Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 9

FINE PRINT

I can scrawl the wall with everything I know. I can fill my books, chapter and verse, with pure and honest hope, but let me begin the precision of language and watch. My once open face becomes tight; my free associations peek regularly around each corner. Neatly painted lines are a trap with teeth laid bare. Serrations of careful craft sever my umbilical and God floats off untethered. Truth returns when I am shouting my prayers. Scrupulous observance never advances my sails. I must meet life with an open hand. The devil may not be in the details but be sure to check the fine print.


Open one eye and wink at the possibilities.

*
Stumbling Under the Tenth Step

When I’ve been outside of my mind
it is so hard to tell when I’ve come home again.
The landmarks take on such distortion in memory
that the facts seem bloated or anorexic
as I turn my face from side to side.

Old journals remind me of old journeys
and perhaps there are accurate landmarks mentioned
but how can I know for sure that these too
are not just the ravings of a mind gone mad.

Real or imagined I must take the daily count
and try to keep the score
in favor of the actual.

I don’t always know that I’ve fallen
until I inventory the dirt on my face,
but better that I face the dirt
than live the delusion of a mole.

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 10

FEELING TEMPLES


I failed to appreciate the initial onslaught of feelings. I spent much time trying to capture them, lock them away, or in some other way submarine them. This only had the effect of retarding my recovery. I had to reframe my thinking. I had to start with simple calisthenics, embrace and celebrate. As my emotional health began to take shape, I started the foundations for tiny shrines, each with its own theme. Happiness had a party going on until all hours. With grief, there seemed to be a constant internment in progress, body or no. Fear showed an IMAX film of the realities of life on earth, and curiosity had an endless library plus a DSL line. Making myself a willing and frequent visitor to these contrasting places created in me wholeness and peace. Never again do I have to trudge the two dimensional desert of my monochromatic former life.


Write love letters with your favorite pen.

*
The Key You See


The key you see is letting you accept me.
Oh, how I hide from that, run from that, flee from that.
I must be in control of what you think of me.

I curtain off the view of me
I don’t wish to share with you.
Add to that the unusual choices of what I hide.

I will strip down with all the lights blazing
long before I would let you see me drop the ball,
be confused, misunderstand.

What I truly fail to realize is that in the process
of trying to hide my faux pas and fumbles;
what I show you is my controlling ass.

Backside bare I moon you with my freak show
trying to hide my humanity.
Your compassion and tolerant waiting for me to calm down
and open my eyes is the key I fail to see about you.

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 11

BIRDS & BEES




Birds and bees can get me drunk. I have to watch the amount of envy which pours through me as I watch their wondrous bliss. When others make a bee-line to the hive, I must head to a meeting and save myself despair if my spiritual condition is not sound. When other couples are weaving their nests, I have to be careful not to weave my way back to the bar. The mating dance is so sweet and seductive; I have to make sure I don’t end up doing the two step. For as much as I hate to admit it, if steps one and twelve where enough to keep me sober, the rest would not have needed to be written.


Pad barefoot through intention.

*
Neither Frog nor Fish

I was falling
and my Higher Power caught me
in a net called AA,
all of which was a pretty neat trick,

But the strangest consequence of this
is now I somehow think it shouldn’t be possible
for me to drown.

Defying gravity 24 hours at a time
doesn’t make me aquatic
or even amphibious for that matter.

I still have all the corollary restrictions
of anyone who is me.
I still need sleep and water,
food and warmth just like a mere mortal.

How silly I am.
I dodge a bullet
and suddenly I think I am waterproof.

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 12

WHIP


I have been to the meeting where they play 'whip', the meeting where the members are gotten in line. The tempo increases constantly in an attempt to flick each other off into the land of shame and slips and less-than. This game is invisible to the participants, though the stress on their bodies is surely felt. Spectators often misunderstand the meaning of the activity and wrongly interpret it as strength training and endurance building. I think of it as a backward step, throwing me to my initial desire for a drink; living in other peoples skewed lines sent me running for a bottle. These same lines, placed around me in sobriety, will measure me up for a box.


Turn your plants and your mind so every aspect has an opportunity to get some sun.

