Channeling

August 31

CHANNELING

It’s a full feeling to be a channel.  Only an empty feeling when it’s blocked at the base of my spine and God can’t go to my head.  The river flows through me and my banks will hold.  Excuses dam me up and leave a dry and lifeless basin, with tributaries taxed for usefulness.  Staying in the groove conveys my Higher Power’s will without need of my furrowed brow.  A hose with no water running is a place for spiders to spin.  If I shut off to service, I am a breeding ground for creeping sadness and shocking misery.  Compliance allows me the view of flowing strength and rushing joy, the greatest of which is living with intent.

Repeat until you chant.

*

Shadow of Doubt

The long dark cast covers my face,

my thoughts…….. my life;

it is the light blocked by my skepticism.

To tear down the obstruction

means a profound change of my internal architecture;

walls will have to be knocked down, windows installed.

The poor mouthed structure

takes better to the steamroller than I wish it would.

I fear the loss of my hideout,

panic at the thought of a life in the sun.

Skepticism builds a paper world;

opaque, weak yet frightening to tear apart.

The Call

August 30

THE CALL

Within the sound of your voice

I sing

In the beat of your heart

I heal

I feel in your touch

And dance when your toe starts to tap

I see myself in your beauty

I warm inside your embrace

Your thoughts are my inspiration

Your lungs breathe me in and blow me out

I soar in your flight

And dream in your waking

I ring in your ears

Fall with your tears

I’m lost in you

Found in you

Travel and lounge in you

I share all your rantings

And hide in your secrets

You hear and caress me

My darling

You know who I am

Return to an old joy for a visit.

*

Rex

Hungry dogs who love me anyway,

dance around waiting to be fed.

If they didn’t love they

would take bloody bites and I don’t forget it.

These puppies have teeth,

like cigarettes I want to smoke but don’t.

And meanwhile back on the farm

I seek to quiet the whines and barking

of the unfed, malnourished familiarity

which writhes at my ankles and jumps at my knees.

I can no longer pat my disquiet on the head

and expect it to stay or heal.

I must hunt down the beast which bothers me

and feed the meat of it to the pups.

I must not leave the lopers to quarry my burden

if I want to remain master

and leave them to be pet.

Satisfaction

August 29

SATISFACTION

Satisfaction is like a marble in my pocket.  Formed when correctness was still red hot and my sponsor rolled my mind until I was whole.  I sigh and square my shoulders.  I know I am up to any task.  I am skilled with my tools and know well the talents of my intimates and helpmates.  I am not invincible but I am capable.  I value who and what I am today.  I sleep the sleep of a person not a hostage or a captor.  I am me.  I have a marble in my pocket and it reminds me of the world.  I have a world within me; knowing how to live with that is a great satisfaction.

Listen clearly to angry words but don’t repeat them.

*

Even at the Bottom

Why is it that I feel God leads me to the path,

but expects me to travel it alone?

In all honesty it feels more like God leads me

to the stairs and I fall down them on my own.

I lay in a heap at the bottom

filled with self-reproach for the landing.

I forget that a power which draws me forward

can also endure.

I did not come here alone,

I will not leave here alone;

I am never alone,

even at the bottom of the stairs.

Public Privacy

August 28

PUBLIC PRIVACY

My public privacy is protected by my smile not my scowl.  Maintaining boundaries as I travel the common areas of life is more readily accomplished by a pleasant demeanor than a dark stare.  I have used negative attitude and found myself outside of my own protection.  The buoyancy of my manner keeps surface tension a natural and acceptable reality.  Hooded behavior drags every interaction into suspicion.  When I make part of my business to put others at ease, it is easier for me to preserve my business as my own.

Put clothes on ambition.

*

The Slick Nature of Grace

The higher I climb the more severe the fall;

the sweeter my life the more brittle my blood sugar.

I must be more careful as I get better.

I thought being sober would make my life free from care,

but I think it is a freedom from fretting

that might be more accurate.

I must still climb and take in all the sweetness

which comes my way,

but always I must vigilantly keep my balance.

Hold on tighter; eat more protein.

Grace is a glorious thing

and I am the consecrated recipient

who knows the slickness of the slopes

and the cunning of the glucose.

Daring to be sober is an athletic endeavor

I must tighten my cleats

and sharpen my sweet tooth.

The Dreamer

August 27

THE DREAMER

“What about the dreamer?”

“What about her?” responds my sponsor.  “You ask me about her like I was the one who pushed her off the cliff.”

