Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 13

BATTLESHIP


If the first is a guess, what is the second? Paranoia? Or worse? Action is a blessing, reaction a debilitation, and to twist from reaction to self-doubt sinks the battle and the battleship. When I can’t make sense, the gift is stepping back. Better to put my hand down than to lose the farm. When I find myself in a minefield, I can walk gingerly or wait for aide from above, air rescue or other. The option of rethinking every step sets me dancing; the tune, which begins this hurky jerky polka of death, stems from the metronome of criticism playing in my ear. When I am overwhelmed with critique I give up acceptance of chance or the joy of spontaneity, throwing myself into a pit of apprehension. I am safer being wrong occasionally than unsure forever.


Study an old map and find a new way.

*

Message with no Bottle


I found a note while I was cleaning the art cupboard.
It was written in my hand.
I don’t remember writing it, or thinking it for that matter.

The note said,
“Total disregard for the survival of your soul”
and I have no idea if it was a warning or a suggestion;
a place to start or a destination at which not to arrive.

If it was written during one of those dark days
it could be the former,
I hope it is the latter;
a sign post on my recovery road.

I bring it out here to write to you about it,
share it and take me to a place
where I am no longer alone with this flyer.

I sit down to the keyboard
lift the note to read it again with care.
I scan the edges for clues
and see that it is a memo sheet torn in half.

When I flip it, on the back I see,
“2 loaves & 5 fishes to feed a multitude”
and though I may not believe in that miracle
I do believe in this one.




You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 14

MY MOON


I anticipate the crowning of your face as you birth the sky. Your rhythmic visitation sates me. The gravity of my need keeps you close. The tide of my heart pulls you from shore to shore. We live in the sweet ecstasy of tethered love, our souls slingshotting across the open palm of heaven. Your empathy for me transforms these shards of ice to a tender heart… satelliting. I orbit you empowered by your kindness. You are my moon.


Paint your face and print your profile.

*

Fair Fish

Tiny thoughts ping pong around my head
hoping to win a goldfish,
but what do I need with a five dollar fish?

How often do I pay too dearly,
for what is merely an animated ornament?
When I falter in self-esteem
I look to decorate my life through hostage taking
and other unfair practices.

I know I want to feel safe,
know that hiding gives the illusion of that.
It’s like the joke told about banging sticks
to keep the tigers away.

Does it work? Yes, of course
as long as you are in a place with no tigers.
I can distract myself,
but I can not distract life;
life goes on and takes me with it, no matter my disguise.

Given this I can either spend my time
with a blindfold and a cigarette waiting for the end
or walk the midway and go ride the tilt-a-whirl.




You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 15

REJECTION



Rejection is a game of endurance, a boundary enhancing process, a test of survival. Rejection sought or unsought is a challenge. Sometimes rejection is a flare lighting the need for a change of tactics or direction. Though, it is hard to view rejection as a beacon rather than condemnation. Rejection is also the counterbalance for acceptance. Risk is nothing if rejection is not part of the equation. I cannot value a yes if you could not say no. Rejection is the safety valve when putting myself in situations where I don’t belong. I get sent back to the world of possibilities when the kindness of rejection ejects me from the wrong choice.


Look at the keyhole then look at the key.

*
Autonomic


Alcoholics in isolation go no place good.
Isolation is too expensive to keep;
whether it is a bad habit or worse.

How I hold to a receding thing such as this?
I am amazed that I accomplish this difficult task
and fear my ability to do something simple like breathe.

I wonder often why destruction is so seductive when life is fine.
Yet, I hear the cloying whispers of lonely isle shores,
I must bind myself to friendship
and hold firm to companions for the water is no place for me,
I have forgone my once liquid life.




You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 16

HIDE AND SEEK

I have sought You high and low, but like the rain, You have always found me. I, like a cold, wet cat on a winter’s day, peer into warm lit windows hoping You will be home. I seek, to keep me moving. You find me for some unknown reason. I have given up naming You. I trust You know who you are, in spite of the fact I do not. You are places I don’t know and doing things I think better of. Citing the list of errands I daily make for You, not to beleaguer You, but the unfinished list of history trails out of my pocket, and I worry I may possess Your only copy of this injustice list. There have been days of peace, days I don’t think too much, days I turn away from my history lessons and future projections. My ultimate problem is with the equal sign. I run the numbers and it figures inequity. I check my calculations and shake the calculator of my mind. Deeply, I fear You’re a one god and do not comprehend the implications of zero. If you multiply with only things above the naught, You may be unaware of nothingness, the empty things I feel when I can’t seem to find You. Self-possessed, insensitive of the cipher, Your dimensions stay positive. Bring me into Your realm or join me in the void. I seek You, but You have found me.

