July 4

RENTING JOY


I cannot buy happiness. No matter how much money I spend, how hard I work, I can never pay bliss off on lay away. The angles of escape for glee are phenomenal. I see runaway emotions and must concede ownership. When opportunities arise for satisfaction I pay the fare and take the trip. The boat isn’t mine to keep but the tour is forever in my heart. I can’t take it home to bury it in the yard. Like a wild thing I can leave joy where I find it. I never need to cage or bind it. I need to enjoy each measure while the music plays. I remunerate for time in proximity; delight arrives and stays as long as it likes. I linger at the table and enjoy my dessert. Leasing elation is an occasion of celebration. Living moment to moment has given me this chance. So, I take it.


Copy your favorite shape.

*

What is at the Eye of the Storm?


Serenity is the alignment of three knowledges

1. Knowing that I am not without skill, talent, gifts.
2.Knowing that I am not without community,
connection, comfort.
3.Knowing that I am not without God,
whether or not I believe God is able to intervene.

When I am in full or even partial possession of these three
I am safe from storm, or no, drought,
or no, fiery hairy pestilence.

Without this knowledge everything is
storm, drought and pestilence,
no matter what anyone else says or all evidence to the contrary.

I will make my own mess when bereft.
I will pay a large price for ignoring the facts
and the lion’s share of this loss is loss of my serenity



.

July 5

UTILITY OF EMOTION



I plug into the utility of my emotions. These utilities aid my life as all utilities do. The duel prong of anger serves to light me up and gives me strength to set good boundaries. The four-line clip cord of pain allows me to keep in touch with my Higher Power, my friends, and my fellows. I have nothing to share if I can’t stay real about my pain. Fear is hard to contain and is carefully piped. Explosions of fear can start so easily it’s a good thing its foul odor can be smelled in the air. The coaxial cable of joy screws neatly into the back of my mind and gives me endless delight, color and sound; these are the privileges of sobriety. Emotions are plainly utilitarian but they help me survive and make living into a life.


Touch all the letters in your name.
*

The Biggest Chicken

I love to be mystical,
but the only dragon in my life
is when I let things drag on and on.

Procrastination is the winged beast in my world
and when she is slain the sun comes out
and I can count my blessings and plan for my possibilities.

The deep ditch left by depression
is where the lizard lays; siphoning my time
and sucking clean the bones of my wasted talents.

I have lunged and poked, stabbed her with my steel
and blown holes in her with my revolver,
but not until I sever the tendon with which she holds me
in her grasp do I have any real chance to be rid of her claws.

Once free of her I must be forever vigilant
lest her smothering song lure me back to that evil nest
where I feel as helpless as her egg.



.

July 6

OPTICAL ILLUSION


From the right angle a hatpin can appear taller than the Empire State Building. I can skew my perspective to such an extreme or let my disease do it for me. I can believe myself to be other than I am: the sweetest, kindest------smartest, quickest------smallest, slowest-------lowest, meanest. I can see myself as all this and more as long as I squint with one eye and look at only half of any issue. I can play the parts and act as if these things are true. I can even get others to play along. I can make fantasy fact if I lower the floor. I can die in the basement, many do. I can turn my face from science and be the center of all that spins..…OR….. I can climb the stairs to ground level. I can turn my mind to facts and fractions. Leave my better-than, less-than universe and see the height of everything and stand tall with both my eyes open.


Put a surprise in your pocket.
*


Keeping My Seat


I can sit through this. I can do it,
even when I don’t remember that I want to.
I will get through this no matter how it tweaks me
and I squirm in my seat.

In spite of the unfairness of it all,
I can do what is right, because that is what is best for me.
Acting out or giving up are options that I have.

I like me too much to choose so poorly.
When this is all settled I will still have me
no matter what else I gain or lose.

If I don’t like me anymore I have lost everything,
if I can hold my head up, proud of my behavior
this is the most valuable gain.

Love is only love
if I am still here to feel it,
so I will sit still.


.

