Failed Soup and Distrust of Burgundy

December 31

FAILED SOUP AND DISTRUST OF BURGUNDY

What keeps me coming back to meetings and step work is an abiding mistrust of booze.  Despite promises and advertisement, hopes and folklore, I couldn’t rely on drinking to take me where I wanted to go and I surely couldn’t depend on it to keep me there.  The struggle is great; the attempt to cling to salvation through decanter is mighty but in the end this joining of my chemistry to other chemistry failed miserably.  No matter how I held my mouth, held my head, held my liquor, satisfaction escaped without me and I was left here in the soup of my disillusion and disappointment.  Failure to cooperate fully with alcohol lead me to try sobriety as an alternative.  I may not always succeed in my recovery, but I can draw dividends on every deposit and use this to build a path to my desires.

Make a private heaven with plenty of windows and doors.

*

Failure of Imagination

The failure of imagination feels worse than it looks; it’s that rancid oily coating on the skin that I abhor.  The sweat that appears when sloth becomes a burden, the confusion of an unused intellect, the mumbled acquiescence of a weak will, creep me out of the permission that I wished to offer myself but can not accept.   The languishing mind that I left to wither in the confines of my skull requires my perseverance.  Falling down, giving up, throwing in terry cloth objects is impermissible, I must pluck up my willingness and apply whatever drops of genius I possess to every muscle fiber I can find.  So much has been made available to me and I must return that favor.  You see imagination only fails me if I have failed it first.

Cargo Lost, Cargo Found

December 30

CARGO LOST, CARGO FOUND

I fill the pallet of a new year's sobriety and, when it has been accomplished, make a manifest and strap this pallet with the others on the flatbed of my life.  The cargo is secure and weighty; there is ample pressure where the rubber meets the road.  I maneuver my rig carefully.  I feel assured as I stream with the traffic on the byways.  The power and magnitude of my transport prompts in me overconfidence.  I fail to realize variation in weather or road conditions can jeopardize my journey. Eighteen wheels make for a poor cantilever when traction is lost and top-heavy wins out.  In losing the battle of gravity, inertia and control I realize the past is not a weight I need to haul; all that is necessary is the inventory.  I slip the pages into my pocket and walk the rest of the way.  I am my only freight.

Medicate with laughter and tears.

*

Can’t Walk Back

I chase my reading list, lose my place, fall down, can’t find my page; suddenly there is a whole library beyond my grasp.  I write as fast as I can and so do my fellows the result is more than I can read in three lifetimes.  The glory and pain of freedom is the constriction of time.  I claw at the minutes but the days slip quickly out of reach.  How can I get the great work poured into my mind while still allowing original thought to flow from me? I ask God if I can be reincarnated with my backlist intact but there is no reply.  I know in my heart this life is like hang-gliding on the beach; my shoes and socks are left behind and I fly off over open sea.  So if we are friends now that is surely grand, but if you want to be my friend later, just take a walk in my shoes. 

Relapse is Not Required

December 29

RELAPSE IS NOT REQUIRED

“Relapse is not required,” said my sponsor, “though at some meetings they make it seem appealing, all that prodigal drunk treatment.”

“Well, so far, I’m living in the blessing of being convinced the first time,” I told her, “plus what could possibly be out there that’s better than what’s in here?”

“That is the point.  There is so much out there that is faster and bigger, more dramatic and extreme, but I sure have never seen anything better,” she patted my head and I grinned.

“Since I am winning the first time why would I want to lose?” I add just to overstate her point.

“This is the perfect place for those who want it, and all the rest get drunk, but drinking is not required any more than Santa has to come on Christmas.”

Save pretty words in a jar like candy.

*

Step 3

Remember that this is a surrender to a friend, a thing filled with humor and humility not a thing filled with shame or humiliation.  As for regret the only one I’ve ever had about step 3 is that I didn’t surrender earlier.  Trying to pull a moose by its antlers across the desert was always a ridiculous endeavor, but a friend will stay close and let you try, always ready to lend a hand if asked, though never stealing the opportunity for me to recognize on my own how foolish I have been.  Hilarity ensues as I explain my thinking and turn the project over to a brighter mind and more able hand realizing then; there is no good reason to pull that big thing across that vast wasteland.  On the way back we chat about platypus and rhinoceros and laugh at how many strange things seem like bright ideas in the quiet space of even a great brain.  I have avoided surrendering fearing the loneliness and defeat.  Struggling alone with my torment was lonely; turning myself over to my best friend keeps me in the very best company.