Weigh your demands and don’t let them tip your scale.
*



Bowman Beach


The swirl with the flash of teeth
that I backed away from turned out to be dolphin,
but that didn’t make me safer,
strangers are strangers no matter who their PR team is.

When I am out of my element fear grows long leads
and I am bound by these limits.
Who I am under new circumstances
is a discovery I make as time flies by.

Can I swim and play with exuberance
or will I drown trying to catch up?
I am able and disabled,
the line is tied from the back and I don’t know its length.

I unreel as much slack as I can and test my reach,
but still I must keep my wary eye and be careful of the deep.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 17

FISHING FOR CONTENTMENT


Fishing for contentment is a wonderful pastime but what is used for bait? Is there a delicacy to dangle before contentment to lure it into my life? Can I crumble the best biscotti and leave a trail to my door? I don’t believe contentment swims around waiting to be caught. I think it’s more like the wild yeast that finds its way to my starter. If I put the ingredients in my life, contentment will rise to the occasion.


Renew your own understanding of the word NO.

*
Where do I live?


Fleeter of foot is my goal.
I race to catch the prize thoroughbreds as they flee.
I play chase, I win, I lose, I fall in the mud, I break my leg.

None of this does anything for the horses either,
they are loose and confused;
off like a shot, but nowhere to go.

I buy better shoes, hire a trainer,
put reflective tack on the stallions and the mares.
In short I go broke.

I had the world of possibilities before me and it ran away;
all because I didn’t close the barn door.




You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 18

MY HEROINE


The corpse that is my childhood is mine to protect from the wolves and rats of denial and collusion. The infant who commits suicide in self-defense is my heroine. The pure thinking of an uncluttered mind seizes on the only possible way for me to survive. Her death at her own hand is my rescue. If the bad had killed her I would have died with her. In her plan, I was left as the seed she ejected in her assent. She is gone from this place; I feel her only as the wisp of memory. The tiny body laid flat on the carpet, her pressed pinafore somehow more alive than she, is the unfinished business of prevention. As long as I see her there and do not walk away from my responsibility and never forget she protected me with the life she never lived, I am free to live this life.


Throw ice cubes up for God to catch.

*
Earl Grey is not my Friend

Scabby knees is what I look for;
I need to be with those who climb,
not those who slide.

I hate to say it, but looking cool
and sitting on the sidelines
does nothing for me or my sobriety.

I have to build those calluses,
require patches in my clothes,
carry a hammer to pound in those spikes.

If I don’t see tools in your hands
and bodily evidence that you have been using them,
I really don’t have time for you.

This is a “let’s go, lets go” kind of recovery for me
and if it isn’t for you then have fun
and I hope you have a good seat,
but I am not staying for your tea party;
I have no time for tarts.




You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 19

MARMALADE


Marmalade, bitter and sweet, spread across my spiritual toast; zest and sticky solution mix and cover the surface. I bite down taking in the start of my day. Past this point anything is possible, fame or disaster, a dreary fog-filled morning or cloudless afternoon. Seeing the passing populous, I alternately advance and retreat from this human wall. Response and responsibility tattletale their way to my reactionary will. The tightrope sways over river of potential; balance is more than a desire, it is a necessity. So I enjoy my breakfast tea and watch the marmalade melt as I dip my bread in my well-steeped brew. The parade will start soon enough; I need this time before I launch into the fray.


Start a fire in your mind.
*



Self Importance


When I am over sensitive and everything
that everyone does looms large for me,
I am more likely to think
that I am a driving force in the lives of others.

It’s a funny connection in the same way
that when I scratch the dogs tummy her foot paddles;
when I am not getting my needs met
I tend to believe I am in this world
to meet the needs of others.

Often when in this mindset I also delude myself further
to worry that I may be the only person
who can help these other people.

I have been training myself to throw a flag
on any and all plays where I am that important.
I try to bring all action to a stop
and get right sized about who I am
and how important I am and to whom and why.

It’s not that I don’t have value,
I have the same value as everyone else,
but when I shortchange my needs and my feelings,
over responsibility to others mushrooms
and this is not good for anyone; me least of all.

As with most things,
if I find out what is right for me
it tends to be right for those around me,
even if I can’t see that at the time.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 20

WALKING JOY HOME


I make sure to walk joy home not because I doubt her ability to find it alone, rather because it gives me extra time with her. I used to fear joy, that I would be intoxicated by her presence and lose my well-hardened grasp on realism. Now I see that without joy in my life there is no realism, that it was only cynicism masquerading in its place. Joy is simple and unassuming. I often confuse her with ecstasy and scoot away in shy terror. Joy is nice to have around. She is not just a party animal; sometimes I invite her over for a cup of tea. When we are done I take the winding path to savor every step up to her door.