July 7

COLD AND FLU SEASON



The spiritual cold and flu season is upon me. I am awash in reaction and confusion. I have been overexposed to the dry thinking and barking orders of the cough so associated with this disability. My eyes swell and blur with my refusal to accept reality. The tickle of discomfort from inhaling disagreeable ideas is small in comparison with the nausea I suffer when I swallow every line of nonsense put forth from my dizzy and congested mind. There is no pill to dissuade my symptoms; I must raise the heat on this inertiac little bug. Parasites breed in the stagnant water of my paralysis. If I move in my sobriety, sweat a little and flush my system, I should be able to shake this insidious germ. Then I can reach my hand out to the people who caught the spiritual flu from me.


Write pretty words on pretty paper.
*


Tooth Fairies and Super Heroes

I never know who the tooth fairy is going to be.
Who might be the one person
who will know CPR in my hour of need.

Which unlikely friend will whisper to me
the secret code to my mental lock.
I have been caught off guard by the power
of the most unlikely wallflowers.

It is important for me not to prejudge,
but even more important to leave space for surprise
and the delightful aptitude of those around me

For that matter from strangers on the street.
it is good for me to remember there is change in my pocket
and a Resuscitation Certificate in my wallet.




.

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.


.

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 undulance 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 some way.

*

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 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.


.

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 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 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 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 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 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 eradicate 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 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.



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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.


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August 13

HOW RED IS RED


I check my color and contrast; I paint the setting sun. Add a bit of yellow and fill to the edge burgeoning poppies. Add more blue and paint the blood which pools around my mind, the equalizer of all my mental conversations. Too much is never enough. As the story goes, I pursue my shades and signatures. Too much for the fingers and not enough for the toes, I disregard fraudulent crimson. I scale the mountains of intention looking for perfection. The leach of my addiction drains the other colors from my rainbow. My sponsor asks only one question.
“How red is red?”


Allow your thoughts to be neighborly with your feelings.
*

Phillips Head


What’s stuck in makes the thing.
What sticks out is all that’s seen.
I can tell so much from what is left out,
yet there is much I will never know, can never tell.

The twist, the give, the opening to variation
is known, but never acknowledged.
Somehow indecent if spoken
or thought of too loudly, insinuation is ignored

Society allows us to focus on
what is held after or due to this act.
We have built the whole world
on what we can screw together.

But we will merely hallow this,
never embrace the fact until it falls apart.
Then we exclaim over the rawness
of how it caused us to be turned around,

The risk and wrongness,
ignoring just how much good
can come from just a simple screw.



.

I'm grateful, so grateful to be trudging this road to happy destiny all these years!

https://images.bonanzastatic.com/afu...41323/__57.jpg

August 18

DON’T BE


Don’t be stupid.
Don’t be crazy.
Don’t be anything out of the ordinary.
Don’t be angry.
Don’t be hateful.
Just don’t be that way.
Don’t be sad.
Don’t be mopey.
Smile for the camera.
And pretend for everyone.
I wondered often why I felt like dying and it took me years to understand why.
Don’t be equals death.
Don’t feel.
Don’t cry.
Don’t love.
Life is about action, presence and content. You’re wrong if you break the rules and dead if you keep them. So, please be you and don’t be them. Look back when you have to but step out of the grave.



Learn followership too.
*



Single Serving Sterling


When the menu of life feels vast
I must focus on my teaspoon;
a simple tool that fits well in my hand,
whose use I well understand.

The possibilities conceived
when I ponder the intangibles
conspire to suck me down the rabbit-hole
where all that’s left to me is a drug.

When I come back to stir my tea
and lick the spoon clean
the world revolves around me
and without need of my completed unified theory.

Need looms, loss stacks,
salvation keeps a steady distance,
my only hope is to drink my tea,
I shan’t even sharpen my spoon;

I can and need to stay out of my fear built prison
and off the streets of hell.
My task is at hand and the size of the scoop
is a reminder to take all of life in small doses.


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August 19

COMFORT AND WILLINGNESS



Closer than comfort is willingness. Comfort is at the skin but willingness is under it. I can live without comfort but not without willingness. Both are unseen but felt deeply. Willingness drives to the destination and comfort settles me in once there. Comfort is a gift like warmth; willingness is a gift like breath. I have been tempted to let go of willingness to hold on to comfort. True willingness brings true comfort; never the other way around. No matter where I have to go, willingness will take me there; I hope comfort will follow.