“Are you saying I pushed her?” I questioned my sponsor.

“Yes, that is just what I am saying. Do you need me to sing it?  You wanted the dreamer to fly off to safety and happiness and wanted her to take you with her.  In an attempt to grab hold of her ankles and propel her to heaven you threw her from the precipice. Now she is broken and bleeding far from your sight.  Your dreamer is damaged and you ask me what about her.  Do you want to know what you did and how to remedy it or were you looking to duck responsibly?”

“Quack.”

Run before you fly.

*

Defining the Indefinable

What is Alcoholism?

What is a Hurricane?

What is a Cataclysm?

I know I look for the root cause,

look to predict the outcome,

look to prevention and preservation.

This thing which comes pouring

from the four winds

to land in my yard

and knock on my screen door.

What it shows me today,

the furious winds,

the slanting rain,

may not be how it presents tomorrow,

I must keep in mind it is all the same storm

and must be regarded with the same respect

and treated with the same care and diligence.

Whether it’s the thirst or the thinking,

a jail cell or my mental mouse trap,

alcoholism is an umbrella term for the tsunami,

which came to collect me,

but no definition will convey the devastation it has wrought.

Natural Law

August 26

NATURAL LAW

Gravity is always in effect, but invoke the laws of lift and you can make a stone fly.  I have no gills but strap on a tank and rebreather; I can share space with sharks.  Given enough willingness and step work I can walk through the world sober though every cell of my body is alcoholic.  The laws of nature are fluid.  When I flow with them I can keep my goals.  Instant gratification is often my stumbling block.  Gaining access to my far-flung desires is not impossible but it is also not immediate.

Make little plans with salt and big plans with sugar.

*

Make Use of Brown Soap

When I have death in my pocket

it makes it easy to cross the street without a glance.

A little arsenic in my in my veins

allows me to swallow the rest with no thought beyond want.

Twist the screws tight enough in my brain

and no other pressure seems problematic.

All of the trouble in the world can beat a path to my door

when I carry within me the seeds of destruction.

I have to check myself for stow-away devastation.

Ruin begins in tiny droplets but will wash me down the drain

if not wiped immediately from my skin.

Vigilant acknowledgement of the power of small burdens

protects me from the mind blown ravages of the ensuing cyclone.

Microbes cause mayhem,

so I must watch where I touch and wash before I eat.

Autumn

August 25

AUTUMN

The falling leaves slap my hand as I ride the road at fifty miles per, my arm dangling

The trees are shedding their masquerade

Exposed they stand stark, stripped

Naked to the soul

The growth of this year's yearning waves on the fringe

I can follow this lead

Remove pretense not clothing

Stand before all who have an interest in seeing me

Unashamed of my wants

And the things I reach for

I can cast off the uniform of evolution

And enjoy a long winter of truth

Do what you do.

*

Echidna’s Child

The difference between perplexed paranoia

and procrastination is sometimes a subtle distinction.

The confusion which swirls,

confounding me along my trudge,

gets the name of procrastinator.

I am not at all sure I should continue to call it by that name.

I believe that quite possibly I am an internal chimera,

a blend of creatures, both mythic and fantastic,

striving to live as one functioning specter,

in a world too hard for a disparate visage as myself.

When I am most myself,

when the goal is pure and true, I work with a will.

When I am making deadly compromise

and risking my soul for social ease or the approval of the keepers,

my dragon heart rebels and I am struggling

against the fire in my stomach and fear screaming in my head.

I don’t know how to eliminate the conflict,

but for now I will attempt to stop calling myself names.

Campaign

August 24

CAMPAIGN

Sobriety is the Santa Claus, bringing delightful gifts, which make me smile.  Recovery is the Genie, which comes from staying out of bottles.  This Jin makes treasure possible but doesn’t bring it to my door.  The ads and billboards of illusion built a world of booze but no hope for a real life.  I have learned to turn from all the lies of picking up, and live in the possibilities, which open only when I put down the drinking and the thinking.  I don’t need to pin up stockings or rub lamps, just take direction and make willingness my campaign.

Store thoughts, plant seeds.

*

Just Say NO to Bushel Baskets

Spending my life under a bushel basket

kept me from realizing who I am.

I thought because of the close quarters

I knew myself better than those free

to explore the world, yet, alas, no.

I am unaware of the world outside and inside the bin;

this woven covering served to sever

all true communications.

