Trust

January 31

TRUST

My sponsor always says, “You can trust people to be who they are.” I am a different being in relationship to different people. To some, I am the center of their constellation, the sun burning bright; I’m all they can see. To others, I am the moon, orbiting them, silent and dedicated. With another group, I am a comet streaking through the sky, seldom seen but well remembered. For many, I am a distant star, one among the multitude, blending in the night with the other signs. Then, there are the folks who see me in a more down to earth way. I am the dirt beneath their feet. The farmers see me as a plant to be tended. The cowboys view me as a horse to be broken. To fishermen, I’m a catch. I am what people want to see, so what can I trust them to be? Wrapped in their own worlds? Yes, mostly, I guess. None of my business in the end. I watch them and learn what I want to do, who I want to be, in large part, by avoiding what I see them do. I do trust people to serve as bad examples often and good ones infrequently, and for each of them to see me through their own filter, if they see me at all. From me, they can expect the same.

Find a corner, then pitch a tent.

*

The Was and the Is

The Silent Scream that existed as a placeholder

for my G-d was incomprehensible to me.

I entered AA and was informed

that understanding my Higher Power was required

not just some far distant goal.

In true alcoholic form my first move was to shun G-d.

This made room for my rage

which was in much need of the space.

After a few fine years of dissipation

I lost interest in incendiary devices

no matter how large their detonation capacity.

Having cleared the room I brought in G-d as potted plant.

I talked to it occasionally, watered and fed it, mostly ignored it.

Growing in spite of lacking ministrations

G-d was an unobtrusive force living in the corner

changing gas into air and demanding nothing.

As I quelled my apprehension and lived with the Presence

I looked, listened, probed and questioned

the subtle Force sharing the room.

“Add it up,” chanted the children in my ear,

“run the numbers, settle the accounts.”

I calculated proofs and discarded the faulty and inaccurate.

W hat was left, the whole, not the remainder was mine to keep,

But it was not everything. I haven’t an everything G-d,

because I am not a nothing person.

I am something and G-d is something too.

We are complimentary,

like pairs of angles who come full circle.

Nurse

January 30

NURSE

What if the word God is like the word nurse? What if the person is only the simple meaning? The actor doing the service, the plain act, uncontrollable from my end. What if my active part of God is the same as my active part of nurse? What I draw down; how I schedule myself to be ready when the milk arrives? How I pull and am satisfied, digest and draw again, like the sea laps at the shore, the moon tugging it all the while. What if God is about my hunger, satisfaction dependent on finding a suitable teat?

Maybe this is why, when it comes to God, much of what I do is cry. When faced with my need, I open my mouth, finding only two possible responses: suck or scream. My aching consumes me and I don’t know how to calm myself. I look for the caretaker, the person, the deed. I need succor, but never look for the breast. I am the child of God; I must learn to draw God in.

Paint a picture of life after expectation.

*

Inertia

n.

1. Physics. The tendency of a body to resist acceleration.

The tendency of a body at rest to remain at rest

or of a body in straight line motion to stay in

motion in a straight line unless acted on by an

outside force. Resistance or disinclination to

motion, action, or change.

This force is real; the laws that govern it act on me for well and ill.

When I’m on a roll it’s hard to guide me

and like the girl with the curl; when I’m stuck,

I’m very, very stuck and it’s awful.

I am bound by this reality and go or stay according to what is set

in motion or stopped, but what about ‘the outside force’?

Am I in charge of summoning ‘it’ or is ‘it’ summonable at all?

Will ‘it’ obey like the dog, or obey like the cat?

Or is ‘it’ more random than the rain?

Can ‘it’ be lured or tempted or does ‘it lure and tempt me?

And the biggest questions on my mind:

Is ‘the outside force’ also subject to inertia?

Are we in this together?

What is ‘its’ outside force?

Might it have something to do with me?

My Mother's Face

January 29

MY MOTHER’S FACE

The way that age pours down my mother's face when she is sad reminds me that grief runs through my blood. Generation after generation has been transfused with anxious woe. Heartbreak vexes minds full of fear. There is no easy way to round the bend on sharp pointed issues; the route is circuitous. I battle the chaotic thinking to fight my way back to a place where my mother’s eyes sparkle as they squint closed with her smile. The war of peace is not easily won by contemporaries. We must close ranks between the ages to keep the joy from sheeting off our skin and keep the sadness in proportion. Restore us to our possible bliss; we can overtake ecstasy from there.