Don't Bite

December 28

DON’T BITE

Desperation jumps up, runs around, then drops.  If I don’t feed it, desperation burns out fast.  I used to buy the advertising, the Horror, the Humanity.  The acorn falling on my head convinced me easily.  I grew this nut into terrifying despair never realizing if I had left it alone how quickly it would pass.  When tragedy comes there is no time for a performance.  The whirling splendor itself proves the farce.  If I learn to recognize these triggers I might keep from shooting myself in the foot.  If I let desperation wear itself out I can stay with the pack.  Despondence splinters me and separates me from anything rational but quiet resolve lets me watch the wind twist while I keep my feet on the ground.

Pay your friends in consideration and truth.

*

Winter is upon Us

Spending time away from my clothes reminds me how much I love and hate something which only serves to protect and decorate me.  Struggle with necessity, mad opinions about requirements, these are things I lost months and years to in my past and now only find as a sad footnote to the strangeness that is me.  I have so much control over how hard I make things and no control over how hard things are.  I can not set the weather but I can easily don my hat.  Putting on a big pout over needing a hat, ah, well here is where acceptance plays a major role.  I do however find comfort in the fact that I am not alone in this, I watch my poodle fret when her hair grows too long and shiver when it is shorn too short on cold crisp days.  It’s good to have a fellow quibbler as I pull a blanket over her and slip on my hat.

Sizing God Up

December 27

SIZING GOD UP

God doesn’t need to be big.  I only look for a big God when I feel very small.  I turn to God as compensation for my feelings, as some sort of bolster to brace myself with.  I have found when I am diminished in any way, God is tucked in a corner or pocket or drawer.  I flee to the great out of doors and find earth, nature and wind but the God of my understanding is proportionate to my mental state.  My partner is with me, near enough to hear the fear pour off my skin.  God doesn’t run from me to adventures in the wild.  I want to escape myself regularly but this is not my Higher Power's defect.  I come back to God when I stop running from me.  I face my reflection and recognize I am not towered over by a giant God; I am yoked with a power to share the load.

Enjoy the shape of things.

*

Disambiguation

This is what happens when you are stupid,

the same thing which happens

when you are smart yet afraid.

It doesn’t matter what dulls your sword,

your edge is gone.

Due diligence is required to hone it to first gleam,

what will it take to do it again

I don’t know and I rather not know.

If I can do the thing,

the thing which stands in front of me,

do it with whatever will I have

I am better off and stronger for it.

Better than to be the soft hearted genius

sitting in the corner or the soft headed idiot

standing in the street.

Mess is what comes from

retarded abilities or delayed action.

I can smell the problem and yet the lure

of staying is still so strong.

The pull-the push may not do the trick

to get me into a brighter head or willing body,

what works is what mostly always works; hunger.

I have to stop swallowing what is fed me

and go find the truth out for myself.

Heart Handed

December 26

HEART HANDED

I pick up the pen in my heart hand and the blood of my soul pours onto the page.  The words coalesce and clot into the binding phrases, sealed deals with my spirit's punctuation.  Some days it is hard for my mind to keep up; the current is swift and deeper than I expect.  The pulse of energy is amazing even to the mind it feeds.  Like clouds racing the sky this power brings shade to some and rain to others.  The reaction of the moistened varies, some pull up hoods and scurry away, others with upturned faces form a friendship with me.  At the level of electrons, we have a molecular bonding, we are forever changed because I have picked up the pen and they picked up the page.

Chain yourself to wisdom.

*

Again Truth

Not wanting to speak the truth

doesn’t change the truth,

truth is funny that way,

it is not affected by my cold shoulder.

I snub it and it stands just the same.

I am the one who bends and withers.

Truth withstands the pressure that I never have,

the force of other people’s disappointment and regret.

I have sympathy or is it cowardice?

I tremble at the power of emotion and truth just carries on.

I do not want to be the truth or stand in its place;

for truth is not a beating heart

and I am too much a feeling creature,

but I will learn to keep the company of honesty and right.

And stand under the arching bough of truth,

because it is a shelter from the winds of change

and I need all the help I can get.