Even in places where my candle burned through,

it couldn’t allow sufficient light, in or out,

for as much as an SOS or a night light.

Here I am, not knowing my abilities…

my possibilities…. or my worth

and there is the world standing,

a startled stranger from me,

for I only know it as the circle

around my feet and nothing more.

Meeting Inventory

August 23

MEETING INVENTORY

The manicurist at the meeting sits and does her nails; the discussion goes on around her as she files away.  Cell phones go off for the people who can’t put their lives on hold for their sobriety.  The knitter knits and the dissenters descend; with the chatting chickens and the grumbling grouse, all these populate the meeting.  It has taken the first half of the hour to take everyone else’s inventory.  I have the remaining 30 to take my own.

Let your evenings reflect your mornings like the sea reflects the sky.

*

Carrion

The trouble with not burying my dead issues

is that in very short order they begin to smell

and not, too long after that they start to attract vultures.

When I am able to drain all the juice out of these botherations

and they become freeze-dried decorations

like Roy Rodger’s Trigger,

I find that I can still climb aboard

but they just don’t take me anywhere.

I have found, just for me,

that I prefer visiting the grave of a past problem

far better than having to live with its corpse,

but then I am funny like that.

I have never been one for hanging on to crucifixion,

other’s or my own.

Forever is not as long as it used to be

August 22

FOREVER IS NOT AS LONG AS IT USED TO BE

What time gives in permanence it takes in fluctuation.  The relationships I stand on to reach, with tippy-toed grasp, the light of heaven flutter like flounder disturbed from their sandy bed.  My mind probes the past looking for the shroud lines to hold up the sails of hope.  Togetherness, the banner of life, bonds to strength, protection from outside and within.  I yearn for a life of love, unbending and calm.  I am met with the tug of war, which ends in mud.  Days stretch into years but years are no protection from terminus.  Forever rings in my head.  Promises I have made to myself, promises I have made to others, promises made to me are nothing in the face of the promise of tomorrow.  Time flows like air over a row of seedlings, fresh and challenging, sustaining life and carrying away familiarity.  Forever is not as long as it used to be.  I can live with that, have to live with it.  I can shake my fist to the sky but it won’t make love last.  It will not keep my heart from loving again.  Sails, which have filled before, will fill again.

Love yourself green or blue or pink.

*

Up to Date

The future is a prison I escape by staying in today.

The tiny windows which open to strange foreknowledge

have barbs rather than bars and inflict painful wounds

when I attempt too close examination.

My business is here and now; the currency like manna,

good only for the duration of the day and nothing further.

Pretty dreams and colossal disaster float as baubles on the horizon

but I need to take down my focus from such far off vistas;

adjusting the optics for a clear view of where I am standing.

Circumscription is what the destiny becomes

when I try to live in it too soon.

Novelty is what it is to be living in the very moment

I am currently breathing in.

How Ever You Can

August 21

HOW EVER YOU CAN

I heard, “let go with love.”

“You know how to do that?” asked my sponsor.

“No, that’s why I’m here to see you, but it sure sounds like something I should do.”

“Well, in a perfect world maybe we can all do it that way, but for now let go with a mean look in your eye.  Let go with rage in your heart.  Let go with words boiling on your tongue.  Let go with the butter knife up to its hilt in the jelly jar.  Let go standing at the sink wishing for some other life.  Let go as a reflex.  Let go as an anthem, as a prayer, as a declaration.  Let go even when you don’t feel you are holding on any more.  At the same time hold on to what’s important: your recovery, your Higher Power and your sense of humor."

Fly in your dreams.

*

Hang on or Dance

Because I felt ‘outcomes’ slipping through my fingertips

I dug in with my nails, I schemed, plotted, worried, whined.

Lack of power was my problem I thought,

but what it came down to was, failure to acknowledge… accept…

failure to surrender to the reality of powerlessness.

The only thing I learned from resistance

was an intimate knowledge of futility.

When I embraced truth… the facts…

when I live with the gravity of masses not fight against it;

I began to enjoy the weather,

knowing I did not pull the clouds or push the storm.

I’m back in the dance of people moving about me,

all keeping with the time, it is not mine to keep.