Build ladders for the boxes that confine you.

*

Sponsorship

Right now, as I think of sponsorship,

I think of all the things I have done wrong.

Times when I was not understanding enough

and times when I was too understanding and enabling.

Sponsors I chose for ulterior motives

and the ones I didn't challenge when they wandered away.

I search my mind for the ingredients

that were in the mix when things went well

and the dominant component was willingness, mine and theirs.

Whether I was sponsor or sponsee,

willingness overrode ability, determination and love.

We had to come to the table willing,

this was never something we were able to cook up or construct.

Nor is it something I can always hold onto,

sometimes willingness evaporates

or slips away like sand in a clenched fist.

The permanence and impermanence

of sponsorship awes and frightens me.

Like a guidewire twisted from many strands

none of which reaches from end to end

I worry about the unraveling but depend on the strength.

Amends

January 28

AMENDS

Amends is about truth and change. The relationships of my past were places of little truth and even less change. I tried to be nice not honest; I tried to keep things going even when they needed to die. Making amends has ended most of my relationships from the past. A quick strong 10^th step keeps me from starting too many new ones. Good healthy relationships require time and attention, so this necessitates a short list. Sometimes I wish for more quantity, but I realize in sobriety I cannot accept less quality.

Tie your shoes with humor.

*

Simplicity Itself

My life runs at a Gilbert and Sullivan pace,

with about as much sense and comic relief.

You say 'keep it simple'

and my disease says 'why ruin a good play?’

The truth is this is not play at all

but a work that consumes my life from me

and doesn't thank me for my time.

Simplicity for me requires respect,

a gift I selectively give myself

a gift that I often use only as a shield during battle.

My past method of increased self-respect

is life in a war zone, this is no solution.

Release of grief, this is the onerous path I avoid taking.

Purging the wrong thinking and action of others

from my blood, my eyes, my skin,

allows me to lift my chin and square my soul.

To plumb and level living,

don self-respect as a birth right

and set a calendar fit for plausible life, a simple life.

Deep in the Sea

January 27

DEEP IN THE SEA

Under the mirror, there is a life. Under what I reflect to the world, I am a world apart. I smile sweetly, political in my response to confrontation and conflict. Deep, deep in the sea, is a current of sadness I can’t always shake. Pain is the past, but it’s there like a moray, lurking to strike aimlessly, pointlessly, at the passers-by. The ripping teeth and cold stare, my terror. No way to escape it, I focus on the topside, the reflective part of me. I keep the surface as clean and free as can be. I stick to my business, list goals and make plans. The water runs cold and then hot beneath. I carry the steps to this under-water grave, trying to inflate the rubber skin of god, but no. There is no life in the god of my understanding, or maybe there is no life for the character the drowned balloon represents. The sea is bigger than me, the life stronger and more abundant. The sky it reflects as vast as the liquid I swim. There is a Power and it doesn’t need that comic book face. Safety is not the requirement that can be granted. Lack of safety does not end my life. It does not end God.

Tear open your thoughts like a letter you read mostly between the lines.

*

A Living Love

What I love about the program

is that it is a living thing, like me.

It is not perfect, it is growing and changing,

adapting and correcting for each experience and need.

AA is a life into life process

and saves me because life begets life,

no matter what I was told.

The answer to life is living

and I get to see that being done

by everyone from newcomer to old-timer

each at his or her personal ability.

I am allowed to dangle my feet,

wade, tread-water and swim,

all under the watchful eye of

loving support and critical pretender.

Difficulty is not removed nor is the way made smooth,

but I am no longer without a thread to hold.

I love the web I help weave myself into

and feel protected from the spider of my addiction

because together we are living proof.

Button Box

January 26

BUTTON BOX

I go to my button box to sort out my life. I lay out matching sets, the various sizes, shapes and colors. Coat buttons are commanding but unsuitable for the delicate places. The tiny pearl buttons with shanks pull my attention but work well only on silk. The metal, shell, and horn buttons come from such far off places and all end up here crossing my table, as I try to see clearly how to stick with the winners.

I know the people represented in this box, the strong, the loud, the beautiful. I know the weak, the unique, the ones of special circumstances and occasion. I come to the realization the simple ones, the buttons sewn on the inside, the ones who silently give strength and support to the large and small alike, the ones which come in every shade and size, which match their ability to the service they can render others, these are my favorites. They make secure all the things I love and trust in sobriety. Flat and unobtrusive, these buttons hold fast the fabric of my life.

