Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 8



ACCIDENT OF BIRTH

We are here together, born the millstones about one another’s necks. Parentage equates to persuasion and I hold these strangers to my breast. Minds having chosen, violent turns skew off radar’s blip. I am held by guilt’s tight sutures to this motley mass. I long for the freedom of birds to fly far from my nest mates. Possessing sense enough not to neighbor with owners of my same genetic skin, I dream to be a turtle of the sea and meet each other in neutral waterways, friends for seasons of choice, far from the family shore. Accidents brought us together. Let kindness emancipate us.


Test your mind with poetry.

*


From Pen to Progress



“Leave those gaters in the paddock
awhile longer,” said my sponsor.
I gave a little better than a cursory glance
at the hulking forms
though I did stay strictly on my side of the fence
and grasped tighter the hand of my custodian.

The onceover, worked fine as my first pass through
the creatures of the swamp,
I didn’t fully grasp what lay beyond the petting zoo,
but given my newness this wasn’t entirely a bad thing.

On second run I was in a boat
with a glass bottom and a guide, I had vision, clarity.
Third time through was a charm,
swim fins and a rope tied about my waist,
it was all too real.

I floundered and had to be hauled bodily
by my home group, my sponsor stood anchor.
I have numbered and charted these murky waters now
and I see the lure they have for my ailing, twisted mind;

The intensity of the brutes awash
and the dark calling to dark
makes that sick sense that only an alcoholic can parse.

I have to take to those byways
with supplies and reinforcements.
Never swim alone!



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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 9


READY

Ready or not here it comes: life on terms of its own. Bracing for the onslaught of gravity I grip too well the implements of past days. Fearing the pressure, I lay in my shallow grave, the ground having been scooped out by hand. Withering from expectation, my blood runs slow and dark, reducing to coagulated futility, losing my life in anticipation of death. Attempts at being less as means of protection fail. Less is not a solution; fading does not make life more livable. It makes me unavailable. Readiness is my responsibility; it is momentary. Momentary is sufficient. Sobriety is nothing more than lining myself up with the needs of this instant. I need go no further. Whole solutions, not my department. Showing up, dressed and washed, ball and bat in hand if possible, but just making it to the lineup is my full time job. Even if I never swing, it is still better than being buried in the field.


Put a joke in your pocket.
*


Simultaneous Acceptance



Being typical is a difficult thing to live with,
but I am typical.
Being extraordinary is a challenging thing
to live up to, but this is also mine to bear,
you see I am a typical alcoholic after all.

Walking with one foot in each camp is not enough.
I must simultaneously accept both
my common commonality
and my lottery winner uniqueness
If I am to travel hand in hand with my Higher Power.

If I don’t integrate this double reality,
allow it to imprint my thoughts
the way it is tattooed in my DNA
I can not possibly take the biggest step of all.

Drop my judgment of these things
so that humility can dwell within.
You see there is not enough room in the vortex
of my humanness to accommodate the jags of verdict

And the desire for the sublime smoothness of humility.
I can’t chase humility, I have had to face that,
but I can remove the impediments to its residence.


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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 10



FORGIVENESS

“Forgiveness is not something to force on people like unwanted coffee,” says my sponsor.
Everyone tells me forgive, forgive, forgive.
“These are the same folks who said, ‘stay and have another drink.’ It is only appropriate to forgive people who ask for forgiveness and show you with their behavior that they want it. It is never appropriate to shove forgiveness on people who haven’t asked, show no signs of wanting it, or demonstrate just the opposite.”
I thought forgiveness was to help me feel better.
“Letting go of resentments is to make you feel better. Making amends to the people you’ve hurt, and cleaning up your side of the street is to make you feel better. Keeping an open mind and heart will make you ready for the possibility of someone coming to make amends. Forgiveness is a two-way street; anything you have to throw over someone like a net is usually a mistake,” she says with a wink, and then she has the nerve to curtsy.



Design your dream tea.
*


Hospitality


What unites us, heals us, serves us,
is the hospitality of the program.
Fellowship encircles us and draws us close,
in a word unites us, hospitality is our core.

Hospital is the root of hospitality
and recovery is the route to health,
hospitality is the skeleton of recovery.

Hospitable aid,
the true gift of self is hospitality;
hospitality the master of A.A.




.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 11


UNIFIED THEORY

When I build the circuit correctly the light comes on. When I heal the shards together the bell rings. If I am meticulous and attentive, if the world is gracious and bares herself to my mind, I will see how everything fits. I know the reflexive nature of things, and the way life folds one thing inside the other. Whale song is a long slow underwater birdcall. Moon rise, sun rise, then the moon again. The universe works without my interference but also without my complete understanding. I am learning how to be a part of this beautiful maze; I long to comprehend it. The weeds are trying to take back the city. If I lay down maybe they will take me back, too. If I keep my eyes open I might see it all unfold. Conception without is my desire within.