The Seduction of Sobriety

August 20

THE SEDUCTION OF SOBRIETY

I was seduced away from my duties as an alcoholic by the promise of sobriety.  Allegiance to my disease was sidelined.  Alluring stability and beguiling integrity curried favor with my desperate heart, pulling me from the arranged marriage of addiction.  How could I cling to the corpse of dependence when sanity shimmered just out of reach, then not out of reach but within my grasp?  I couldn’t resist the golden flicker of life.  I had been bound to death, unable to see an alternative. My loyalty to loss and grief slipped from me and I limped into the daylight like the widow of the night.  I have been lured to my senses by a love like no other, the love of life.

Raise the ceiling on optimism.

*

Blind Man’s Bluff

Turning your head to see

doesn’t help when you have a blind eye.

All the rotation in the world won’t restore your sight.

Addressing life problems with a solution

involving spin is counter productive

and sometimes counter clockwise to boot.

If I find I just can’t see, then maybe

it’s time to listen better and compensate

for my shortcoming through some other action.

Turning away doesn’t help and walking away is worse.

When I am blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other

stepping up to the plate may not be an option,

but I still need to find a way to stay in the game.

Comfort and Willingness

August 19

COMFORT AND WILLINGNESS

Closer than comfort is willingness.  Comfort is at the skin but willingness is under it. I can live without comfort but not without willingness.  Both are unseen but felt deeply.  Willingness drives to the destination and comfort settles me in once there.  Comfort is a gift like warmth; willingness is a gift like breath.  I have been tempted to let go of willingness to hold on to comfort.  True willingness brings true comfort; never the other way around.  No matter where I have to go, willingness will take me there; I hope comfort will follow.

Draw satisfaction on the wall of your brain.

*

Go Where it’s Warm

The intangible rightness of cohesion is difficult to explain.

What is it that makes a group congregating into a congregation?

What makes a rag tag tousle into a home group?

It is the thing I yearn for, but dare not chase.

I know this too makes a grub into a butterfly,

yet private transformation seems necessary,

where the change of masses is gratuitous.

A thousand geese fly overhead;

arrows of individual miracles,

pointing the way to the meaning of it all.

Don't Be

August 18

DON’T BE

Don’t be stupid.

Don’t be crazy.

Don’t be anything out of the ordinary.

Don’t be angry.

Don’t be hateful.

Just don’t be that way.

Don’t be sad.

Don’t be mopey.

Smile for the camera.

And pretend for everyone.

I wondered often why I felt like dying and it took me years to understand why.

Don’t be equals death.

Don’t feel.

Don’t cry.

Don’t love.

Life is about action, presence and content.  You’re wrong if you break the rules and dead if you keep them.  So, please be you and don’t be them.  Look back when you have to but step out of the grave.

Learn followership too.

*

Single Serving Sterling

When the menu of life feels vast

I must focus on my teaspoon;

a simple tool that fits well in my hand,

whose use I well understand.

The possibilities conceived

when I ponder the intangibles

conspire to suck me down the rabbit-hole

where all that’s left to me is a drug.

When I come back to stir my tea

and lick the spoon clean

the world revolves around me

and without need of my completed unified theory.

Need looms, loss stacks,

salvation keeps a steady distance,

my only hope is to drink my tea,

I shan’t even sharpen my spoon;

I can and need to stay out of my fear built prison

and off the streets of hell.

My task is at hand and the size of the scoop

is a reminder to take all of life in small doses.

In the Prairie

August 17

IN THE PRAIRIE

In the prairie, there are small fenced cemeteries, family plots.  The flat expanse of land opens to the eye; hand carved monuments stand in testimony to love and service.  In these places grow the wild flowers… bluebells, paintbrush, lupines, and all manner of reedy grasses… these places cordoned off from mechanization and  Agra-business.  Held in trust are the bones of loved ones and the soul of nature.  Deep inside me is a place like this.  The place I have buried my young---the little ones who died of shame, neglect, and hurt.  And I must return, not to exhume the dead, but to pay tribute.  To return with honor and love, harvest the daisies and buttercups, grow them in the garden of my heart.  I can tend the flowers that spring from destruction.  I can mingle them with the growth of my sober life; restore my prairie to a splendor it has never known.  I can enjoy the bounty of saving the seeds worth saving, and planting my Higher Power’s will for me. 

Make a list of decoys.

*

Endlessly Moving Maps

I try to survive by memorizing the chaos.

I do well up to five layers deep

and then lose it, as the details become too great.

I am staking my life on my ability to track the patterns

in a storm while at the same time treading water.

I think this skill kept life and breathe in me for many years.

Now I fear I’ll drown in this roiling mass.