Name your pens and pencils.

*

Responding to Response

Thankfully I’m not in charge

of what is so freely given in this program.

I want it to be available,

but I want gratitude to be the universal response.

At first I thought I couldn’t understand

how anyone could hold this gift in their hands

and not feel grateful,

truth is I know exactly how that’s done

and I don’t want to look at that ugly thing.

“Cunning, Baffling, Powerful”

But they left out how repulsive it is,

maybe they didn’t want to see it either,

or thought it was self-explanatory.

No matter which,

I’m glad I am not the arbiter

of the flowing fount that is recovery,

I might have been tempted to cap and meter it,

killing all the beauty and wild randomness

that makes it real and true.

I despair that others don’t recover as I recover

and yet I am relieved that I didn’t have to drink as they drank.

I have to see those around me well enough

to stay out of their traps or follow their leads,

whichever is appropriate,

but I don’t have to adjudicate their reply.

Life as an Elm

January 25

LIFE AS AN ELM

I stand tall, my bark sloughing elongated rectangles. Great bunions of protruding wood, giant bubbles of tight grain grown in reactionary curls, these tumors born of abuse and endured in maturation are harvested in recovery. The burden of them is severed from me by the sharp teeth of truth. Sectioning these masses for purposes of inventory allows the twisted and deformed wood to become dry and constructive. I inlay the contorted sheets of history into the panels of the doors AA built for me, the doors built to exit hell, which gave me access to the world beyond.

I stand in the woods, reaching the sky, sinking deeply to the underlying springs, surrounded by the joys of reality, things unseen in my pain- consumed, blister-covered life of addiction. Life was a forest of one; the wind hit only me; the snow fell only on me; the drought affected only me. Today, lightened by the loss of my inappropriate growth, I grow together with my sponsor, my group, and the we. I can accept shade and shelter; also offer it. The bugs and parasites meet with the resistance of communal health, and my disease has no harbor, not in my bark, not in my heart. Today, my program strips me of my disabilities and makes me strong in camaraderie.

Cry just to water your face.

*

The Max Factor

I apply foundation and rouge

to make up the difference between reality and expectation.

My composition is unexamined by onlookers

Appearance is the subliminal standard bearer.

My brave face is plaster cast

as an estimation and a singularity.

Powder gives and takes power;

builds a glass ceiling then a glass floor.

What I owe my mind

is more than what I allow its representation to be.

I am made up to a spot on the wall

from which I can not move,

all because I wanted to put my best face forward.

Compost

January 24

COMPOST

Looking at the bins, the stages of decomposition remind me of my disease, the stinking garbage I came in with. I have learned to work my program the same way I learned to tend my pile: personal experience, advice, watching and smelling the mistakes of others and myself. I learned that covering thoroughly with meetings and steps works like leaves and hay to eliminate the immediate stench. Circulation is important to prevent me from becoming stale. In the end, the secret is turning it over. If I don’t turn it over, I become putrid; I rot and ferment instead of decomposing, breaking down in a way which restores me to usefulness. When I work the process, my Higher Power turns me into a medium of growth, a renewed source of life and depth. I become rich in all the things that matter and sought after by all the people involved in planting seeds of hope.

My sponsor says it’s a sign of humility that I aspire to be like dirt, encouraging sprouts from the remnants of my past.

She might be right.

Speak from your heart, listen with your mind.

*

Frankie

“Why do I expect new leaves to grow on dead sticks?”

I pleaded to my sponsor.

“Is that a ‘why do fools fall in love’, question?” she retorted.

“Oh, I suppose it is. I was doing so well having a ‘listen only’

relationship with someone then she asked why I don’t tell her

my opinion and I like a ‘fool’ I told her.

The ensuing pile of rationalizing and justifying

she gave stank up my whole day.”

“I bet your steady stream of self-reproach didn’t help either,”

my sponsor added.

“But, I know better!” I cried. “I mean this is why I stopped

my speaking role with this girl.

I know she is a reactor NOT a listener.

How could I fall apart at her first recognition that I am wordless

in the face of her diatribes?”

“You were hopeful, is that such a crime?

You think better of people than they really are.

I think that helps you stay willing to help them,” she soothed.

“Yes, but this snapped my willingness to work with her in half.

How do I put it back together?”

“Maybe you needed to learn that it’s okay to leave the dead sticks behind.”

