Friends of Bill W.

[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.

[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.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 29

DEATH PRACTICE


“Why do you practice death like it were a skill? Do you fear you lack ability? Or, because it’s your goal, have you made it your hobby?”
Beleaguered by the questions of my sponsor I search quickly for some believable response. “I confused calm with death and thought I was practicing the former…..Death came for a holiday, how could I refuse it?…..It’s a test drive, if I like it I can keep it.” My sponsor doesn’t think I’m funny.
“Check your motives, wants and desires. Make sure death is what you really want, that it’s not just your fallback position because you fear life. Don’t get me wrong, I hope death is a good thing, but why try to chew tomorrow’s food when your plate is full of today?


Ride change.
*

Moniker


The Hurt carry on the tradition,
would never think to give it up,
don’t even know there is that option,
strap on their weapons without a second thought.

How can there be a second thought
when there never was a first.
Hurt is a reflex
and it moves its way through the world
like dominoes tumbling;

Everything’s knocked down
before you ever saw it standing.
So, what’s the use anyway?
So, I fall down and in that action push you forward
and we are all together in the mud.

But it is so hard to recognize anyone in the mud,
including myself and especially you.
If I hurt you that makes it hard for me to see
anything about you except my wish for your departure,

Which I subconsciously hope will take away the guilt
I can’t afford to feel.
If I make it out of the mud I can’t afford anything,
but if I don’t pay up I’ll be in new mud soon,

So I must break tradition
and the first step toward that is seeing it
and the second is calling it by its name.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 30

WEE HOURS



In the wee hours I hear the high pitched wail, the tiny pest whining in my ear, the onset of my thin stretched nerves reaching their end. A few more hours are required of me tonight. I rally my spirit and lift the edges of my willing resolve. Long slow nights carry me to the far corners of my mind. I am more average than I had imagined or hoped for. The commonness of four AM brings the base to disclosure, the charmed exposure of predawn wakefulness. The fuzzy vibrations in my brain make me feel deep and real, vulnerable to all the normal limitations of nature and caprice. The sun will rise, ending this night. My sentry over, I will fall to earth, and rest, and bed.


Change everything, change yourself.
*


No Substitute for Fire
I wanted alcohol to do better for me than burning did.
I was constantly disappointed, yet I kept trying.
I was not to find pleasure in that bottle
though I had no problem finding addiction there.

This is how I came to believe
that there is not an upside to everything.
Booze took me to surprising destinations,
but never the ones I desired.

I sought release,
the release I got from a wildfire spreading across my skin
and this might have been mine
had I poured the liquor on rather than in.

But in me it did no good,
it never let me exhale
the way that the “right” kind of pain did.
What I got from alcohol drove me though;

Fear rode me roughshod and I found my way home,
it was a bumpy road,
but once there we doused the flames
and I live the upside I had come to doubt,
because fire is no substitute for life.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 1

OLD BOOKKEEPING, NEW PAINTING


What will become of the fine lines I use to divide good news from bad? How will I handle a life with no screen to keep the silt from shifting across my personal landscape? A delicate crosshatch had kept little checks in little boxes; now the checks are bouncing randomly, no pattern or restraint. My old bookkeeping has come to an abrupt end, leaving many questions and much uncertainty. I lift the green visor from my brow, looking for answers from the periphery. Taking the long view I put down my pencil and pick up my paints, sling the easel over my shoulder and walk away from meticulous survival. The fine lines I have now are in my brush strokes and even bad news is somehow good.


Donate some time.


*


Saltbox House

Refusing to make reasonable demands
is quite as dysfunctional as making unreasonable demands.
The opposite of an extreme is often twice as crazy
and harder to explain.

I open my mouth and dry toast is the reply.
Nothing should be said when nothing can be done
and to do nothing is harder than one might think.

I fold my hands but my lap rejects them;
I quiet my mind but my soul objects.
I must let my heart sing
and trust you enough to ask for help.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 2

A LITTLE EXTRA HOPE


“What will you do with a little extra hope?” asked my quizzical sponsor.
“What good is a little hope?” my retort.
“A little hope got you sober. What can you do with a little more? Could you take out your dreams and fly them on a breeze? Could you throw yourself into a wave of intention and see if you can ride it out? Breathe easier, smile broader? Take my hand tighter and walk the road awhile longer before you run for refuge? Now let me ask you a better question. What couldn’t you do with a little more hope?”
“Fail.”


Wash as a meditation.
*

Sackcloth

Tragedy is a tale unfinished.
Life is far longer than calamity can endure.
I will not give up, not even when hope is lost.

For life carries forward;
more is filled with optimism.
Threads break, but the fabric is woven still,
flowing off the living loom waiting to be used.

I will cut my swath and fashion a garment to wear
and if sometimes it is filled with ashes
I will sit and grieve
all the while knowing that this is never the stories end.

[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.