I must touch down my tender toes

and learn to walk this twisting path

and keep a pace with this spinning world.

Everything moves and I am overwhelmed.

I have forgotten my flesh and blood nature;

have mistaken myself for a stone, one which dare not roll,

one which has no part in this endlessly moving map.

I Am

August 16

I AM

I am my own hope.

The spring of willingness flows within me and makes everything possible.

I am my own dream.

Colors and sprinkles fly in my mind and mix with a sprite's laugh and make me enchanted.

I am my own joy.

Filled with wonder and delight, my quick turns and ready mind warm my heart and pink my cheeks.

I am my own prize.

New and exciting, every day that I am myself,

I win.

Pith is dry and dead, be marrow.

*

Dewy, Cheatum & Howe

I must radically sever the close connection I have

with self-seeking, self-pity and dishonesty.

What will I use to pay the retainer

for the representation I will need to pursue this divorce?

Willingness is the earnest money,

which will start the ball rolling,

hard work pitches in its share

and faith pays the note each day I apply it.

All this and more is what it takes to divide

the endless stream of my compulsive thought

into a survivable day’s worth of life.

I have the prospect of being happy as a divorcee

or I could be a miserable widow

if I stay wed to my disease.

Things Which are Thicker than Water

August 15

THINGS WHICH ARE THICKER THAN WATER

“Pudding, mud, ice cream, cement, sauce, paint, sap, drool, gravy, wood.” 

“What is that?"  I ask my sponsor.

“A list of things thicker than water.  There are so many; why do people get so hung up on blood?”  responds my sponsor.

“Survival?  Or maybe comfort?  Tradition?"  I counter.

“I’m sure you’re right.  I’m sure there are many benign reasons why we strong-arm one another into relationships with family we may or may not be ready for.”

“You mean the families we drank with?”

“Or sometimes drank to get away from.  But it’s not the family; it’s us.  We have to learn to do what we need to do.  We can’t force ourselves into relations with anyone for any reason other than it’s what is best for our sobriety.  Shoulds and oughts have no place in the family situation.”

“So I can just walk away from them one and all?”

“You can’t do anything in that sweep of the wand.  In the same vein, don’t obligate yourself to people due to viscosity.”

“Got ya.  There has to be a real choice made.”

“Sounds like a promising start.”

Have what you want unless all you want is MORE.

*

The Dark Fantastic

When the tornado touches down worry ends;

the anticipation is over and thought stops.

Tragedy is funny that way.

In the aftermath I find out what mattered

and what didn’t;

whether I have helped or injured myself

trying to plan for the worst.

I fail to realize there are cloud filled days

when nothing happens

and days when trouble comes from out of the blue.

What matters ultimately is if I was happy yesterday

all the way into today until the thunder struck.

Greed is not: living for today;

greed is my attempt at gathering the future

while dragging the past.

Never Let Go

August 14

NEVER LET GO

When it grows dark on one side of a transparency the other becomes reflective.  When addiction doesn’t hold a flame for me, I see the true face of its results.  Because I know now the destructive possibilities, I must print the picture and post it on the wall, for the day may come when addiction appears as a light for me and the mirror will be gone.  I need to keep clear the truth even when my eyes lie to me and my sensibilities catch on fire.  The glass can be the boundary or the tumbler.  The glare of day can be harsh or bright.  Light is forever shifting.  I cannot count on shadows for predictions.  I must know it when I see it, chant it to remember and hold hands and never let go.

Sort advice like laundry.

*

Participant Observer

Underneath it all I am more than naked;

I am hidden by exposure.

My body can never be as nude

as life with you in my thoughts.

My mind is a polygraph you wander through.

I have determined this is more than safe

and unlock the closets.

You are not my warden looking for contraband,

nor the janitor looking for trash,

you are here, you are my friend.

Having a better look around

simply to know me better

and to love me well.

Your unfamiliar stride is exciting,

I show off the places I long for you to see

and stand aside from the rest,

it is all yours to look through.

I do not resist.

You are my peaceful guardian;

I am your willing charge.

How Red is Red?

August 13

HOW RED IS RED

I check my color and contrast; I paint the setting sun.  Add a bit of yellow and fill to the edge burgeoning poppies.  Add more blue and paint the blood which pools around my mind, the equalizer of all my mental conversations.  Too much is never enough.  As the story goes, I pursue my shades and signatures.  Too much for the fingers and not enough for the toes, I disregard fraudulent crimson. I scale the mountains of intention looking for perfection.  The leach of my addiction drains the other colors from my rainbow.  My sponsor asks only one question.