The Process

January 23

THE PROCESS

The mountains don’t wash away like sandcastles. The amount of persistence required is far greater. Acorns don’t work like sunflowers; not everything is instant gratification. Marathons aren’t run in seconds. If you don’t love the whole adventure, pick a smaller goal. There is no shame in sunflowers or sandcastles or microwave popcorn as long as you want it and hold it in esteem. Time-consuming, life-consuming journeys have a high price in boredom and are not worth the consumption if that is not where your heart leads you. You don’t have to love washing the pans to be a good baker but it helps. Peace is in the process.

Leave space on your plate for discussion.

*

Lathhouse

I want to face the sun.

I want to stand and the wind to blow.

I want the rain uninterrupted on my head.

I want to remain upright and unburnt,

to prevail amidst it all.

Tender stalks and verdant leaves

frustrate my anti-social streak.

I want to bear the worst

without cover or assistance

but here I am in the slanted shade of this dynasty.

As I grow so does the awareness

that even when I am strong enough

to leave this sheltered abode

I will be relocated to a row where I am never alone.

The Music

January 22

THE MUSIC

I hear a tinkling noise and look around the room. No, it’s coming from my head. It’s the sound of the music of my life. The bells, a horn or two, the strings, always the strings. The sharp clear cry of the vixen, calling from the hedge row. The lonely voice of resolve. The melody shifts, tomorrow’s tune warming up in the wee hours of the night. I don’t try to part my lips. Replication is not yet a possibility. I am only just learning to move with the rhythm, keep the beat in my heart and draw it down for my toe to tap. I cannot sing my song. I must let it live in me a while longer. I can’t share things of which I haven’t had my fill. Giving too much, too often, makes the anthem run thin. I have to be fully me, to be full voiced. I need to stew in the juice of overflowing harmony. The pounding of my feet on the steps unite the accord.

Wild things and practiced plans put forward the waves of life on earth. I follow, placing my feet in well-worn treads, the dance school reopened for sober living. Passion plays and calls my response. For today, I pass. I leave the song inside.

Talk to yourself in a possibly unknown language.........Kindness

*

Guest Flag

The polite thing to do is

fly the silly blue rectangle

with its equally silly white diagonal stripe.

That would be the polite thing, for sure

but that would peek my disease’s hold card.

If anyone knew that my illness

was sailing my ship instead of me

the effect would be ruined.

Or so says the canker that grips me

and steers me to disaster.

Announcing this day-tripper as an unentitled accessory

to whatever wrong I am about to commit

might warn my friends or enlist my sponsor,

But no I leave my colors fly

and endanger the surrounding water.

For in truth my flag is just as fraudulent

as this vessel and is only on loan to me as well.

The Frog

January 21

THE FROG

Stretched in the water, still, the frog hangs. The pond is barely a teacup, sufficient for the communion of God and frog. I watch the frog, unblinking , savoring respiration. In a pond in Maine, I bore this posture, center stage. A quarter mile of water all around, I hold my head above the surface and feel I am in the eye of God’s creation, face to face with benevolence. Peace spars with uneasy smallness. I am a tiny speck, floating in the soup; I am one organism in a sea teaming with life; I am a part of, not privileged but equal to the rest. Can I bear this reality, the struggle of living on a web? Can I live a humble life, knowing I am favored no more than the rest? Can I set aside my need for preferential treatment, a God-given Band-Aid for my multitude of hurt?

“If you can’t, you will drink," says my sponsor.

“If I have to live this way, I will cry,” I respond.

“That is your God-given right.”

Take someone else’s Higher Power out for a test drive.

*

Saurian or Dalliance

I love to be mystical

but the only dragon in my life

is when I drag on and on.

Procrastination is the winged beast in my world.

I armor plate the thing, shiny and gleaming,

my loitering delay is mightily impressive.

You might think it would take flight

from the way it postures

but departure has been adjourned

in favor of misgiving and postponement.

I wander through the forest

attempting to appear brave and feeling it occasionally

while my tale grows longer.

I need the fierce face and sharp claws

I can beat the mythology

if I will just continue to take action.