Draw satisfaction on the wall of your brain.
*

Go Where it’s Warm

The intangible rightness of cohesion is difficult to explain.
What is it that makes a group congregating into a congregation?
What makes a rag tag tousle into a home group?

It is the thing I yearn for, but dare not chase.
I know this too makes a grub into a butterfly,
yet private transformation seems necessary,
where the change of masses is gratuitous.

A thousand geese fly overhead;
arrows of individual miracles,
pointing the way to the meaning of it all.




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August 20



THE SEDUCTION OF SOBRIETY


I was seduced away from my duties as an alcoholic by the promise of sobriety. Allegiance to my disease was sidelined. Alluring stability and beguiling integrity curried favor with my desperate heart, pulling me from the arranged marriage of addiction. How could I cling to the corpse of dependence when sanity shimmered just out of reach, then not out of reach but within my grasp? I couldn’t resist the golden flicker of life. I had been bound to death, unable to see an alternative. My loyalty to loss and grief slipped from me and I limped into the daylight like the widow of the night. I have been lured to my senses by a love like no other, the love of life.



Raise the ceiling on optimism.
*


Blind Man’s Bluff

Turning your head to see
doesn’t help when you have a blind eye.
All the rotation in the world won’t restore your sight.

Addressing life problems with a solution
involving spin is counter productive
and sometimes counter clockwise to boot.

If I find I just can’t see, then maybe
it’s time to listen better and compensate
for my shortcoming through some other action.

Turning away doesn’t help and walking away is worse.
When I am blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other
stepping up to the plate may not be an option,
but I still need to find a way to stay in the game.


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August 21

HOW EVER YOU CAN

I heard, “let go with love.”
“You know how to do that?” asked my sponsor.
“No, that’s why I’m here to see you, but it sure sounds like something I should do.”
“Well, in a perfect world maybe we can all do it that way, but for now let go with a mean look in your eye. Let go with rage in your heart. Let go with words boiling on your tongue. Let go with the butter knife up to its hilt in the jelly jar. Let go standing at the sink wishing for some other life. Let go as a reflex. Let go as an anthem, as a prayer, as a declaration. Let go even when you don’t feel you are holding on any more. At the same time hold on to what’s important: your recovery, your Higher Power and your sense of humor."

Fly in your dreams.
*

Hang on or Dance

Because I felt ‘outcomes’ slipping through my fingertips
I dug in with my nails, I schemed, plotted, worried, whined.
Lack of power was my problem I thought,
but what it came down to was, failure to acknowledge… accept…
failure to surrender to the reality of powerlessness.

The only thing I learned from resistance
was an intimate knowledge of futility.
When I embraced truth… the facts…
when I live with the gravity of masses not fight against it;

I began to enjoy the weather,
knowing I did not pull the clouds or push the storm.
I’m back in the dance of people moving about me,
all keeping with the time, it is not mine to keep.

.

August 22

FOREVER IS NOT AS LONG AS IT USED TO BE


What time gives in permanence it takes in fluctuation. The relationships I stand on to reach, with tippy-toed grasp, the light of heaven flutter like flounder disturbed from their sandy bed. My mind probes the past looking for the shroud lines to hold up the sails of hope. Togetherness, the banner of life, bonds to strength, protection from outside and within. I yearn for a life of love, unbending and calm. I am met with the tug of war, which ends in mud. Days stretch into years but years are no protection from terminus. Forever rings in my head. Promises I have made to myself, promises I have made to others, promises made to me are nothing in the face of the promise of tomorrow. Time flows like air over a row of seedlings, fresh and challenging, sustaining life and carrying away familiarity. Forever is not as long as it used to be. I can live with that, have to live with it. I can shake my fist to the sky but it won’t make love last. It will not keep my heart from loving again. Sails, which have filled before, will fill again.


Love yourself green or blue or pink.
*


Up to Date

The future is a prison I escape by staying in today.
The tiny windows which open to strange foreknowledge
have barbs rather than bars and inflict painful wounds
when I attempt too close examination.