If you can’t lay down your burden move it from hand to hand.
*

Resilience

When I experience trauma or drama
my heart and soul return to the toddler state;
I feel the urge to stay up and push forward.
I resist help and rest.

I try to override animal need in favor of intellectual prowess.
Bleary eyed and red-faced, I soldier on,
only managing to make my life into a ceaseless fight.

My charm and wit wear thin; then wear out.
I need to recharge my batteries,
need to hit reset and restore my default settings.

It is hard for me to accept that I must lie down
in order to get up again.
Restoration is impossible to achieve from my battle stance.

Resilience is a bouncing ball.
What I want to rise I must first throw down.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 21

REFLECTIONS OF YOU


When people meet me they listen and stare, then the familiar words tumble from their mouths, “there is something about you.” I know it’s the reflection of every person I saw at the meeting last night, the sober voices that created them, also the mirror of years spent in rooms just the same. I know this is what is seen in me. The bright light shines on me and the prism of time fans the colors to my new acquaintance. I thank my Higher Power for letting me be a spectral instrument and I am grateful to the fellowship for shining the light on and through me.


Recycle absolutes into planters.
*



Canine Comprehension


I wonder what it is that the dog knows.
True love, quantum physics,
the ratio of lift to thrust required to make the ball fly,
how food shared from my plate
is better than food from her bowl.

This begs the next question.
What do I really know; song lyrics, nursery rhymes,
old scores from old grudges?

What I hope I have learned;
is the space it takes to keep an open mind,
the willingness required to make a real change,
and the width, depth and breath of honest affection.

If I haven’t learned these things
I will put them at the top of my list of things to do.
Because I believe I can teach this old dog a few new tricks.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 22

THE PRIVILEGE OF SUN RISE


I wake, happily, at 5:30. I will again see the show beyond compare. In stark contrast to the mornings I filled with moping or sober angst, shades of the same dark color, I shuck my covers, bathing and dressing with purpose, and propel myself forward. I hate to miss the first act. Dawn, the tint of clouds dusky and sweet. I’m on my route; I start my open-eyed prayer. For all those living at the hands of an addict, Be with them. Please. For the addicts, help us all to fail fast.
I scan the horizon, checking all the views. I reflect on the striking change, earthbound green and gold, sky held pink, orange and blue. The silhouettes of trees exquisitely lit from behind, the sweet moon sharing the sunrise with me, add to the pleasure of my drive. I start my gratitude list. Beginning with my sobriety...each moment, the people, the life, the thinking, the feeling, and my ability to share it all with you.


Don’t become overly fond of nothingness for it may consume you.
*

Jacks


Born crazy, is that better than becoming deranged?
Do birth affects excuse my unrepentant glee?
Does irrepressible sardonic wit
explain the order of restless exposition?

Can you count on Cicadic enthusiasm to carry me,
or flightless fancy to keep me down?
I am beyond redemption, beyond reception, beyond device.

I arrived riddled with chaotic cracks,
but I am more than just a glaze
and deep down I’m more than sound,

So walk with my wild side
and your thoughts I’ll rearrange.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 23

WAITING FOR THE RECOVERY OF OTHERS


I sit on my hands and wait for these bright pennies to earn the lessons of time. I dance my little dance and move on, dropping the pretense of patience. I search other forests, fields, and meetings and encounter many fine plums, though none are the gems incubating at home. I make acceptance my goal and breathe through my days. I watch the bulbs ripen and bloom. I wonder at their beauty, inhale their sweetness. I have lost track of my personal progress. I behold, with charmed dismay, the open chasm before me. I must turn from the flowers and let the new lessons begin.


Don’t show your broken places to everyone, but do show them to someone.
*



Spectrum


The quality of the poetry
is so dependent on the quality of the lighting.
Improve the color palette and yes, you’ve guessed the result.

So, I say to you, “Turn up the lights.
Do not write in half-dark grief and limp through the words.
Spotlight what you can and illuminate the rest.

You needn’t make a sound,
needn’t pitch a tent, needn’t build a bridge,
though you may, may if you wish.

And wish is what I do, wish for better light
and when the clouds break loose in the sky let the sun pour in.
I lift my pen and make it all;
for what was needed was this better light.”



