Wee Hours

September 30

WEE HOURS

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

Change everything, change yourself.

*

No Substitute for Fire

I wanted alcohol to do better for me than burning did.

I was constantly disappointed, yet I kept trying.

I was not to find pleasure in that bottle

though I had no problem finding addiction there.

This is how I came to believe

that there is not an upside to everything.

Booze took me to surprising destinations,

but never the ones I desired.

I sought release,

the release I got from a wildfire spreading across my skin

and this might have been mine

had I poured the liquor on rather than in.

But in me it did no good,

it never let me exhale

the way that the “right” kind of pain did.

What I got from alcohol drove me though;

Fear rode me roughshod and I found my way home,

it was a bumpy road,

but once there we doused the flames

and I live the upside I had come to doubt,

because fire is no substitute for life.

Death Practice

September 29

DEATH PRACTICE

“Why do you practice death like it were a skill?  Do you fear you lack ability?  Or, because it’s your goal, have you made it your hobby?”

Beleaguered by the questions of my sponsor I search quickly for some believable response.  “I confused calm with death and thought I was practicing the former…..Death came for a holiday, how could I refuse it?…..It’s a test drive, if I like it I can keep it.”  My sponsor doesn’t think I’m funny.

“Check your motives, wants and desires.  Make sure death is what you really want, that it’s not just your fallback position because you fear life.  Don’t get me wrong, I hope death is a good thing, but why try to chew tomorrow’s food when your plate is full of today?

Ride change.

*

Moniker

The Hurt carry on the tradition,

would never think to give it up,

don’t even know there is that option,

strap on their weapons without a second thought.

How can there be a second thought

when there never was a first.

Hurt is a reflex

and it moves its way through the world

like dominoes tumbling;

Everything’s knocked down

before you ever saw it standing.

So, what’s the use anyway?

So, I fall down and in that action push you forward

and we are all together in the mud.

But it is so hard to recognize anyone in the mud,

including myself and especially you.

If I hurt you that makes it hard for me to see

anything about you except my wish for your departure,

Which I subconsciously hope will take away the guilt

I can’t afford to feel.

If I make it out of the mud I can’t afford anything,

but if I don’t pay up I’ll be in new mud soon,

So I must break tradition

and the first step toward that is seeing it

and the second is calling it by its name.

Lineage

September 28

LINEAGE

People stand in the queue and I stare, lost in contemplation and compliance.  I weigh the conflicts and complications.  Is this the method to clear identification?  I think I am better known for the lines I’ve crossed, the times I press between warm souls and force myself to the area beyond.  How can I wait my turn for generational stew when the fruit trees bear life for those who break free from ruts and rumbles to bite deeply the flesh of the future?  I can’t stand here though I love so many in this line, I cannot love the line itself.  I must step through, breathe, stretch my legs and mind, take leave of grids and locks, to live a lonelier but healthier life, all caused by a change in direction.

Enjoy change like flowers before the fruit.

*

Kicks

New balance is more than a brand of sneakers.

New balance is a joyful revelation

made possible through constant vigilance.

I am tap dancing into a vision,

no more soft shoed wishfulness.

I can lift my feet knowing I can keep my up right posture;

my musculature robust from climbing

the steps and accepting direction.

This bright tempo delights me;

I feel stretched, subtle, able-bodied.

Life off the balance beam offers me the world

in which to embrace my equilibrium.

Pirouettes

September 27

PIROUETTES

I turn and spin; the world flashes as I go.  I am erect, proud of my self-possession.  I can stand the forces of vector rotation, public opinion and gravity.  Sobriety has made a dancer out of me.  I sprint the stage and take my place.  I know the moves and trust, as best I can, the choreographer and the choreography.  I feel the wind move on my body as I revolve, the blur of existence spreads out before me.  I can let it all pass.  To spot myself and keep my upright posture, the only place that requires my clear and unobstructed view is the line of sight from my sponsor’s eyes to mine.

Let your work speak.

*

A Verse to the Wise

Encoding truth into poetry

makes reality survivable by giving readers

the opportunity to dig truth up like diamonds.

