Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 12

THE WORM


Because there is never enough punishment for those who inflict hurt, I punish myself. Only I can tell if the depth of the pain is a match; only I can judge when enough is enough. This is the turn of the drunken worm who lives in my brain. The belief that what began in pain must end there, too. Even now in recovery, I persist in hurting myself a thousand tiny ways. setting trap after trap to catch the perpetrators, I make my heart a mine field, a place unfit for me to live. I must sober the worm and let myself off the hook.


Dip intentions into action and let them firm up.

*
Circular Needles

I react badly when I find a loose thread
because I never know what might be unraveling.
I have knit my heart out;
have dropped an occasional stitch to be sure.

Unbeknown to me these little holes in my logic
wait for the stress of overextension
to run through the length of my life, untying earnest work.

If I could catch these unsecured thoughts
before it all goes too far ,
I might have a chance to hook back into the main fabric
and prevent this unfurling of collateral.

When the cord is cut and the line flaps freely real panic ensues.
Even if capture of both ends is possible,
knots are awkward, unseemly and gauche.

I was planning a seamless life, smooth and beyond reproach.
My fear of reprisal flares
before the ever-burning coals of abject self-doubt
have a chance to be felt.

This banked inferno generates the things which bake and fry my nerves,
burn my threads and disintegrate my mantle.
I need to put out the fire before I re-knit my world.




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[LeftWriteFemme]

June 13

OPEN WINDOWS



I roll down the window in the rain hoping reality will soak in with the droplets. I tilt up my face as I leave the car and let the water shower my features. The downpour is the jolt to living for which I have prayed. I stand on my lawn and rinse the day out of my hair; I clear my brain in the fresh rainwater. The driving rain pounds the house and trees but I feel massaged and cared for. My skin, reflexive, teaches my mind to absorb and hydrate. I turn my thoughts to Greater Powers. Even if the doors have been closed, I can open the windows and let the rain come in.


Soap the windows on some of your ideas so you can work in privacy.
*


Down to the Watership


The immoderate champions immoderation;
the glutton recommends consumption,
more often than not a drunk will pour you a drink

It is part of the social norm to conform
to the addiction of the day.
If we are all high we laugh at each other’s jokes
and there is less finger pointing about the mess.

When we are all in this together we sink or we swim,
but we mustn’t look around.
Like the rabbits who cannot ask, “Where?”

We try to look at ease with dying
and contented with our lot.
More must be better
for we can’t survive on less than what we’ve got.


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[LeftWriteFemme]

June 14



RED ROSES


From tight green buds come beautiful red roses. From small verdant places I blossom, too. I open to richness unexpected and fullness unbelieved. I look at laundry crumpled, never anticipating the look of clean sheets blowing on the line. Doors I perceive as blocked by vast boulders are thrown open by willingness. Who I am today is no one I recognize; I didn’t see myself coming. I write though I can’t spell. I love though my heart is broken. I think though my mind is warped and I trust though the amulet is long shattered. Promise is not a laid out plan but the continuum of change. I can fight it or let it carry me where it goes.



Smile at similes.
*


What I Heard Through the Snow

The commentator’s voice fades in and out
as the reception is lost and found
among the static of my drive home.

In here is a pattern, a connect the dots matrix;
I try to feel my way too
as I weave past the slow and stubborn traffic.

Like a call from the wilderness
distorted through a storm, my frantic thoughts obscure,
sometimes distort the content, the intent,
the soul of a message I so desperately need.

Broadcast warnings, safety suggestions,
help and hope are torn to slivers
and rewoven in my careworn brain.

The distraction of the road allows the subliminal heart beat
to tattoo in my ear then my chest, all the way to my toes,
bodily acceptance overpowers my relentless mind
and clarity is achieved, no matter the drifts.


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[LeftWriteFemme]

June 15



IN THE MEADOW


Being the only tree in the meadow often leaves me feeling lonely. I tell myself of the camaraderie I imagine in the forest. These images are more poetic than real. I believe in community and support; I think of the woods as this place apart from the complications of my exposed life. I shrug off the very real competition and struggle from sharing every inch of root space and the search for each square of sunlight. There is much joy in being an individual. An eco-system of diversity allows me to fully develop. I can spread my branches and my roots. I can offer shelter to those in need of my reaching and my shadow; tender flowers and tired birds find me a haven. I have unique abilities in this field. Space can feel lonely but it is full of possibilities.


Press up against your iron will.
*

Poe-etiquette


Cosmic questions cross the sky,
I wonder but don’t ask why
I pitch the tent, but don’t stay the night

I borrow money and don’t pay the rent
I sooth myself but can’t be content
I earn my keep though it is all been spent

The real true meanings are pushed away,
Has ready tragedy come to stay
Forever darkness, no more light of day
Cheerful greeting left to lay

All the poets bring their knives
For blood letting’s become their prize
Here I sit and tend the boat

Rocking dingy out to moor
I play the Raven, black and poor
I dare not speak it but in my mind sing
“Never more”

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[LeftWriteFemme]

June 16

THE BEAR

Living with my disease is like having a sleeping bear in the house. I knew it was there, could hear it snore. I never felt comfortable or able to turn my back on it and get on with my life. I felt under certain threat. Fearing the bear would wake when my attention was elsewhere, I proceeded to poke my sleeping bear with a stick. I prodded it to wakefulness; in retrospect, it is clear I was unprepared for a wakeful bear, even with my full attention fixed on this brute. The bear, which is my disease, roamed about the house and made forays out into the world. I had no plan or tool for these events. Finding a legion of people who had worked out living arrangements with their bears, I happily joined their ranks. My bear wakes and sleeps at its will but I am no longer afraid or unskilled at handling this creature. Today I am so grateful for the bear in my life and would never want a life without it. I live in a world filled with bears and would be at a loss as to how to exist if not for the practice and success with the bear that is my own.