Because

January 20

BECAUSE

Because I am my father’s child, I make my attendance at meetings frequent and regular. Having looked deeply in the genetic mirror, I see so many bitter days. I’ve run from the implications and sheltered in the steps. The humility that saved my life is the understanding I am no different from my family. And, since this is a progressive disease we all have, I will just get there faster. Knowing who I can be helps me turn my will over and keeps me grasping my Higher Power’s belt loop. All I am turns in every direction and can pull or push, lift or fall. I know my assets and I know their power and their limitations. All my hope is placed on a plan to use these resources. I follow the only lead which has never promised more than it can deliver.

Be your own loving parent.

*

What Is A Sheep To Do?

Things are bad out there.

I see the trouble as I circle within the flock.

Many of us whisper to each other as we pass.

How can I create lasting change?

Is there something helpful

that will not separate me from my precious life,

something that will not make me prey

to the vultures before I even realize that I’m dead?

How can I live and strive

while the wolves hold the hilltops?

Is the choice merely, one death or the other?

Is there an as yet unseen path?

Can I find it

while maintaining my place in this congregation?

What is a sheep to do?

Rock Bottom Prices

January 19

ROCK BOTTOM PRICES

Marble topped dressers, dry sinks and wardrobes, standing in the auctioneer’s warehouse, show loving use and obvious value. The hungry consumers peruse the merchandise looking for the perfect piece to fit their need. Old men eating ice cream sandwiches pick their way through the rows of tidbits laid out on the lawn, bargains to fill in odd spaces and little desires. So like our meeting places, where people try to refurnish their lives. The cost to arrive may have been high, but ones in the market is more than fair. We reclaim relics and we use them as road signs and warnings. There is always someone around to carry large truths home and no one has to go away empty handed. We bid on our own survival by buying someone else a break. Time passes easily, as the one at the podium recounts the rock bottom prices.

Curl up inside the nautilus of your mind and take a nap.

*

Tea or Sympathy

Tears pouring into the teacup

growing cold on the table

create a sea of emotions uncharted.

If I cannot offer sympathy to the contents,

the soulless heel that I am,

how then do I expect to have a future?

If I will tender only meager tolerance

toward the spindled thing

valiantly trying to beat within me

why do I even show my face to the mirror?

If shoulders are cold and turned inward

then I will collapse into the inexpressive,

dismal thing that has been misshapen

through misuse.

I might as well drink the chilly tea

for that is all the comfort I will get.

I must do better by myself

in order to brew a better world.

There is a Tree

January 18

THERE IS A TREE

There is a tree in the woods. I’ve seen it. It is cut off from any visible source of strength or sustenance. Carried aloft by the surrounding trees, the splintered trunk dangles in the air. It makes no connection to the forest floor. I know the feeling. I have been cut off too. Violently separated from my God, as it were. I probe the fractured stump at the bottom of my soul. I explore the crevices seeking tendrils of hope. My anxiety bonds to my frustration, but faith eludes me. I look down to the broken place, the view unrealized by me. I have a vista of unimagined beauty provided to me by the growth of others. I am eye to eye with my peers, held in their loving embrace. I bloom and flower with them. I endure the winters the same as they, and come spring am the stronger for it. I don’t know why I was damaged. I don’t know why I was saved. I am grateful it is done.

My sponsor says it’s for our sobriety and the pleasure of your company.

Think of three honorable people.

*

Between Two Chains

The curving movement half seen sweeps forward

and catches me squarely on the chin.

Realization glimmers that next time

it will strike me in the mouth

and I take a step back.

I estimate the returning arc, raise my arms,

push the board back from whence it came.

As it hurtles toward me once more, I reposition.

Force returns force;

fury comes vigorously my way

and I thrust with strength and enthusiasm.

And this is fine for what it is.

I have learned how not to get hit.

I can push when I get shoved.

How much better will it be

when I can get on and swing?

In the Comfort of My Room

January 17

IN THE COMFORT OF MY ROOM

I sit and panic concerning the future. I have come through hell, built a safe and satisfying life, but it will all end soon. I can feel it. The tide rises in my soul, the blood red tide of self-doubt and degradation. I fail to see my strength, or intelligence. Hell, I can’t even remember the sheer willingness, which has carried me this far. All I see are shreds, tattered little bits of my hopes and dreams, scattered by the breeze of fate.

What is the point of me being in this sweet space if I’m going to intellectually turn it to a dungeon? Why set out fluffy pillows only to frighten myself daily with thoughts of their removal? How can I pray for safety and practice personal terrorism? With an open mind? No! My mind is closed to the double side of life. I know the destruction but forget the glory. I have washed ashore in the land of love and support. I need not drag my mind and spirit to the nether world of hopelessness. I’ve been to the dark places. My task is to warm in the sunlit today.