Throwing certainty in people’s faces like cold water

gives them a wakeup call but nothing to embrace.

The beauty of semaphore is the dance

that need not be understood by everyone who sees it.

Communication through device

leaves headroom and breathing space

while acceptance might be reached.

The current of a conversation

often leads me to face the facts,

but a tsunami of candor could drown me.

Screaming Lethargy

September 26

SCREAMING LETHARGY

The screaming lethargy of being alive after many years of wanting something else, the exhaustion of pulsing, breathing, waves and waves of thinking.  Yet as tired as I am, I am.  Here without a doubt, I stand.  No crawling for I have not fallen, no climbing for I have reached the plain.  I wait for the rain to wash over me, the truth to run through me, time to pass by me.  As if on a free trip to an unwelcome destination I arrive with randomly packed bags and low expectations.  I’m here now.  The train doesn’t seem to be moving on.  I might as well leave the station, nothing to do on the platform.  There may be points of interest or flowers to be smelled.  I step haltingly and fear making any connection to this unbidden place.  My name is unknown; I befriend the lamppost, the birds, the street.  I am tired of travel, fearful of arrival.  Fury courses through my veins but the weather is pleasant, I might take off my coat and stay.

Plan a trip with no destination.

*

One Street off Amory

Apology holds change at arms length.

Apology is the thing I was taught to wait for

as a sign that things will improve,

but apology is not a harbinger of change.

It is quite the opposite

it is the guarantor of business as usual;

no amendment need occur,

apology has been made and life goes on with no alteration.

Without variation we all stay sick

and apologizing for that won’t get us better.

Restitution, amends, revelation, revolution

these are the things which make the world bright,

Apology is just a scrap with which to wipe your ass.

Optical Illusions

September 25

OPTICAL ILLUSIONS

“Like my new frames?” I ask my sponsor.

“Who wrote your prescription?”

“Oh, the lenses aren’t new, just the frames,” I reply.

“You want to be seen differently but you want to see things the same old way.  My question still stands.  Who wrote you the script for those funhouse glasses you have used all your life? Did it ever occur to you the distortion is ground into the glass?  Remember, some people need you to see things as other than what they are.  Unhappy families look great if you can’t see them too clearly.  It’s hard to know what to say to keep the peace, said Grandma.  She never took off her specs to see there was no peace to keep.  So, I will ask you again.  The view of the world you base your choices on, who chose the color you see it through?”

Breathe to improve your mind and mood.

*

Green Wood

When a nail is hammered into a living tree,

the tree is forever changed.

Even if the barb is pulled out

he tree will never be the same.

If the spike remains and the tree lives;

over time the nail will be incorporated,

the tree will get on with the business of living

and carry the thing as just a part of what it took to get here.

What was trauma is trauma,

but life is big and the longer it gets

the larger the life, is the hope.

Piercing experience is engulfed by rings of fresh wood

and a will to grow beyond the moment of impact.

The tree branches out and even a hundred nails can’t stop that.

Works

September 24

WORKS

I cry the waterworks so necessary to the healing of my heart.  I explode with the fireworks required for anger to set living boundaries.  I sleep the sleep of angels, as I link to dreamworks allowing mental maintenance to occur.  Slipping into my political face I make time for public works.  I return to my abode, call the pie maker and order ‘the works.’  Have it delivered so I can face the mountain of homework waiting for me and bearing my name.

Suggest solutions in your diary.

*

No Dialing Tonight.

When it is late at night and I can’t sleep

I wander and putter and plan my dreams.

I hold out hopes and wash their faces;

pray for rain and clean all traces.

Thunderstorms rumble and lightning strikes;

I tune up the plumbing and wipe down the pipes.

All the paint and promises in the world won’t change me;

I’m still lost in the dark without you.

Tear stains are friendly till I wash them away

leaving blotchy eyes that can’t be explained;

an aching heart that keeps on ticking

and wishes that can’t come true.

Sunday morning is here, too soon

and life rolls on whether you think it should.

Tiny thoughts come out to play

and sad, sad fears keep them at bay.