Draw a picture of time.
*

Limen


Do you leave when it is time to go
or are you the type who exits early?
Does departure time find you lingering
trying to squeeze out one more minute
rooted in this spot?

Are you the kind of person who loves the street,
but avoids the parade?
Can you bear to go, bear to stay,
bear to think that the world exists beyond this door?

Do you move with the other sheep
when all the crowd says, “Baa.”
Are you fleet with a sky full of clouds obeying the breeze,
flaunting the tides?

Do you change with the seasons
or are you passed from hand to hand,
living your life in the snow of a globe?

My life is my life,
but the most vital evidence of how I live it
is what I do on thresholds.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

June 17


BOUQUET

I love the flowers in my garden. Their upkeep is my solemn trust. With my shears, I must cut, clear and swift, the runners that detract from their health and structure. When fruiting is heavy, I must spare the stalk and choose what stays and what needs to be taken. I am scrupulous in my observation of form and function. The bucolic scene thrives; the pageant of color sweeps the rows. I bend to nurture and stretch to prune. I pay over-much attention to the plucking and forget I need to bring the blooms home.


Allow a dark worldview to illuminate a lightness of spirit.
*


Tea Totaler


My alcoholism was anonymous
even while I was active.
My destruction was internal,
outside evidence kept to a minimum.

It is easy to understand why so many
from my past as well as my present
are shocked to see me a member
in good standing for a club they never saw
me pay the price to join.

But cost doesn’t always advertise in the public square.
I know the score, the numbers etched upon my soul.
I need to be well even if you didn’t know, I am sick.

I take the medicine;
offer a smile to those who think it prophylactic
and keep upon my path.

Just because you didn’t know the contents of my bottle
doesn’t mean I didn’t earn the tag on my tea.




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[LeftWriteFemme]

June 18



CLONING DAYS


The novelty of sobriety causing sweet days wore to gauze and I attempted control. I cut, pasted and sutured elements of good living in an effort to make 24 hours of personal perfection. I was so sure I could replicate these jewel like days. I would make perfect spheres, everything round and even, one after another like a string of pearls. The more I tried the harder God laughed. Days are their own planets; Saturn is different from Mars and today will have just as little to do with tomorrow if I let it all work out. Perfection is a thing, which is born to live, not a thing I can craft in a dish or a test tube. Life must will-out or chaos will prevail.



Take two words and make a seesaw in your mind.
*



Who is Who

Remake the bed for the restless child in you
who sleeps better if attention is paid to the small kindnesses.
Placating her saves you the sound of her plaintive cry.

If you teach yourself
or allow yourself to grow fond of her, this child you,
these simple chores will seem light, refreshing, natural.

If you fight her she will grow strong
and you will grow weak.
Don’t resist nature.
Don’t resist your nature.

Take a hug to share
as you would take an apple divided
on a walk in the woods with a companion.

Share emotional embraces,
let your thoughts surround her
when you make plans and do deals.

If you treat her as if she is the best of you,
you will become the best of her.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

June 19



THE LANDING


Risers and runners lift from where I stand. Here I make my decision. I climb and face the challenges of my life. Each new test returns me to this square; the steps ascend in every direction. No matter how many times I have scaled this set of twelve, I must start anew with even the slightest change of direction. Like facets on a diamond’s base, the flights emerge from the tiny base and hold the world of possibilities within their meticulous surface. I look into these precious mirrors to see who I am and where to go, though none of this would be possible without a place to stand.



Chart the constellation of your features.

*

In the Beginning is the End

I wonder if the road would show the reflection
of its end would I walk down it still.
I always decide that I wouldn't want to miss anything,
not even the most painful things,
yet this may simply be a flaw in my upbringing.
An overvaluing of survival.

What of you?
If the knowledge of beginning and end
were within your grasp would you begin?
Would you flee the end?
This end or every end?

Or is it the beginning that you fear?
And why not, for doesn’t every beginning
hold within it every end?




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[LeftWriteFemme]

June 20

THE PALMIST


Last night I had a silly dream. I was in a tent at a carnival and the woman across the table held my hand so dear, looked into my eyes and said, “Today you will go to a meeting that will save your life.” I thanked her and left full of anticipation. When I awoke, I was filled with the same strong sensation. I rose, washed and left for the meeting with anticipation. I paid close attention to the coffee maker, those setting up chairs with me, and the newcomer. I listened carefully to the speakers and the sound of the group’s voice closing in prayer. Nothing out of the ordinary happened… other than my realization that every meeting saves my life.


Believe in contradiction.

*
Notice

I put myself on the auction block
and wait to see how high a rate
I will have to pay to become slave to my illusions.

I have worked so ardently to free myself
from past enslavements and here I stand naked on this block,
selling myself and hoping I will fetch a price.

Poisonous pedagogy is atomized, contained in every breath,
I don’t know how to live apart from it
and thus I stand waiting to be bought.

It no longer matters how I got up here the first time
for who cares that slaves enslave.
All that matters is that there seems no safe way off this block
or out of this web, or down this street;

The world seems a bad neighborhood everywhere I turn.
Yet I must admit that standing here affords a view
I would not have if I were buying.

If I am a slave I can have hope of someday being free,
if I am a owner what hope might there be?



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