When I am tempted to shun truth in favor of expedience

I will try to remember that life is longer than I think

and if I don’t face the truth now

it is going to be in my face later

when I might be less prepared.

Alconaut

December  25

ALCONAUT

Want to learn it fast but not deep?  Just go to meetings and listen with half an ear.  Call your sponsor only for her birthday and anniversary and tell her about all the things you are not doing anymore but none of the things you are.  Skim the books for good quotes that sound impressive when they pass your lips but whose meaning has no chance of passing your heart.  Find playmates and cliques, not a home group, and surely not a service commitment.  Things fall out of orbit when they run out of juice and you will too.  This program is not an air lock on the way to worlds unknown; it is a way to live in the world you know.  There is no question that you have the right stuff.  The question is, do you want what we have?

Hug your feelings, pat their heads, then let them go.

*

Einstein’s Apple

Time is a player in every play,

forever running forward

even as I try to claw my way into the past.

If I don’t provide a role,

time writes itself in

without regard for my intended plotline.

Like the weather,

time is by turns gentle and fierce.

I must pay attention lest I run afoul of it

and lose my life and limb.

Though time is an arc I see swinging in my mind

it is still the arrow shot

and I am simply the fool with the apple.

Retro Anticipation of Sunshine

December 24

RETRO ANTICIPATION AND SUNSHINE

The night after a victory I fret about the blocks.  Will my stance be right?  Will I leave cleanly?  I have been first through the tape.  I have won the race but yet I worry how I will start.  Had I anticipated a win I might have handled the accolades better.  Apprehension has a long half-life and feeds through the night on my gizzard and my dreams.  Failure gives homework, there are rewrites and typos, but checkmate leaves an empty board and hands to shake.  The long ride home is filled with recriminating thoughts of luck and fortune.  By the time I arrive home the win is devalued and no longer mine.  I must pry misgivings from the winner’s circle and enjoy.  These moments in the sun are just as real as any others.

Draw pictures of monsters, then let them lay.

*

Hey Little Sister

Who pulls the trigger, you or I,

in this Shotgun relationship?

Is it more to the point

if you slit my throat or if I slit my own?

I only ask for the sake of expedience,

rudeness was never my intent.

I know we both wish this dilemma resolved

with due speed and precision where possible.

I am not as concerned with my survival

as much as neatness all around.

I hate to leave you with a mess.

I would tuck my tail and go,

but I have tried that before

and still we end up here.

So lets end this shall we

and hope that there are better worlds than this

to find after we have shattered the sugar egg

we used to live in.

True Voice

December 23

TRUE VOICE

Some tears pour from my eyes and others from my heart.  What once was a head-game and theory is now heartfelt and real.  I have grown in my compassion, leaving qualification on the curb.  Letters and notice mean so little in the full-out scheme of all the world; like fashion, what is true today, stood on and dependable, is next years joke and off-hand reference.  The thump of the muscle deep within me is a compass I can trust.  The daily tide of splash and rush can spring water to my face, but what rouses my spirit is much more.  I needn’t worry for its receding or discount that it is faithful; it abides with me still and will keep me if I let it.  Some sounds ring from my voice; others resonate from within, these are the ones that last.

Aim is as important as a strong arm.

*

Entrée Entrée

I am not one to order an appetizer,

I prefer the main meal.

Even if I carry the majority of the entrée home

I like to have it all there before me.

Knowing there is enough, might I want it,

means peace of mind

and I can relax and eat what I wish.

That’s how much I fear.

Fear opening my mouth to ask for more.

Fear not anticipating my actual appetite.

Fear of having nothing to show for my evening out.

What could it all be like

had I felt free of rules and public policy

that must be carried out in private?

I might never know,

but what I do know is

that I need to overcome this.

Not because of starving children near or far,

not to eliminate the science experiments

of mold growth and wilted lettuce in my frig,

But in order that I have a chance to have my desert

and eat it too

and leave the rest unordered.

Change in Menu

December 22

CHANGE IN MENU

If God is drunk we pray for spiritual sobriety and strong sponsorship.  If God is sober we ask for these things on God’s behalf and glory in answered prayer.  It is amazing that the rain comes down if I dance for it or not.  I can get this wonderful recovery just like the rest of ‘we agnostics’, I don’t have to shake your hand, wink my eye or say some special bit of poetry to have it.  Just the same way that weather is and changes and deepens so too is my spiritual condition.  It is there as I tread this path.  I don’t have to mark the rows in my garden for the plants to grow.  I wish for God a salad with two forks, we no longer need to share a bottle.