But the dog is curled up under the covers without a care;

I long to disturb her but do not dare.

She is the queen here and I’m but the naïve;

I’ll tend to my writing and try to be brave.

For the dawn will follow this endless nocturne;

the whole world will be safe once more.

I will cry but it’s all too late;

though you are merely a phone call away.

Wild

September 23

WILD

When I run wild through the rain my hair streaming behind me, water fleeing my face, I see with my heart the thousand other rains pouring from my past.  How I peel from me the soaking luggage covering my naked pain.  Nothing drives me to the cozy retreat of my bed like the humid chill of an early fall drizzle.  I slip my trembling skin between the comfort and the comforter, flex my toes, towel my hair, wipe scenes of lost love from my pale, pale soul.  Leaves rush my gutters, clog my mind.  I see the change in me as I turn heel to heel, trees spinning bare in a blank wet world.  I know this ever relived fluid, this recycled life.

Interest yourself.

*

What is Dear?

I am angry that I was taught I must hold on for dear life

instead of being taught that life is dear,

but they couldn’t teach me what they didn’t know

and couldn’t know what they had not discovered for themselves.

I wish I had learned earlier

to love the life I was taught to cling to,

but I am grateful I have been bound to life

long enough to find the joy in it.

I have found that knowing joy

causes me to cling all the more,

cling in sweetness to what was once such a bitter task.

I am angry for what I wasn’t taught,

but sadder still for what they didn’t know

and all that is lost in their lives to ignorance and tradition.

I wanted better for them

and they wanted better for me

and this is the circle which closes

around the dear that I hold onto.

Megaphone

September 22

MEGAPHONE

The point of surviving, or maybe the goal after survival, is enabling the voices of victims to be heard, starting with my own.  I allow the surging waves of thought and feeling to rush the gates and exit.  I try to bleed the bad with and without the use of leaches.  So much is stumbled upon rather than sought after.  Some things hound me; I run down the street with memory at my heels.  I must let the screams out or become them.  Today I talk, tomorrow is for others.  When I pour forth, I open the way for the rest.  I have become the megaphone rather than the cheerleader.  It is good to be of use.

Pollinate ideas.

*

Peace Time

I have been to the wars and through the wars

and now sit on the stoop and wonder;

will I learn to live here in the world of everyday

after having had to spend so much time running for cover.

Each time I return to what I believe is my home

I sit and rock trying to pour my soul back inside

from my hipflask where it was held for safekeeping.

I try not to spill a drop

for it is worse than shed blood and harder to rebuild.

My soul has grown pale from confinement and lack of sun,

but it still exists and for that I pat my back

and suck on my Lifesaver;

I could have done worse, was unable to do better.

I console myself with the knowledge

I never started the conflict just learned to survive it.

Self-Seeking is a Debt

September 21

SELF-SEEKING IS A DEBIT

Trying to get credit for everything I do has run me into debt in my anonymity account, which draws directly from my humility bank.  I cannot expend my resources seeking acknowledgement and expect to retain much dignity or class.  How can I build within while constantly grasping for nods and smiles from scenery and landscaping?  I want approval so much that I have lost my center.  In an attempt to top the charts I forgot my song.  My ego writes checks that my soul can’t cover.  I run my potential into the red looking to get my name in black and white.  If I keep my name out of lights I have a chance of building up my dignity.

Own your own blocks.

*

No Jinn

I molested the touch control lamp.

I had no trouble turning it on,

but could never figure how to turn it off;

therefore I let the light shine in the daytime.

I called looking for guidance,

“lick your fingers then try again,” was the glib suggestion.

I offered that I was not interested

in becoming that intimate with said lamp.

Sometimes connections are made easily,

other times they cannot be made at all,

still there are times the renewal of a connection

is determined by my willingness to up the ante.

Am I willing to put a little spit into the effort

or will I leave the light to burn?

Just a Taste of Sunshine

September 20

JUST A TASTE OF SUNSHINE

The sunrise is so beautiful I want to taste it.  Like a child who needs to put everything in her mouth to really know it, I feel the need for a bite.  I want to participate in every way.  I want to blend with the color of the sky, join the horizon and dip beyond.  Look at me, who in the past sounded every retreat, now I leap toward life.  I stretch my arms to take it all in, merging with the continuum on this greatest of adventures.  The sun raises the charge and I lick my lips in anticipation.

Find the stop signs in your life.

*

Mercy

The rearview holds the vision,

the sad figure on the corner as I drive away,

all that is left to me are memories of God,

the rest I ejected and sped from as fast as I could.

I cannot face what is left

when I make God homeless and unloved.

Though living together was tough sometimes,

living alone is unbearable.

Nothing cooks right, cleans right, tastes right or smells right,

even the moon won’t rise right when I am strictly on my own.

And God wasn’t built for the streets,

that corner is not someplace my Higher Power fits in.

We are meant to be together

and apart the world spins off its measure.

Pitiful is what I am, so I swing around the block,

fling open the door and take pity on God and go home.

Humility

September 19

HUMILITY

A great woman walks my street everyday.  She carries a tall walking stick with a loop for her hand.  Each morning I see her low crown of hair and the half-smile, her friendly wave when I catch her eye.  Each morning when I see her I see the secret play across her face, humility.  This is the secret she cannot share.  I know she would sing it from the mountaintops if it would help, but humility is not a secret you can tell; it’s a secret you have to live with.  As I slowly learn this precious thing I see it shine in others.  Recognition of the persons with inborn dignity and a keen understanding of their personal value lights inside me.  When I see this fine woman walking with purpose, I appreciate myself better and am so very grateful for those who keep humility alive by living it.

Know your friends well and your books better.

*

Toolbox

I know just how hard it is to pick up the right tools.

It's like I know I have a hammer in the drawer,

in fact I have two, so, why oh, why do I feel compelled

to hit things with the heel of my shoe?

Trust and believe it is ineffective at best;

additionally it is embarrassing.

I wish I could say I have done this a handful of times,

unfortunately, I have done it over and over,

it’s hell on my shoes and worse on my morale.

Using what is at hand or foot may seem practical,

but it is not prudent.

Walking myself through the step by step process;

reading and following directions is easier

but only when I disengage the lie that says it’s harder.

Smarts

September 18

SMARTS

Intelligence should be used as a tool not a weapon.  Intelligence is as common as silica and can be used to do anything, so, why not as a helping hand, lifeline, foothold?  Intelligence doesn’t preclude ignorance, arrogance or stupidity.  Nor does it eliminate selfishness, greed or anarchy.  Intelligence is not a substitute for wisdom and cannot hold a candle to kindness.  Intelligence makes things possible, help and hurt; intention makes the decision.  Intelligence is like a hand full of sand.

Pair your books for companionship.

*

Buffoon

Never juggle knives and butter at the same time

or you will just spread your problems around.

Passing on the knives is the first best idea,

leaving the butter in the dish is the second.

I have gotten many funny schemes into my brain;

gotten them in with ease,

it is the getting them out of my brain I struggle with.

Crowbars and coercion have been my favored tools;

ineffective though they may be, I am persistent,

while wishing to be dexterous.

It took me years to realize the problem with juggling is

that it begins with me throwing things

and ends with disaster if I can’t catch it all.

What slips through my fingers

through daily living is hard enough

what I throw into the fray for showmanship is, too much.

I needn’t be the fool flinging my pins

when my goal is to stay on them.

Hatchling

September 17

HATCHLING

When the shell gets too tight it’s time to hatch.  I can’t tell you it’s safe out there, just that it’s time to go.  The leaving is not easy.  Exodus fulfilled by the use of one small tooth.  This experience may or may not prepare you for the rest of your life, so much still depends on predestination and your attitude.  I mean are you a chicken or a hawk?  A peacock or dove?  Or is there something of which I am unaware?  Did someone sit on your nest or was it covered in sand?  Are you turtle, lizard or snake?  See, so much is out of your hands, but still your actions are your choice.

Touch your books and pet them.