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 24

BIRTH OF AN APPLE


When an apple gives birth what is the result? Seed or sauce? Crunch or crisp? The act of creation is so much an act of sacrifice, how can it be limited to only one kind of delivery? The children of effort produce fruit of their own; who am I to call them other than my kin? How many times have I thrown over bluster for blizzard? But snow is snow. I can accept every squall if I keep clear and willing. I may finish my days in a winter orchard if I spend my life picking not choosing.


Keep two lists: what you want and what you have.
*


Behind Closed Doors


The children of happy fathers make no sense to me.
I have known no such peace.
What is it to live in a world where there is a man
who likes you, someone who approves?

I feel like my chin would have always been out there to see,
no ducking, no need to hide,
had there been a good man to whom I could turn.

The dark circles under the eyes of my soul make me old,
old and different from those kids, mere children,
safe in a home with a happy man whose joy it is to be their Dad.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[EnchantedNightDweller]

Going to birthday night to see my dad celebrate 32 years of sobriety. And my mom celebrating 32 years of standing by his side in Alanon.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 25

ABUNDANCE OF WATER


Waterfalls fail the catch basin and run off to make mud slide from the hills. Power showers down, but the channels it uses are not always beneficial. High tide with the push of tsunami wipes out the coast. Water is the stuff of life, but God forbid it gets out of control, there is no living with it. I cannot regulate the weather but today I have a plan. I don’t have to stand out waiting to see how much will come down. I may not have every contingency covered; I do have a backup for the worse than average season. Yes, I did dig myself a French-drain, but I started by not living on the flood plain.


Travel in your own good company.

*


Basket Ball



Idiots out number poets, this is a fact,
though I do wonder why.
It cannot be an easy lot spending your days
in slow witted discharge;

I would think they might at least try putting pen to paper.
I think I would rather live in a world filled with bad poets
than drifting on this ship of fools,

The troubadours rise with imbeciles as their cover
and poems fall from favor.
I wonder how I could make verse a contagion,
how could I make it spread?

You may laugh at me, but think what some guy did
with a broken peach basket and a rubber ball.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 26

FISH OF CHAOS


Out of chaos come very tiny fish, well, maybe not fish but a very swimmy feeling. How can I go around with my feet off the ground, my mind racing on a squirrel cage? Breathing helps, breathing is someplace to start. Once I get breathing regularly, I can gingerly probe with one foot for a place to stand. The chaos may race around and past my legs like so many eels on a summer’s evening, but with time and practice I can step from this current as well. Out of chaos come very tiny fish, but I can come out, too.


Wring out every drop from your books.

*


Circuit Speaker


It isn’t until I listen long to the Northside poet
that I realize there is such a thing as a Chicago accent.
I hear it as I never have before.

I don’t hear it in my beloved Rodger,
hear only the hope he brings to share.
As I get ready to walk to the podium
I wish that no one hears the Jersey in my voice
only the experience I bring to share.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 27

SLIPSTREAM



I look in the rearview mirror; I see the headliner and a river of road flowing out behind me. Dual viewing is the kind gift of hindsight. I can see my internal workings and the past laid bare. The beauty and sadness can transfix me. I will lose my way if I keep looking back. I catch glimpses and move my eyes forward. I can’t advance without a full vision so I remain grateful for the mirror. Awareness and cognition, the brakes and gas, I have the full package; I just have to make sure to steer.


Tell a joke to a cat.

*
Picard

The little tin whistle I yearn to play
squeaks in my head
warning that I have no time to learn
and a tin whistle though slender is not easy.

I think if I had a magic wrinkler for time I might learn,
I remember characters that have, but I rethink this
and remember I don’t want to win the lottery again.

I am too good at too many things
and have no time to enjoy their full round pleasure.
I have no need for additional longing or extended guilt.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 29

PIECES OF SKY



The sky falls in pieces and clutters around my feet. Scattered are the moon, stars and sun. Fear and desire have consumed all the rest. Great tides of resentment wash away reality and replace it with illusion and propaganda. What am I to do when want drives the course? Satisfaction is unknown; the luminous butterfly I believed extinct has not yet come to me. I leave the shards of life to tinkle as I stumble through them and forget to ask for wings of sweet contentment from unexplored realms. Paper dreams burn with fervor; I peer to see what stands behind. The gracious weather carries me as a seed to a vaulted canopy, celestial spaces, buoyant and fertile. I will grow away from the rarefied fragments of unrealistic vistas, sinking roots deep in cohesion and truth. Pieces of sky melt to rainbows; home is the nature of things.


Jingle your intellectual change.
*


On a Half-shell in Front of Tiffany’s

Pretty petty pearls wait in oysters
more perturbed than annoyed.
I string my tears for the sake of posterity
leaving the dreams to fend for themselves.