*
Who to Ask

“You ask good questions
and you ask the right people,” said my sponsor.

“I ask questions because I need answers,” my reply.
“Do you know how many people need answers
and never ask?” she quipped.

“I ask my friends, no stroke of genius there,” I continue.
“You ask your playmates,
you ask the people you trust enough to have fun with.

You don’t realize how clever that is.
You know lots of folks who work hard
and you could ask your questions of these

But instead you save them for those diligent ones
who still know how to play and that, Sweetie Pie
is proof that you are no dummy.”

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 13


WILLING PIECRUST



I lay the crust of my will over the pie plate of God’s will for me. I must have the willingness to trim off the excesses. I hesitate; I worked hard to roll it out. I know from past experience, when hot issues come up, these tags and hangings-on burn and drop sometimes ruining the flavor and appearance of the whole. It is easier to cut loose the things outside God-given intent. I get the pie in its entirety when I crimp and bend to the shape of my life.





Hope is free, so spread it around.
*




Chickens and Eggs

Who is more sober
the early riser or the long-timer?
How do we get here and what does it mean.

It all starts with a day, which is good
because this is more than we had hoped for,
sometimes more than we could do.

Then it moved into an ever escalating game
of can you beat this, each day an improvement
over what had been accomplished the day before.

For years the standard bearer is the pain or relief
of the very first in this string,
orbs of 24, yet here stands the question,

“Is the essence the last pearl you touch
or the total of the strand, which makes it real?”
I don’t know for sure.

Sobriety is like light;
is light made up of waves or is it made up of particles
and the answer is invariably yes, for it is.

And what you need and how you look at it
seems to make the determination,
scientific method or no

The watched is affected by the watcher and vice versa.
The end is a day round and imperfect as any
and what is strung between the beginning and the end
is what you’ve made of it.

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 14

THE PLAYGROUND




Getting my ass kicked in the playground of my mind was once a daily event. Now, it is a far off memory. I absent myself from the jungle gym the same way I absent myself from bars---places set with traps and schemes I am no longer attracted to. Bullies and ego trips can’t draw me toward the fence. Dares and double-dares are such ancient devices I can’t even find the trigger they used to pull. Trouble doesn’t know my new name, my sober name; I don’t answer to the old one. I hate to admit the isolation of my school yard days, but no one I knew back then will keep me on the road to the future. So, I leave the ball in their court and wish them well.


Expectations are lovely as long as you leave off the outcomes.

*

Not Fur but Fin

You can’t delay the river,
I’ve tried, all it does is distort.
I block the flow and swamp ensues,
mighty oaks waist deep in water.

The current is strong
and I fear being swept away,
not realizing I was born to swim.

Dreading the swim back for spawn
I try to stay too close to my origins,
never make it to open water,
never to live the life I was intended for.

I’ve heard it said,
“Don’t push the river it flows by itself,”
but I can’t stall it either.

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 15

TRAP DOOR


The trap door of my mind opens occasionally and I find myself acting out things better left to conversation. When I leave too many things unsaid, the pressure builds and the door opens. My thoughts connect with my body minus the benefit of my brain, not to mention the brain of my sponsor. I can ill afford the consequences of these open door exhibitions and I am obligated to spend much time scrambling up the hills my outlandishness slid down. Thinking, speaking and contemplating, the prerequisites of action, must be done frequently or my mind’s sink, piled with my dirty dishes, will flood the counter top, then leave dishes crashing to the floor. Even if I can’t keep everything caught up, at least I can leave things soaking. I can start notes or little chats so I am not weighting the latch. I can prevent the coupling of impulse and exploit. All I have to do is stick out my tongue.


Release your emotions from captivity.

*
Like an Elf Working in an Empty Tree

The chairs in the loft are empty,
but I still hear the choir sing.
The bottle though it’s empty,
still sometimes calls my name.

Though front pocket is empty
and there is rolled up empty sleeve,
still the nicotine haunts my dreams.

On this empty road I travel,
I still long for company.
The stillness is not all that’s empty,
but I run to fill that spot.

Chaos is like a tapeworm
it eats me from the inside,
but in the meantime I still believe it’s filling me.