*

Ovoid

I can pretend at this normal life for a period of time

then the plaster starts to crack on this white picket fence

and it’s all down hill from there.

I am better than I was;

I am happier and more well adjusted,

yet I am still far from fitting with the standard fittings,

I am an off size, my threads run counter to the average fixture,

I spent too much time on the rack

to resemble anything from off the rack.

It’s not that I am so special;

it is just that I am Special Ed.

Performance anxiety and paranoia regularly take me out of round

though even with these kept at bay I am not your normal nut.

I assure you that you can dress me up and take me out,

just don’t try to take me home.

Rooftop Coffee

September 16

ROOFTOP COFFEE

Who is more powerless: the person driving down the road with his cup of coffee on the roof of the car, or the one who sees it happen?  Lost in mental chaos, lost to the small things, I set the cup and forget, or content and serene, I am examining details and notice the oddness.  When my mind wanders I am helpless in the whirlpool and suction.  When I am grounded I am struck by the separate sealedness of the carnival around me.  Potential rides on the top; will it fall forward or back?  Will there be a sticky haze on the front windshield or the rear?  Or I could remember at the stoplight and spare myself everything but the embarrassment.  As the observer I try to be helpful, I point and jump and shout, calling the predicament to the attention of others in an attempt to increase my chances of success.  We all stand as the coffee speeds away to unknown disaster.

Wear your boldness like a mane.

*

Hand Washing

I live a simple life now;

I handle life as it is dished up.

I no longer need to make use of the dish prison.

Living an orderly active life I find it untenable

to have my favorite spoon or bowl held hostage

until I make enough mess to run the dishwasher through.

I don’t live an ‘Eight is Enough’ type existence

and need not burden my psyche

trying to save my hands a little soap.

I save the Cascade for visits to waterfalls,

Jet Dry for landing strips.

Whining Brats

Sept 15

WHINING BRATS

Some days whining brats come at me from all directions and my hair won’t curl.  Apathy chases me around the house.  I wonder how it has more energy than I do.  My mind twists into a wrinkled mess; I drag my good foot and hop on the bad one. And even on those days I still rather be me; I never long to be the innocent victim or the spiritual leader, the tough guy or the PhD.  No matter how bad it gets or what the struggle is, there is no place sweeter than in my head.  Many are the days when I wished not to exist, not at all, but never to shuck my skin for the skin of another.  Now that I manage, breathe right and face each day with cheer I know it was almost worth it and might be worth it yet.

Write your name on a piece of paper and slip it into your pocket.

*

Warhol Wouldn’t Be

There is no trick to art.

If I work to make my pieces fit with the familiar

I lose my individuality.

If I make what is truly me

I fear there is no line in which to stand.

I must make the work, find the market,

live life and die happy;

All this with no map

and a world filled with people

who tell me what to do,

but none who can guarantee the outcome.

My unwillingness to fight,

to look at and feel the ugliness of life

is at the core of my impediment.

Killer Squirrels and Other Sober Drama

September 14

KILLER SQUIRRELS AND OTHER SOBER DRAMA

I can tell you stories to make your hair curl: death-defying fifth steps, speaking commitments with microphoned podiums, sponsees with killer squirrels trapped in the house.  Courage and sheer determination are needed to face plague, after crisis, after pestilence, and yet with sober mind and willing heart these travails are surmounted and we live on.  Tears turn to laughter with rescue and remedy.  How strong we feel as the cape is passed, when the one-time panic prone sponsee becomes the model of calm and stable sponsor.  Hoards of relatives at holidays and interactions with bankers, police officers and all manner of people in shiny shoes are handled with grace and boundaries.  Porch loving skunks, children becoming teenagers are faced with humor and wit.  Things, which in years gone by would have sent us screaming to the phone, are now casual asides during after-meeting discussion.  Life does keep on spinning but we learn how to stand still.

Spend a day on a lily pad.

*

Heartfelt

Boab trees litter my dreams;

gossipy like old women in the late afternoon sun,

I wonder at the tales they tell though

I am far too young to understand.