I am nothing if not splendidly prepared
for a life less steeped in wishes than realism.
Opening volleys tell a tale of round irritation,
but I am not finished just yet.

Joy comes from surpassing obstacles
and wearing healed grief
as precious gems around my neck.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 30

LEAVES IN A PILE


As a great pile of dry leaves, lay the problem. Running through it to show my disrespect accomplishes nothing but to scatter my dilemma and widen the area of distress. Covering and composting only allows the burden to indwell, leaching into that which feeds my soul. Burning puts it in the air I breathe. There is no galaxy far off enough to keep its reflection from my face. Attack, flight, banishment? No! Insulation, conversion, contortion? No! I pursue none of these; I can not control things exterior. I can not feed my power, light and life into the pile. I have only one goal: not to become the problem. Not to dry or dehydrate. Not to fall from my hope and collect in the road. My goal is to hold fast to hope and serve as conduit and companion to a life bigger than mine alone.


Practice little words like ‘oh’, and ‘hum’
*


Entrenched

I have dug myself a trench
and invited my friends and family.
Truth is, I drug many and tricked others
and there they are in the trench
I have so recently climbed out of.

It is a nasty place and I feel horribly responsible,
but here is the sacred truth;
I can’t climb down there again,
not even on a rescue mission.

I am obligated to help them, this is for sure,
but the fact still remains that it is not safe
to get into the water with a drowning person,
even if I am the one who caused the drowning.

If I am to be of any help at all I must get my footing
and keep it safely on the bank
and only then might I be able to throw down a rope
or lend a hand to anyone, especially those I love.

I pray for the sturdy stance of helpful strangers
and try my best to cause no further harm,
more than that will have to wait
until my cleats are soundly lodged into the earth
and my head is squarely upon my shoulders,
for headlong and mud covered I am no help.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 31

OPENHEARTED GRIEF


Tell a tale of openhearted grief and closed-minded terror. Bend the limits of misery. Pour over the damned feelings and tired excuses. Level the cupful of measured tyranny and wipe the drooling face of denial. The children will not dance tonight; the grass is wet with their tears. The dogs circle the encampment of desire and come to sleep when we are settled. Silly ruffled whimsy won’t carry the freight but the bus pulls into the drowsy station filled with tea-lites and pantomime. This story will close with a hand on the doorknob of hope, an eye on the jelly sandwich of contentment. Whisper the lullaby to the ones who stay to hear it. Morning cracks the shell to daytime. Shattered pieces litter the night; tremors shake my peace of mind. Sum up the analogies of broken hearts and twisted minds.


Draw from your toes, fingers and memory.
*


Desert Island
When I am left to amuse myself,
more often than not I turn my wicked wit
to redress those whose neglect I sorely feel.

This is childish, this is pointless
and yet I do it and do it well.
I am, too good at being alone and I resent it
and resent every necessity for honing that skill set.

When in the past I have made my mind up
to accept seclusion each overture is a slashing intrusion.
I am not a happy medium,
though I do doubt if such a thing exists.

I am an attention seeker
and when I am not I am an isolation monger.
The wavering nature of human interaction
is an uncertain sea for me, alternating downing me
or leaving me washed- up on some remote shore.

Even amid those I love the most,
I am a skinless writhing neonate,
hyper-reactive and living on the edge.

I somehow know the answer is self-esteem
or spiritual development,
but when in the midst of this imprudent reaction
the paths to these are lost.

I try to hold my breath when underwater,
when on the beach I try not to breathe the sand.
If I survive today I may grow out of this tomorrow.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 1

SLOTH TOES


A sloth is known by the number of its toes not its name or love of art or music. I can’t prevent foolish labels. The oddest attributes draw attention and acclaim from the scorekeepers and flag-wavers of the world. Going my way in this life I am seen by clock-watchers as timeless and by trumpeters as soundless. I am not defined by these. The number of my toes or the time I keep, the sound I make, is more than who I am. An explanation of me will not fit on an index card, nameplate, or job title. As long as I stay clear of these traps and classifications I am safe. If I buy in or fall down my sum and total will neatly fit on a toe tag.


Stand in your own light.

*

Liminal


Not everything which is birthed arrives here alive;
sometimes struggle is answered with stillness.
I love thee in thy loss
for there is no life to love thee in.

Hope can be a bubble that breaks
returning to whatever it was before that perfect roundness
and yet the roundness is not a mistake.

Reflected beauty is beauty all the same.
Some sparks aren’t meant to become flames,
but their glow still warms my eye.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault