Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

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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[LeftWriteFemme]

September 27

PIROUETTES



I turn and spin; the world flashes as I go. I am erect, proud of my self-possession. I can stand the forces of vector rotation, public opinion and gravity. Sobriety has made a dancer out of me. I sprint the stage and take my place. I know the moves and trust, as best I can, the choreographer and the choreography. I feel the wind move on my body as I revolve, the blur of existence spreads out before me. I can let it all pass. To spot myself and keep my upright posture, the only place that requires my clear and unobstructed view is the line of sight from my sponsor’s eyes to mine.


Let your work speak.

*


A Verse to the Wise

Encoding truth into poetry
makes reality survivable by giving readers
the opportunity to dig truth up like diamonds.

Throwing certainty in people’s faces like cold water
gives them a wakeup call but nothing to embrace.
The beauty of semaphore is the dance
that need not be understood by everyone who sees it.

Communication through device
leaves headroom and breathing space
while acceptance might be reached.

The current of a conversation
often leads me to face the facts,
but a tsunami of candor could drown me.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

September 28

LINEAGE



People stand in the queue and I stare, lost in contemplation and compliance. I weigh the conflicts and complications. Is this the method to clear identification? I think I am better known for the lines I’ve crossed, the times I press between warm souls and force myself to the area beyond. How can I wait my turn for generational stew when the fruit trees bear life for those who break free from ruts and rumbles to bite deeply the flesh of the future? I can’t stand here though I love so many in this line, I cannot love the line itself. I must step through, breathe, stretch my legs and mind, take leave of grids and locks, to live a lonelier but healthier life, all caused by a change in direction.


Enjoy change like flowers before the fruit.

*

Kicks


New balance is more than a brand of sneakers.
New balance is a joyful revelation
made possible through constant vigilance.

I am tap dancing into a vision,
no more soft shoed wishfulness.
I can lift my feet knowing I can keep my up right posture;
my musculature robust from climbing
the steps and accepting direction.

This bright tempo delights me;
I feel stretched, subtle, able-bodied.
Life off the balance beam offers me the world
in which to embrace my equilibrium.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

October 3

SEAM ALLOWANCE


The space given and taken, the space used to bind us and sew us fast.
The permission for humanness and the need for seams to make us whole. The narrow margin, a shoulder on which I lean, the slender strip a place of refuge.

Darts are snipped to hug the curves; I bend to fit to life.
Our nearness; being my own part and part of more.
Planning, and a pattern cut to order with allowances made for fraying and fragility, allow me to feel woven into a web of what is and still hope for more. The unfinished garment is taking shape, easing and stretching.

And before my eyes, pins held between the teeth of God.


Keep strong words on a high shelf you have access to.

*
Have Faith
Strange and wonderful tragedy
takes you away from me
and I don’t know how it is that you return,
but you do and I thank God,

But I’m not sure it was God’s idea
that you went away or that you came back,
though, I am sure, He missed you every bit as much as I did.

I revolve the freshness of you in my mouth like candy;
I swirl, but don’t want to crack open.
Honeymoons are for people who live comprehendible lives;
we fly to each other and cling like raptors plummeting to the ground.

You leave your mark upon me I do the same for you;
we are none the worse for the wear.
I stand in the gush from the hydrant,
soaked in the pleasure, forgoing the safety.

The world may burn down again tomorrow,
I remember that it has before, but I am wiser for the singeing
and weathered with soot in my eyes and charcoal piled roundabout my legs,
yet I’m still standing and you are back from the dead
and I think of you as Lazarus.

And now we will live the comedy
for life is what lay ahead,
we took the hit of death before its time
and so must be off the hook for the rest.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

October 9

VIRGINIA CREEPER


In a clearing grows a vine; as seasons change the leaves turn pale. This type of vine grows throughout the wood, but does it grow pale everywhere or only in the sunlit space? I see the trembling of the lovely foliage and wonder the destiny of the flora. Does growth have a will of its own? Does it grow to the light or is it a must? Can I turn my face even if Virginia Creeper cannot? And if I can, should I, just to prove a point?


Keep a spare heart for your overflowing love.

*

The First We

Before powerlessness can be dealt with,
before unmanageability can be faced,
it is imperative that the “WE” is embraced.

It is the first and last job of sobriety.
Initially the human “we” is faced
and finally the I and Thee.

But the full spectrum of “we” is there to allow
the creation of possibilities in my life.
As the human body is 97% water
the recovering alcoholic is 97% “We”.

What I could never do on my own;
We do with ease.
On my own I might not be much
but together We are everything!


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[LeftWriteFemme]

October 11

DENY ONE, DENY THE OTHER


If you want to deny the problem, by necessity you must deny the solution. Resolving a problem whose existence is rejected creates a split in the crust of collusion. Oftentimes, the convolution and reconvolution of addiction causes a bloated roiling mass that rolls through the streets of sanity. How can a wedge be cut in a creature so dense? How can I work on piecing together remedies when I am readily assured by fellow sufferers there is NO DIS-EASE? Can I trust my personal depletions? Can I employ faith to a resolution when faith is utilized to fortify the contagion I’m told doesn’t exist? But if not faith, what?


Count out all the buttons in your box.
*


Alarm


I have lived life like one long fire drill.
Is there smoke? Not always, but I fear flames.
The alarm in my head is with me always
and I walk from my life single file and silent.

I don’t move on, this is only a drill,
‘I don’t want to take drastic action, this will pass,’
is my constant thought,
though, I can not remember a time without the buzz.

I have stood outside my life so long
practicing in case of an emergency
that there is no life to protect.

I have been conscientious to the point
of being consumed by caution.
Balance requires risk.
I must be brave enough to have it all.


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[LeftWriteFemme]

October 12

JOY IS NOT ENOUGH


I was driving around in my car, eating a meltingly ripe persimmon. On the radio came a fiddle-playing band performing their rendition of In The White Room. I was traveling with the three drafts of my first step, version one consisting of 690-some words and the final consisting of only four. Joy is not enough. That’s it. The whole thing. Today my life is unmanageable due to the fact, having a balanced life, feeling my wide range of feelings including joy, is not sufficient to eliminate the pain and damage of the past. My horrific childhood has not healed, has not mended seamlessly. I have joy today, every day at some point, in proportion to my sober choices.
I fail to realize the promise doesn’t say heal the past; it says I will not regret the past. I don’t, at least not any of the choices I made. Other peoples’ choices are not mine to regret, so I can’t do that for them. I will not wish to shut the door on the past, and I don’t wish to. I want it healed. I may not get my wish. Just because I am doing my part to heal the past doesn’t make anyone else do it. I can’t strong-arm the perpetrators into recovery the way they strong-armed me into abuse.

Joy is not enough, but it’s a hell of a start.



Lend your assets; keep your defects home.
*



Matching



“Matching calamity for serenity,”
is a task requiring attentive diligence.
Each tragedy has its unique blast pattern
and necessitates a precisely cut cure.

Coverage is one concern and depth is another,
the weight of the healing atmosphere
must equal the corrosive depletion caused by ruin.

I have to make available the wound
in order to receive the remedy;
anytime I camouflage or barricade my injury
I have eliminated the opportunity for a corresponding solution.

Knowing this fact
and answering it with right action is the job of a lifetime,
but I cannot think of a more productive use of my time.



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