“How red is red?”

Allow your thoughts to be neighborly with your feelings.

*

Phillips Head

What’s stuck in makes the thing.

What sticks out is all that’s seen.

I can tell so much from what is left out,

yet there is much I will never know, can never tell.

The twist, the give, the opening to variation

is known, but never acknowledged.

Somehow indecent if spoken

or thought of too loudly, insinuation is ignored

Society allows us to focus on

what is held after or due to this act.

We have built the whole world

on what we can screw together.

But we will merely hallow this,

never embrace the fact until it falls apart.

Then we exclaim over the rawness

of how it caused us to be turned around,

The risk and wrongness,

ignoring just how much good

can come from just a simple screw.

What's Wrong with this Duck?

August 12

WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS DUCK?

This duck looks fine sitting on the edge, the rubber face frozen in a permanent grin.  The appearance is flawless as long as it is not called to duty; no one will ever know.  Stay still.  Don’t jump.  When dropped in the water, this creature, born for the tub, lays on its side, one eye looking at the ceiling, the other straight at the bottom.  Floating is occurring but something is oh, so wrong.  As indelicate as it may seem this duck needs a very big squeeze, no kid gloves and tender touches.  This duck has sucked in old bath water and misused ideas.  Only a big push in the right direction will get this rancid stuff out, and though the duck will get bent out of shape there is no reason it can’t bounce back.  That’s the wonderful thing about rubber; it is flexible and resilient even if it doesn’t always volunteer.

Set up a lighthouse for the rockiest shores in your life.

*

Seen on the Street

Sometimes graffiti improves a place,

other times it degrades it.

I now wonder; is this defined by the breaking

or breaching of public norms?

Or is it built from the intent of the artist/perpetrator?

Possibly the pedestrian traffic or the light of day

determine the difference between art and recalcitrance.

What if all these factors,

flashing like a neon kaleidoscope

facilitated what this all really means?

What if it all signifies nothing

other than yet another way for me to entertain my brain

while avoiding work?

I guess I better get back to the spray cans,

I have a wall to cover.

I Know

August 11

I KNOW

I know more than I understand.  I know more than I let on.  I know right from wrong, left from right, uphill from down.  I know you have my best interest at heart.  I know I often don’t.  I know it hurts when I fall but holding on isn’t easy.  I know that wanting is not needing and needing is not enough.  I know old thinking breeds old action but new thinking is often wild and requires two minds for review.  I know to look three ways before crossing the street because trouble sometimes hits head on.  I know that if life is the question yes is the answer.

Instruct the youth living within.

*

T before S

When happiness is hard work

I have to learn to look for the lie.

There must be a lie, for happiness flows

unrestrained when not dammed.

What was built too far up river for me to see,

dries out my once liquid existence;

leaving me to flounder in the shallows.

I can’t allow myself to flop in the muck

of waters muddied with deceit.

I will permit myself to look for clear bright prospects

from melting glaciers and accustom myself to the invigoration

of a life lived under a loving watchful eye.

Mortification

August 10

MORTIFICATION

Lime with envy, I built a wall around.  Love and hate are enclosed, brick and stone.  Rigor of extremities, the discipline of ages falls so short.  I make no in-depth connections; I coat externals with glue, stack reactions and let the bombs fly.  I mix and crush old habits and bad ideas, make a paste.  I am setting myself up again.  Abstinence becomes the pestle of bludgeoning and abasement.  I am hard and I am hollow; with wounded pride, I subjugate my soul.  My life is reduced to a powder.  I am mortified.

Spread oil from your navel out.

*

Michal Rovner

I have numbered all the blocks in my ancestral walls.

This has enabled me to recreate them

stone by stone everywhere I go.

It all fits to create the tomb I now have to learn to leave.

I must change the equation and reorder the numbers

allowing these rocks to be recycled

and find a wonderful useful life

as a stairway out of this pit of despair.

What was once an edifice to lives unlived

is now able to facilitate elevation,

a restoration of a level playing field.

It was not wrong for me to catalog the stone

and there was no way for me to leave them behind,

but nothing matches the satisfaction of using them to build a life,

except for the ability to live in it.