Make an anagram of your name, which empowers you.

*

Hades

There is strangeness to the dark.

A velvety comfort

when my paranoia is not alive

with ice crystals and contempt.

Cocoons of light create hives of life

in an otherwise isolating phenomena.

Pressing to my skin I can wear the night out

as a jewel, a talisman for the hope I dare not share.

Pixies and faeries inhabit dawn’s wee hours

but the black blank stretch of space

is home to things quite different.

Unspeakable in their face I allow them to pass.

Should I be carried off my return is eminent

for half the seeds remain.

Not wholly ransomed I live only part time in the sun.

When the shadows fall there is the oddness of home

I can neither embrace nor deny.

Feeding Squirrels on a One Lane Bridge

January 16

FEEDING SQUIRRELS ON A ONE LANE BRIDGE

Cattle corn spread on the single Lane Bridge---the trap. Food or safety? There are plenty of other choices; my disease sees none of them. Gluttony and danger the perfect combination. How can I resist? Why would I resist? I have to have more. I cannot depend on my nature, the ability God gave me to survive in my environs. Help must come from outside, and must be wild and dramatic. Inward help is boring, subtle, tiresome. Where’s my image? My excitement?

How am I going to prove my God worthy without too much, without perilous risk and rescue? I can’t. I can’t prove my God, and my God doesn’t need to prove anything to me. I can find my way, off the beaten path, away from the prying eyes of rubberneckers. No cheers from the crowd are necessary. I have the equipment. It came standard. If I look at the controls and follow the twelve step tutorial, I should be able to manage just fine. No Mack truck in my face, as I stuff myself with ill-gotten grain.

Look deeply into a glass of water searching for mermaids.

*

Bon

Comfort or motivation

these are the two major reasons for building a fire.

Sometimes I set it before me

other times under me.

The warmth can be soothing

and the light dazzling,

but licking flames move me

off the spot like nothing else.

Fuel and surrounds contribute to the effect.

Mental state and personal company

provide dampening or air.

How high the flames rise or how long they burn

varies widely inspiring my passions,

my thoughts, my fears

The conflagration is an apt tool

as long as I don’t go up in smoke.

No Maps

January 15

NO MAPS

Maps have existed longer than I have. By the time of my birth, aerial photography had made pinpoint accuracy the norm. I can be tracked by satellite on my daily commute. I can get a Trip Tik and travel to the far reaches of this continent.

"So what’s your problem?” asks my sponsor.

There is no map for where we’ve been going. There are the twelve steps but after that, it is all uncharted territory, except, of course for my family’s warnings about dragons.

“Those critters stay to home mostly. You have bigger things to worry about.”

So, where’s the map? I need to know where to go.

“No map. We go through this together. The pitfalls are similar: sex and money. There are a few others. What each of us finds on this journey is unchartable, plus if you spend your time looking down, you will miss the view. We prop each other up as we step off into the unknown, and reel each other back if we start falling off the beam.”

How do I know if I’m doing it right?

“Are you still sober?”

Yes, but I’m unsure. Lots of people are sober right up until the time they’re drunk.

“So true. It’s all about motive, and it’s difficult to chart your heart. Do you have willingness?”

Yes, you know I do.

“I have found that is the vehicle to everywhere, Honey. Learn to enjoy the ride.”

Write silly verse.

*

Comparison Shopping

Cost analysis of the yeas and nays

requires a savvy consumer.

Every word has a variable price

dependent on whom it is spoken to

and when it is said.

Some words charge compound interest

and others pay dividends.

Timing and delivery is of the utmost importance.

Knowledge of the markets requires constant assessment.

The risk to benefit ratio varies widely

and the short term verses the long term price

can flip the market from profit to loss.

Hold my tongue, speak my mind,

these must be weighed;

the clock consulted and inventories taken.

What I say and when

can be less a matter of bull or bear

than whether or not I can afford to be a sheep.

Gravity Works All the Time

January 14

GRAVITY WORKS ALL THE TIME

Limits and boundaries are a drag. I hate feeling tied to the ground. I know I could fly if not for unseen forces. I sense myself lightening, smoothing, I drop my burdens; I pick up speed. Fourth dimension! Hell! I’m proverbial vapor trails. At this time I should explain. When I get moving this fast, I inevitably wind myself into a position where my head is up my in my nether regions, a place it does not belong.

