
You talk as if you care
But when your talk is over
Tilt that bottle in the air
Tossing back More than your share
You talk, talk, talk about it You talk as if you care
I'm marking every word And can tell this time for sure
Your talk is the finest I have heard
So don't talk,
I'm sleeping Don't talk,
let me go on dreaming
How your eyes they glow so fiercely
I can tell that you're inspired
By the name that you just chose for me
Now what was it?
Oh, never mind it
We will talk, talk, talk about this
When your head is clear
I'll discuss this in the morning
But until that you may talk but I won't hear

August 9

HAWAIIAN GRAFFITI

White pebbles spell themselves across the black of lava grown cold. Personal announcements proclaim love, school pride, religious freedom. The care of placement and consideration of design make the roadside an ongoing mineral memo. What message would I care to share? What words would prompt me to bring a pail of crushed marble to the edge of the road? Is there a truth so urgent I would take time from paradise to spell it out? A few more miles and I see the words I live by strewn down the thoroughfare, “it works if you work it.”


Joint your possibilities.

*

Pick up Your Hammer and Saw

The task infers the tool, I know this,
yet I resist clearly mapping my insanity.
I look into the well of my despair
then quickly I look away,

I fear informing God what I need
lest the need be filled.
I need to believe that a power will heal me,
but if I am provided with the force of life,
I shrink from the prospect.

This too, must be added to the list
of my emotional woes and mental shortages.
This too, will be healed.

I look at my problems
and then realize, that like the moon,
who pulls the water from dry shore to dry shore,
solutions are installed in heaven and earth
if I know what the problem is.

" I see", said the blind man....as he picked up his hammer and saw.

LeftWriteFemme, Thank you for posting everyday...come rain or come shine.

That is exactly the reference! Thanks for talking the time to come in and read and post here in Friends of Bill!

August 10

MORTIFICATION


Lime with envy, I built a wall around. Love and hate are enclosed, brick and stone. Rigor of extremities, the discipline of ages falls so short. I make no in-depth connections; I coat externals with glue, stack reactions and let the bombs fly. I mix and crush old habits and bad ideas, make a paste. I am setting myself up again. Abstinence becomes the pestle of bludgeoning and abasement. I am hard and I am hollow; with wounded pride, I subjugate my soul. My life is reduced to a powder. I am mortified.


Spread oil from your navel out.
*


Michal Rovner


I have numbered all the blocks in my ancestral walls.
This has enabled me to recreate them
stone by stone everywhere I go.

It all fits to create the tomb I now have to learn to leave.
I must change the equation and reorder the numbers
allowing these rocks to be recycled
and find a wonderful useful life
as a stairway out of this pit of despair.

What was once an edifice to lives unlived
is now able to facilitate elevation,
a restoration of a level playing field.

It was not wrong for me to catalog the stone
and there was no way for me to leave them behind,
but nothing matches the satisfaction of using them to build a life,
except for the ability to live in it.