My business is here and now; the currency like manna,
good only for the duration of the day and nothing further.
Pretty dreams and colossal disaster float as baubles on the horizon
but I need to take down my focus from such far off vistas;
adjusting the optics for a clear view of where I am standing.

Circumscription is what the destiny becomes
when I try to live in it too soon.
Novelty is what it is to be living in the very moment
I am currently breathing in.



.

August 30

THE CALL

Within the sound of your voice
I sing
In the beat of your heart
I heal
I feel in your touch
And dance when your toe starts to tap
I see myself in your beauty
I warm inside your embrace
Your thoughts are my inspiration
Your lungs breathe me in and blow me out
I soar in your flight
And dream in your waking
I ring in your ears
Fall with your tears
I’m lost in you
Found in you
Travel and lounge in you
I share all your rantings
And hide in your secrets
You hear and caress me
My darling
You know who I am


Return to an old joy for a visit.
*



Rex

Hungry dogs who love me anyway,
dance around waiting to be fed.
If they didn’t love they
would take bloody bites and I don’t forget it.
These puppies have teeth,
like cigarettes I want to smoke but don’t.
And meanwhile back on the farm
I seek to quiet the whines and barking
of the unfed, malnourished familiarity
which writhes at my ankles and jumps at my knees.

I can no longer pat my disquiet on the head
and expect it to stay or heal.
I must hunt down the beast which bothers me
and feed the meat of it to the pups.

I must not leave the lopers to quarry my burden
if I want to remain master
and leave them to be pet.



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September 2

PROMISE BROKEN


If promise shatters without anyone touching it, if it pops like a floating soap bubble that lost its cohesion, what do I do? Name names? I can’t even take fingerprints. Sometimes dreams just end. No fault or blame is attached. The ice breaks under its own weight and nothing can be done. I am more than just holding on. I am alive even if all the promises melt away. I can accept the unexpected and the unasked for and still know this doesn’t affect my worth. My value is intact regardless of disappointment or discontent. I have learned that anticipation is mere amusement; promises are pleasantries. I am made of stronger stuff. I am not broken by words, ideas or hope. Promise can be broken but it doesn’t break me.


Open the mental crayon box.
*


Where’s Your Chair?


Is the ring more unnatural for the tamer or the lion?
One the trapped, the other the trapper.
Who is the more in danger;
the one with loss of freedom
or the one with possible loss of life?

And while this question is still in play
the next question is begged. Why is there a ring?
What is worth the price paid
by the whip holder or the whipped?

Spectacle is a thing whose cost
reaches from the forest to the trees;
can take you from the highest rung
down to your knees.

All this lost for some Owwe’s and Ah’s
from people needing diversion
from the ring they turn tricks in.



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September 4

WATERLINE



The interface of water and land is compelling. Soothing but dramatic; I’m drawn to this transition. I stand and watch the lap, lap, lapping of the liquid to the land. The gift of one place to another calls me. Change and transition exhilarate my senses. Whether it is rock or sand, river or sea I feel the pull to watch life in response. Boundaries are beautiful. Borders allow safety and recreation, not just risk. When I embrace this in life I embrace it in me.


Do it twice, once with the pattern and once without.
*



The Naked Not the Dead


Because comfort is sometimes no comfort
I can shave my hair and walk bare in the naked world.
Removing pretense helps in unexpected ways.

Foolish action becomes formulaic
when you are scared or hurt.
I lived through the summers of blood;
the winter is not enough to stem the tide or heal the wound.

I have no want to raise the dead,
but how to save the living?
Poverty is the inheritance of so much misguided lethargy
and I must shear off the illusion of maturity
and let the children speak.



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September 6

FUNK AND WAGNALL’S BACK PORCH



Bottoms come sealed in envelopes from unknown accountants. Amazing how many nominees and how few winners! The audience, filled with past recipients, holds its collective breath and prays for this year's finalists, and prays a bigger prayer of thanks to this year's donors, the ones who prove with their lives that it hasn’t gotten better out there. The speeches are the same, a gratitude list and maybe a punch line, the smiles and tears fresh but familiar. And when the lights go out on this night, the days of diligence begin once again so no one need lose their seat and we can all celebrate here, next year, together.