The Australian Kimberly shelters these mysteries in life;

they shelter me in the far off wilderness of my mind.

Coming to age seems merely a step

when in the presence of the ancient beauty of long endured life.

Too long drought, too deep rain,

are places I can pick my face up from,

stand my ground or be on my way.

The leaves may fall, but they will return in my dreams

and I will return to my life.

Recognizable Nonexistence

September 13

RECOGNIZABLE NONEXISTENCE

You will never take time to tell the truth.  You will always take time to tell a joke.  As you run from your life I see the familiar vapor trails of an unlived life.  When I flee my life through caretaking I leave the same mist of unfulfilled desire behind me.  I look at your potential and the damage that you do by not being here.  I turn the magnifying glass on me and search for the same trends.  I feel abandoned by you, the you, you never were but always should have been.  I pray for the key, which will get me on the other side of the door you never opened.  I hope to live life as it is rather than the comedy it can never be.

Cross the rivers in your mind.

*

Cadentia

The randomness of love

is matched only by the randomness of loss.

What slips into view or out of grasp

whispers beyond my control.

Like cookies baking in a nearby oven

I long for the sweetness to be inside;

even if it is simply in an olfactory way.

The similarity of the pain of what I have

and the pain of what is no longer mine

haunts me; scares my security,

rattles my hope, affects my sleep.

For minutes make a life

and moments are all it takes to remove the very same.

In the end all that I know is that loss does not remove love

and love does not remove loss.

Why Not Home?

September 12

WHY NOT HOME?

Power is not production and production is not art.  I have to keep pulling the car over to the side of the road so I don’t miss the train of words sent to me from out of the dark blue life I am on the edge of living.  But I still want to go home.  I will never give up these roadside excursions into the river of thought, though I do wonder why the cable shoved into my house never gets this channel?  Why is the connection so strong on the bus not the bed?  The minefields of thought explosions seem seeded anywhere as long as it’s at least five miles away.  Power is not production and production is not art.  I let it pour through me; it’s not mine to sort.

Learn to read God’s handwriting.

*

Hypothetical

Is my inability to understand what creates mystery?

If I were brighter, swifter, keener,

would life be free of unknown communion?

Would comprehension eliminate revelation?

Would I lose perceptual apprehension

by arming myself with knowledge of forethought?

Could I end mysticism through education?

Should I even if I could?

Yes, That Too

September 11

YES, THAT TOO

When kindness becomes a weakness, when mental agility becomes emotional instability, it’s time to reassess everything.  I cannot leave any thing off my inventory because my grandma, or society or the preacher says it’s a good thing to be.  Every blessing can be a curse; all my characteristics have their dark side.  I have to list the entirety of my cargo and keep a watchful eye.  I have to moderate my investment in all my abilities or I could lose myself.  Warmth is nice but I don’t want Death Valley.  Integrity requires balance or depraved indifference will be the outcome.  Weak and strong, right and wrong, it all goes on the scale.

Be generous with yourself, then others.

*

Louet

Consolidating fuzz into yarn

makes me a friend to sheep everywhere.

Spinning the filaments of truth into cables of life

does not impress the mutton in anyway,

but sure does my mental health a world of good.

Free floating fiber is bad for my lungs

and piles lint all around.

Giving things a firm twist

pulls together what used to be fluff

and keeps me warm and dry.

Do You Hear that Sound?

September 10

DO YOU HEAR THAT SOUND?

I was running on empty and thought I was getting along that way but the smoke gave me away.  My life had caught on fire and I burned it to the ground.  I thought nothing had been apparent until it all lay in ashes.  My sponsor said, “No, we all knew when your tank ran dry.  The sucking sound could be heard for miles around.” 

I asked her, if that were true, why I hadn’t heard it myself?

She said, she guessed I had my denial turned up too loud.

Box a gift to be set free at a later date.

*

Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon

Tying myself to one rail of a set of railroad tracks

gets me the same results as tying myself to the other.

Swapping one chemical fix for another

is like changing my socks in a rainstorm,

nothing dry will come of it.

Not seeing potential harm does not eliminate the harm.