I have slowly grown to love my limits; no restraint holds me back. In reality, I am supported, rooted as it were. I am not a hydroponic. I can live in the real world. I am me. Encouraged by the wind and the rain, I am not the hot house flower. I am truly free. I can walk where I was born to walk. I forget life has not been found outside my little world, and when it is, I’m still better off being me.

Introduce yourself to a new vegetable.

*

Specks

Spectacles are for specks;

tiny things that must be watched.

Commotion is nothing but a congregation

of minutia with an audience.

How many small things

do I strain my eyes to see;

then seek help to pursue further?

Some of these are put on display fishing for voyeurs.

Others are secreted away

only to be ferreted out through magnification.

Whether curiosity or contempt drives me

to these pinpoints I must search my motives

before I scan the plain.

For truly if I am not careful

I, myself will end up either speck or spectacle.

Catch

January 13

CATCH

How can my sensibility catch my intellect? Or find a map with enough information to get my heart to the current location of my mind? What are the common markers recognized by soul and brain? I know the pulse of my wrist is counter-pointing the firing of my synapses. My life signs run their course and I struggle to find the intersections. I long for more than signposts and curbing. I would like parallels, paradigms and conclusions. There must be a place of common home and hearth. I am looking for the depot of my life. I hope I hit it before I hit the coast.

Warm your heart with your thoughts.

*

Offset

I often feel out of round

and unmatched to my counterparts.

Awkwardly I sit unable to strike a plausible pose.

I want my asymmetry to seem chic.

I feel a victim of universal ugliness

and gracelessly plod through my days.

Luckily offset thinking,

the partner of my offset soul, saves me.

I see that I am uniquely useful,

Like a screwdriver set at right angles

for use where a straight one could not reach.

I am counterbalance and compensation.

I may be lateral but I am also collateral.

I am an embellisher, beneficial in unexpected ways

and shouldn’t seek to be inline with the multitude.

I am the new growth,

the spur to the future.

Life Is Too Good

January 12

LIFE IS TOO GOOD

I know it sounds crazy. Is crazy. But I hate having the fear, the gnawing gut of “what if I can’t maintain this”? The sober life I live, what if I get struck unable to connect to my Higher Power? I had a spiritual awakening; what if I get spiritual narcolepsy? My spiritual cord was cut when I was young, not by my choosing. What if it’s cut again?

“What if this line of thinking cuts it?” asks my sponsor

I hate when she’s right. What if this is the test? Be like them or not. Follow the path of the twelve steps when there is no weight of need pushing me. I have to keep my eye on the ball for myself when everything is going in my direction. I’m still not God. This is the lesson the abusers never learned. The one I have to.

“This has been a prelude to a decision,” says she.

What decision?

“What went wrong was not bad people making bad choices in bad circumstances. It was disconnected people making decisions without help.”

I have to stay in your pocket. Never be a free bird. I have to remember what true freedom is. It’s not being cut loose. I had that and it never felt free.

“Keep your eye on the ball; hold onto my hand.”

Read a children’s book to yourself.

*

Live Bait

Is being a taunt to others really a life?

Dangling as the cover for a hook,

luring intended and unintended to their deaths,

is that living?

Or if I draw you with my attack

rather than my appeal

is that a worthwhile existence?

If I carry myself filled with poison

praying for a strike is that anything

other than a march to an unhappy grave

for two, or more?

Hidden under an avalanche of harassment

strips me of my vital quality

and my soul loses its true nature.

I am allowed to transcend

the setup of competition and social strife.

It’s alright to be tempting with no agenda.

I could be an appetizer

if only I removed the barbs

or better yet I could be dessert.

Loneliness Eats My Lunch

January 11

LONELINESS EATS MY LUNCH

There are days loneliness eats my lunch and I can’t fight back. How can I stand it? How can it still be this bad? I pull out the old chestnuts: If I’m not happy with what I have, how could I be happier with more? And, Even tickets on the fifty yard line don’t interest me; I came to play! I roll them around. I think of the other slogans, the tidbits, the smiles and hugs. Still, there are days my lunch is gulped down and I sit with my plate empty. Pickle juice, coleslaw drool is small comfort. Actually, it’s a jeer. I stare at my empty plate. I turn it and twist it. I stick out my tongue at it.

“You're good company,” says my sponsor.

Then why am I alone? If I’m so good, if my company is worthwhile, why do I sit here hungry and desperate?