Open even though the hinges are hidden.
*

Nightcrawlers and Nightingales



I wriggle blind eyed through the dirt;
friction, my friend giving me something to push against,
resistance aiding my travels.

I worm my way through life
and believed that was all there was; having never seen the sky.
I traveled far and wide once I had taken to the air.

Open eyed I push against a thing I cannot see
and peer down on the dirt I left behind.
I soar rather than struggle
and go the distance leaving my mind open to the next frontier.



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September 8

WILL YOU GET TO THE OTHER SIDE?



Chickens stand together on the edge of the road pecking and scratching; people make fun. People tell jokes but it’s not so funny when we are the ones playing on the tracks. We forget that all the excuses about longing for excitement and not wanting to be cut off from the world sound like so much cackling to the ears of people who value their lives. Life in the pasture or the backyard is fulfilling if you want it. That kind of life is no adrenaline rush, but then again isn’t adrenaline just another drug?


Tell the truth as if it were the weather.
*


Helping Hands?


Why would you go to a rattler for a snakebite remedy?
It feels so much like the hair of the dog that bit me.
The truth is I must, must stay away from the quick answers.

I am a slow healer, but I do heal if I allow myself to do so
unencumbered by poison or untruth.
When I am returning to the vomit of my past
it is incumbent upon me to search for the old lies
and/or the new ones, either or both will get me drunk;
do I even need the help of a prescription pad?



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September 9

HARVEST TIMING


The harvest fits in the growing season and the oak fits inside the acorn. My sober mind fits right in my sober time. The soul of everything rubs across the hind leg of a cricket to sing. The infinite machinery of the universe spins but you stand there questioning the existence of a Higher Power. Well, that’s who you are, but I have only one question for you. Who else could have made all the best tomatoes come from Jersey?


Catch rain on your face.
*


Barnum, Bailey & Me


When I wake to find a whip and a chair by the side of my bed
I know I am in for a circus of a day
and the tears of this clown will not change a thing.

I ready myself for the tightrope walk
and watch out for stray elephants.
All the trained poodles in the world
can’t make this into a day in the park.

Painted ponies prance through their paces;
I try to stick to my own act,
meanwhile remembering that no matter how difficult
these routines may be it still beats a seat in the stands.



.

September 12

WHY NOT HOME?



Power is not production and production is not art. I have to keep pulling the car over to the side of the road so I don’t miss the train of words sent to me from out of the dark blue life I am on the edge of living. But I still want to go home. I will never give up these roadside excursions into the river of thought, though I do wonder why the cable shoved into my house never gets this channel? Why is the connection so strong on the bus not the bed? The minefields of thought explosions seem seeded anywhere as long as it’s at least five miles away. Power is not production and production is not art. I let it pour through me; it’s not mine to sort.


Learn to read God’s handwriting.

*

Hypothetical


Is my inability to understand what creates mystery?
If I were brighter, swifter, keener,
would life be free of unknown communion?

Would comprehension eliminate revelation?
Would I lose perceptual apprehension
by arming myself with knowledge of forethought?

Could I end mysticism through education?
Should I even if I could?



.

September 26

SCREAMING LETHARGY



The screaming lethargy of being alive after many years of wanting something else, the exhaustion of pulsing, breathing, waves and waves of thinking. Yet as tired as I am, I am. Here without a doubt, I stand. No crawling for I have not fallen, no climbing for I have reached the plain. I wait for the rain to wash over me, the truth to run through me, time to pass by me. As if on a free trip to an unwelcome destination I arrive with randomly packed bags and low expectations. I’m here now. The train doesn’t seem to be moving on. I might as well leave the station, nothing to do on the platform. There may be points of interest or flowers to be smelled. I step haltingly and fear making any connection to this unbidden place. My name is unknown; I befriend the lamppost, the birds, the street. I am tired of travel, fearful of arrival. Fury courses through my veins but the weather is pleasant, I might take off my coat and stay.


Plan a trip with no destination.
*

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.



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