Like a child with my hands pressed firmly over my eyes I yell,

“You can’t see me,” and run headlong into disaster.

Whether the train comes and makes a mess or not

I make my own soup Ducky

and must get on track by staying off the rails.

Harvest Timing

September 9

HARVEST TIMING

The harvest fits in the growing season and the oak fits inside the acorn.  My sober mind fits right in my sober time.  The soul of everything rubs across the hind leg of a cricket to sing.  The infinite machinery of the universe spins but you stand there questioning the existence of a Higher Power.  Well, that’s who you are, but I have only one question for you.  Who else could have made all the best tomatoes come from Jersey?

Catch rain on your face.

*

Barnum, Bailey & Me

When I wake to find a whip and a chair by the side of my bed

I know I am in for a circus of a day

and the tears of this clown will not change a thing.

I ready myself for the tightrope walk

and watch out for stray elephants.

All the trained poodles in the world

can’t make this into a day in the park.

Painted ponies prance through their paces;

I try to stick to my own act,

meanwhile remembering that no matter how difficult

these routines may be it still beats a seat in the stands.

Will You Get to the Other Side?

September 8

WILL YOU GET TO THE OTHER SIDE?

Chickens stand together on the edge of the road pecking and scratching; people make fun.  People tell jokes but it’s not so funny when we are the ones playing on the tracks.  We forget that all the excuses about longing for excitement and not wanting to be cut off from the world sound like so much cackling to the ears of people who value their lives.  Life in the pasture or the backyard is fulfilling if you want it.  That kind of life is no adrenaline rush, but then again isn’t adrenaline just another drug?

Tell the truth as if it were the weather.

*

Helping Hands?

Why would you go to a rattler for a snakebite remedy?

It feels so much like the hair of the dog that bit me.

The truth is I must, must stay away from the quick answers.

I am a slow healer, but I do heal if I allow myself to do so

unencumbered by poison or untruth.

When I am returning to the vomit of my past

it is incumbent upon me to search for the old lies

and/or the new ones, either or both will get me drunk;

do I even need the help of a prescription pad?

The Fruit Bowl

September 7

THE FRUIT BOWL

Meetings are living and precious fruit.  I must squeeze every drop from them, even the lemons.  I am privileged to be among the succulent growth and pungent fragrance of determined hearts and minds.  The infusion of strength, the vitality received from the essence of truth gives and gives to me.  I am refreshed by exposure to raw talent, revived by action and growth.  The diversity of shape and flavor cheer and inspire me.  The contrast from bowl to chalice is dramatic, ever a reminder to stay where it’s fresh.

An offer is better than a gift.

*

Genius

I am often bonded to a self which thinks I know everything

and when in doubt believes I should know even if I don’t.

Freeing me of this requires the constant support

of friends and neighbors’ assuring me that in a capricious world

willingness is a more practical resource;

it packs neatly and handles most jobs with aplomb.

Staying consistently free from the bondage of self

requires truckloads of willingness

and the spirit of humility and sometimes even forgiveness.

I am freer when I like myself,

for the true bondage of self is the hatred of self.

Funk and Wagnall's Back Porch

September 6

FUNK AND WAGNALL’S BACK PORCH

Bottoms come sealed in envelopes from unknown accountants. Amazing how many nominees and how few winners!  The audience, filled with past recipients, holds its collective breath and prays for this year's finalists, and prays a bigger prayer of thanks to this year's donors, the ones who prove with their lives that it hasn’t gotten better out there.  The speeches are the same, a gratitude list and maybe a punch line, the smiles and tears fresh but familiar.  And when the lights go out on this night, the days of diligence begin once again so no one need lose their seat and we can all celebrate here, next year, together.

Open even though the hinges are hidden.

*

Nightcrawlers and Nightingales

I wriggle blind eyed through the dirt;

friction, my friend giving me something to push against,

resistance aiding my travels.

I worm my way through life

and believed that was all there was; having never seen the sky.

I traveled far and wide once I had taken to the air.

Open eyed I push against a thing I cannot see

and peer down on the dirt I left behind.