“Are you sure you are?”

It sure feels that way.

“Well it might be true.”

And it might not. I get it. I am unhooked from myself; I’m ignoring the multitude at my elbow, looking for someone in my lap. I’m holding out for old terms from a new contract. I am loved by people who aren’t trying to consume me and I am letting my expectations dine for free.

Imagine who the wind visited before you and who it is on its way to visit now.

*

Pepo

My father used to destroy a perfectly good watermelon

by cutting a triangle in the top

and pouring a bottle of vodka into it.

I used to destroy my perfectly good melon the same way.

Emulating bad ideas in new ways

was a onetime pastime of mine.

Giving it up was harder than I had expected.

Flawed thinking blends so freely with my mental landscape

I have trouble distinguishing it.

Condemning the action and not the man

is not usually my preferred method.

I would rather condemn the man.

But this leaves me with the actions in place

and him long gone and though I prefer him gone

I will recreate him within myself

if I don’t flush his actions as well.

I have a good pumpkin on my shoulders

but it is my job to keep it intact.

Breaking my own Glass

January 10

BREAKING MY OWN GLASS

The police of a small town caught a serial glass breaker today. The man who owned a plate glass repair shop was breaking store front windows. I break my own. I go through my life; I slash my own tires and break my own glass. I fear continuity, stability, success. I love damage control, making arts and crafts from my slivers and shards.

“Think what you could do with undamaged goods,” says my sponsor.

I don’t know how to do anything with undamaged goods, except damage them or give them to others.

“Saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she counters.

“Stick around,” I tease.

I can make a quilt from discarded clothes, mosaics from shattered dishes, collage from junk mail. I can hold your hand and cheer you on. See the potential in every person in a crowded hall. Rescue every stray on the block.

“What have you done for you lately?” my sponsor taunts.

She is making my point. What can I do for me? Search and destroy? Live outside myself? I have to be sober to be me. I can’t go around making messes so I have something familiar to wallow in. What if I can’t do anything fresh?

“Learn to market the retreads,” she says.

Watch an old thing in a new way.

*

Hoarfrost

On balmy evenings dew forms in my life

and moistens my extremities.

This friendly act requires the maintenance of temperature.

If I become suddenly cool the landscape changes

and the once welcoming vapor

is now a show of crystalline rigidity.

Cold to the morning light I am brittle

and snap at even a tentative touch.

For want of passion I have replaced it

with definition and structure I can not absorb.

I am outlined clearly but no longer myself.

I am frozen, formally changed within and without.

Warmth is necessary, but how to start my own fire?

Learn I must and quickly, lest frostbite set in.

In a Backwater

January 9

IN A BACKWATER

There is a place so removed, uninspired, ignorance flourishes. I hate to go there. I avoid it when I can. Today I could not avoid it. Today I saw the gable end of a small barn, half hidden in the scrub trees. On the face of the gable end are two plywood cutouts, large, taking up the major portion of the space. The first cutout is a budgie, a bright blue parakeet, 7 or 8 feet tall. Tilted to its side, it looks dyslexic, but intriguing. Above it is a cutout of a black guitar, similar length, hanging long ways across the top, almost from eave to eave. I don’t know what it means, why they are there, who could have put them there.

A story’s tongue is sticking out at me; I can hardly bear it. I think of God, and laugh. If my God has nothing better to do than tease me, I need a better God. I think of my Higher Power and wonder if the power is curious, too. Am I overlapping a layer of consciousness I have no part in? Is this a subliminal preview of my future? Or am I far too nosy for my own good? My sponsor says the latter. I just don’t know. It could be something all together different. I have only time. Time will tell in the end; it always does. I hate to wait.

Compare and contrast eggplant and green beans.

*

Crestfallen

“Whoa is me,

I have crested the rise only

to slide down the other side.

Hard work and determination culminated in victory

but alas it was short lived.

Success is barely meaningful if it is permanent.

Poor, poor dear,

I will have to strive once more

at the face of a new challenge or even worse

might have to make another run at this one.

How shall I ever bear it?” I lament, my sponsor smiles.

“Are you learning to be amused at yourself

or hoping to bring back melodrama to the everyman?”

She queries.

“A little of both I think,

whining is a consolation to me,

” I reply.

“It’s nice that you’re not doing it at me,

but even nicer that you have let your achievements

teach you to laugh at your mishaps,”

said my sponsor with a kiss to my forehead.