Hawaiian Graffiti

August 9

HAWAIIAN GRAFFITI

White pebbles spell themselves across the black of lava grown cold.  Personal announcements proclaim love, school pride, religious freedom.  The care of placement and consideration of design make the roadside an ongoing mineral memo.  What message would I care to share?  What words would prompt me to bring a pail of crushed marble to the edge of the road?  Is there a truth so urgent I would take time from paradise to spell it out?  A few more miles and I see the words I live by strewn down the thoroughfare, “it works if you work it.”

Joint your possibilities.

*

Pick up Your Hammer and Saw

The task infers the tool, I know this,

yet I resist clearly mapping my insanity.

I look into the well of my despair

then quickly I look away,

I fear informing God what I need

lest the need be filled.

I need to believe that a power will heal me,

but if I am provided with the force of life,

I shrink from the prospect.

This too, must be added to the list

of my emotional woes and mental shortages.

This too, will be healed.

I look at my problems

and then realize, that like the moon,

who pulls the water from dry shore to dry shore,

solutions are installed in heaven and earth

if I know what the problem is.

Penny Tor Your Thoughts

August 8

PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS

There is a penny in the bathtub.  I wonder who stood in there with loose change.  Possibly confusing it for a wishing well, the penny was tossed in.  The stories I could tell the hopes that tantalize my mind, elves and leprechauns, dreamers and optimists all trundle through my thinking.  When I don’t know the answer, I can now at least look for the best, the sweetest thoughts.  I don’t run to the dark and threatening disasters.  I have lost the lease to my personal black cloud, the one that used to follow wherever I went.  I can smile now and think of pennies from heaven.  The first drop landed in my tub.

Think of what a spider and a whale have in common.

*

Stand- Hear

The spins and pirouettes I have preformed

in an attempt to avoid facing the music,

were impressive but futile and ultimately

delayed the beauty possible for me in this life.

When I stop my running and turn on my heel

there is a world of harmony waiting

to take me for a turn out on the dance floor.

Melody is not what I was expecting.

I was so sure I would be drummed out of my life,

not trumpeted in.

My surety set in motion much of my convoluted activity

and caused me great distress.

It is high time I listen with eyes open

and my reactions leashed;

Allowing the tune to introduce me to life

and lead me to my bliss.

Presto!

August 7

PRESTO!

Just because I own pointy boots doesn’t mean I can corral the cows.  I have in my possession many things of subtle intent, but they can’t just transform me.  The wings from Halloween don’t make me an angel.  The Big Book on the shelf won’t sober me up. Nothing holds the magic to change me.  I can only change with help.  Action, action and more action is the magician's sleight of hand.  It slides my hand from glass to grace.  I don’t need to pull a rabbit from my hat.

Play with your oatmeal.

*

I Beg

The embarrassment of need

is a haunting guest who will not leave.

I turn in a tight circle trying to find a way

to detach  this wart and move gracefully

from the site of devastation.

But it looms large

and overshadows today’s possibilities

and robs tomorrows gold.

What I cannot do for myself,

the magic I cannot yet perform,

stands between me and contentment.

It stands there wearing your face;

touching my mind with your fingertips.

I pray that you are not the answer

for I cannot depend on you.

I think of you and the little bell rings

and I am hungry.

Desire is a gift, desiring you is the burden

whose shadow I cannot escape.

I close my eyes to the light you emit;

I cannot close my heart, all that’s left is pleading;

please come home and fill me or leave

and lock the door and let me grieve in peace.

Alice

August 6

ALICE

Because I even wore out my welcome at the Mad Hatter’s house, I can sit on my hands at my sponsor's table and listen, listen, listen.  If I had been able to make a place for myself with the looking-glass folk, I could never have let myself lose my eccentricities and join in the fellowship.  Going down further than a rabbit hole, I lost my need to chase or scramble after bunnies for time or card tricks.  No more illusions for me.  I am awake and shaded by the tree of AA branching over me.  Sisters I didn’t know take my hand.

Dance with change.

*

I didn’t mean to make you laugh

You think I’m witty, well, yes, I have always been like this,

no one knew quite what to do with me as a small child,

but I have grown into this acumen,

or possibly grown out into it, is closer to accurate.

I was dark witted when I was young,

I think of myself as less so now,

optimism is a blessing I have gained through the years,

it feels good and I keep it close.

I need to be a blithe spirit to travel the road I do.

Tears have their place, I know that for sure,

but I rather not go around with a puss on all day and all night.

Additionally it is so much about perspective; you see,

the honey makes the peas taste funny

but now they stick to my knife.