I soar rather than struggle

and go the distance leaving my mind open to the next frontier.

Don't Be a Fraud

September 5

DO NOT BE A FRAUD

“Fake it ‘til you make it" is like saying "keep drinking ‘til you get sober,” complains my sponsor.

“But what about the things I can’t do yet?"  I ask.

“You work on them; that’s all.  You work.  You adjust your attitude, practice the steps, carry your behind to meetings and talk with me and the other people in your network.”

"Yeah, that sounds like a breeze."

“Easier than staying sober while lying.  In this program we try to stay in the moment and be honest.  Pretending to feel differently than you do at any given time defeats your ability to be present and makes it hard for people to trust you.”

“But it’s so awkward,” I grumble.

“Which is why we of the alcoholic persuasion try to find short cuts, but don’t get sucked into them.  Tell the truth and do the hard work of sobriety, and stay away from the persons who try to sell you a softer way.”

Let people give advice to you, never take it from them.

*

No Reason

Reason falls through,

where it lands is a place of unknown

seascape and unrelenting tides.

The roar in my ears furthers the disorienting effect of relocation.

At first it seems easier to let go of reason

but when I descend into madness I scramble for purchase;

looking for sanity like a cleft in a cliff.

Loss of skin and blood is nothing to compare to the loss of my mind.

I believe I could be more easily separated from a limb or two

than to lose rein on my brain.

Reason falls through;

I must follow even though the terrain is arduous

and my heart is sometimes faint,

for without reason there is no reason

and without reason there is no life.

Waterline

September 4

WATERLINE

The interface of water and land is compelling.  Soothing but dramatic; I’m drawn to this transition.  I stand and watch the lap, lap, lapping of the liquid to the land.  The gift of one place to another calls me.  Change and transition exhilarate my senses.  Whether it is rock or sand, river or sea I feel the pull to watch life in response.  Boundaries are beautiful.  Borders allow safety and recreation, not just risk.  When I embrace this in life I embrace it in me.

Do it twice, once with the pattern and once without.

*

The Naked Not the Dead

Because comfort is sometimes no comfort

I can shave my hair and walk bare in the naked world.

Removing pretense helps in unexpected ways.

Foolish action becomes formulaic

when you are scared or hurt.

I lived through the summers of blood;

the winter is not enough to stem the tide or heal the wound.

I have no want to raise the dead,

but how to save the living?

Poverty is the inheritance of so much misguided lethargy

and I must shear off the illusion of maturity

and let the children speak.

Hard Time

September 3

HARD TIME

Sometimes I pack the earth down so hard that weeds can’t even grow up through. I try to make nature inert.  I try to kill my alcoholism.  I confine my disease to this tiny path of compacted dirt and wear blinders as to warn off distractions.  I forget there is a garden to be grown in the fertile ground of my recovering mind.  Losing the compulsion to drink is a gift; stopping my mind from thinking is soul murder.  I can sink my toes in the good brown soil and look to the lilies and the Queen Anne’s lace for inspiration.  I can stop giving myself such a hard time.

Let art talk.

*

FIVE FINGERS THAT GOBBLE

It only takes five crayons

to turn a tracing of my hand into a turkey

and it only takes a few things to change

my drunken life into my sober life.

Looking back I am amazed

how little it has actually taken to transform my life.

My drunkenness looks about as much like my sobriety

as my hand looks like a turkey

but the transformation has taken place.

The red, the yellow, the brown,

the meetings, the steps, the sponsor, these basics are the bulk.

Sometimes it’s the small extras

that help push this work of art into the realm of believability.

Accents of green, up and down the fingers,

or a few bonus phone calls to women outside my network.

Anything can be the thing that kicks it over

into a plausible and convincing reality.

I can never be more than I am, a drunk is always a drunk

and a hand is still just a hand,

but within each of these things are unimagined

possibilities waiting to be explored.

Michelangelo believed that sculptures lurked in chunks of stone.

I have come to see that a sober woman

prowled inside this drunk

and every Thanksgiving my hand yearns to put on feathers once again.