Make emotional bouquets for your mind.
*


Recognition

All I have are these two hands
I can not lift the world
All I have are these two legs
I can not flee the hoards

All I have is this one heart
though need and want prevail
All that’s left is this one mind
to try to tell this tale.

Everything in this bright orb
is there for me to see
Everything laid out before me
all that I can be

Everything that I perceive as wrong
and know it in my heart
Everything I think to touch
and change believing it’s my art

Once I take the giant reins
acceptance escapes the scene
Once the fates are in my grasp
chaos is the theme

Once the sight of my right place
is lost from in my mind
Once I try to fill the great big shoes
is the day that I go blind.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 12


MY TALE

I must be my own tattletale. I must give my sponsor bullets to shoot down my disease. Anything I protect and nurture will grow and overtake me. It is up to me to choose if I will feed my ailment or my health. My life will be consumed, that is a guarantee; all things feed into others. The direction this meal takes is my daily decision. The bull’s eye can be hit if I describe the target. The ending will be happy if the story I tell is my own.



Calculate the risk and build a bridge.

*

Rebellion Dogs

“Rebellion dogs our every step at first”
AA’s 12 and 12

They won’t come to heal, won’t sit, won’t stay,
these dogs circle waiting for signs of weakness
or vulnerable skin, but there they are;
they have been found out.

The ones that worry me more
are those that took show and place,
the dogs that stand in the shadows and lurk in the wing.

What are their names I wonder?
Their distinctive smell?
Must I identify these writhing mutts
or simply call animal control?

Though this never worked with rebellion dogs
these lesser pups surely would run
from would be dog catchers and leave me to my dreams.

Alas, I name them and show them to my friends;
we like they run in packs
and are served well by honest disclosure.


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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 13


NIGHT FLIGHT

The small log shape with large wings passed the windshield of my moving car without collision, due to meticulous calculation and correction in a night sky. Silent passage… swift and meaningful, the owl lives as it knows how. I was not born to the night; darkness not my given realm. I have inverted my senses and compensated for the moonlight. I pull my way through the air and hunt for my survival in a world of shadows. The morsels caught on the wing, snatches of conversations and lines from books, sustain me, give me strength to live in spite of the nocturnal bondage. I have made peace with the night. I am changed by my living and my living endures. The grace required to abide here is bestowed on me nightly. I wear it though it is not the prize I sought.


Write a letter home to you.

*

Whittle it Down


A famous sculptor mentioned
that he doesn’t so much create the objects
as remove the stone which doesn’t belong.

I have had the same experience with willingness.
Encased in the bedrock of my will
willingness had no opportunity to open doors.

Flaking away the extraneous
the key shape appears, rugged, blockish, rudimental.
As the tears stream down my face
and wrong thinking flies from my brain
the key is more finely formed.

As I wheedle at misconception
and haul bodily wrong action
the teeth of this thing show sharp in this day’s sun.

Many doors stand ajar,
at first those with basic tumblers,
but now even those with encrypted defense
are no match for the willingness,
which I wield with rapier wit.

The obvious blocks to progress open to me
as well as the subtle doors to untold destination,
I am let out of danger, released into possibility.




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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 14


TRAVELING PICTURES

I parked next to a beaten little import. The well of the passenger’s side was filled with empty sport-drink bottles and cans from soda. The dashboard was a shrine: three taped photographs, one of a young man and young woman, one of the young woman and an older woman, one of the young woman and an enormous marble statue. There were small carved objects affixed to the dash: jade and soapstone figures, beads and a feather. The sanctuary in my head is decked out in a similar manner. Post card pictures line my mind: people I love, trips I took, pets long gone. The road signs of my journey stand as exhibits of a tour of duty not always to my liking but nothing I would trade. I know clearly where I have been, and study the map to prepare for the future. Escapades and loved ones, trinkets strung on my lifeline give texture, flavor and flash to my pilgrimage.


Think of fish and dream of birds.



*
Progressive Fourth


All I can do is stand on the grass
and count the shutters, the windows, the doors.
At first I cannot approach to inspect any closer than that.

Time passes and the other steps work me.
I peer through the windows the next time
and count the stuffs I can glimpse through the glass.

I possess no periscopic vision,
but what is in plain sight I reckon.
Subsequently I wished to exteriorize
and draw the inventory of the house
out onto the lawn and tally there.

Wishing to avoid that interior life,
the poisoned vixen who haunted there.
Time passed and she recovered as did I,

Into the house I went.
I am now able not only to number my possessions
I can assess the flow and function,
work patterns, interplay, reliability.

I have now appraised not just the what,
but the how of my life
and progress into tomorrow.


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