Dance with your skeletons.

*

Harriet Powers

Like a creature with a long tale

told in a hushed voice.

The whispers tell the story

with inflection and innuendo.

I slink away from the mirror

and the disembodied voices it engenders.

Thirty versions of my past spin away from me

in the eddies of time gone and misremembered.

I gather my fragments and tatters;

I thread my needle

and sit to quilt me into the present.

The odd assortment left from all which has worn out

or been pulled apart fit in a pinwheel pattern

and turn toward a better day.

The night is warmer for now I have it covered,

settled and safe, perhaps now I might even sleep.

What's Mine Is Mine

December 21

WHAT’S MINE IS MINE

I don’t always know how to get the dog off the baby.  The attacks are often sudden and always swift.  My shock at the reality delays my response, falters my steps and fogs my mind.  What should I do to disengage this assault?  What can I do that won’t make things worse?  How can I resolve this now?  The pain is almost unimaginable but yet all too familiar.  It all comes down to ownership.  I must admit this baby is me.  I have to face facts; this dog is my pet, I have fed, nurtured and groomed him and now I have to put this dog to sleep.

Explore the air not just the dirt.

*

A Thousand Windowed House

I am like a house with a thousand windows.

When I am lit up inside

you can see all the way through;

When I go dark

the reflection of the world around me is all

that is visible when you look my way.

My sprawling mind is what creates this effigy of me.

A tribute when I am well tended

and a fire trap when I neglect my duties.

If I learn to celebrate in all the rooms

this house is my home,

so I must practice; dance and sing in the hallways.

So I can pirouette into the rooms with full voice.

For what is the point of being a house

with a thousand windows, if I don’t live there?

Coocoo's Nest

December 20

COOCOO’S NEST

I ran away to join the zoo hoping a life contained would calm me.  The segregation hit me first; isolated exclusively with those of my stripe drove my thirst for diverse scents and opinion.  Next, the monotony of the landscape bore into my brain.  The well-meaning effort of the keepers bears the mark of folks who go home at night.  The blandness of the food and music lent nothing to the experience, and antiseptic could drive anyone wild.  The final blow, the one that struck constantly and coldly, was the stream of observers waiting to be entertained.

Embrace plain tools and fine minds.

*

Home Fires Burning

I have trouble living with myself,

that is why I live with you.

It takes my mind off the things I don’t wish to face.

What I can busy myself within your service

lightens the load of expectation heaped in my DNA

by my Higher Power and Fate.

Worry is time consuming

and I wile away hours fretting over you

and all your unresolved trifles

while turning my back entirely on my life.

I couldn’t be happier to have you,

though from the corner of my eye

I glimpse God packing your bags.

Almost Twins

December 19

ALMOST TWINS

You and I are more alike than different yet we cannot get along, though I ponder why this surprises me so.  A cloud and a watermelon are 98% the same and no one would mistake them in a crowd or expect them to be companionable except in the way of two things existing in the universe.  My expectation of liking you for our similarities is set up by my fear that I don’t like myself, but the joke is on me.  My dislike of you is not a reflection of anything but time and space.  My friends are the people who like me, not necessarily the ones who are like me.  The president didn’t like broccoli without slurring its good name and I can dislike you without inferring you’re a vegetable.

Enjoy the approach as well as the work.

*

Scalene

Strangeness is attracting, I don’t try to deny it.

I have looked longingly at oddness

and every skewed thing.

Though I try to divert my gaze the acute angles

draw me back to peer again and again.

Strange attractors have an unexplainable beauty to me.

The wane charisma digs its hooks into my soul

and I carry it off like a burr stuck to my hide.

What does this say of me, I am not sure?

What does it say of the sidelong loves of mine?

Volumes, I think it speaks volumes,

all of it unknown to me.

Water Proof

December 18

WATER PROOF

What could water prove anyway?  I get in the water and I get wet.  I’m sure there is a theorem but a proof is highly doubtful.  Naiads dance with tridents in their hands illustrating the beauty and danger of the waves but this certifies nothing.  Juiceless arid dirt can make no claims either.  I see the ducks take flight pushing the air with their wings and the rivulets trailing from webs.  This is the thing to scoot beneath at the surface, take sustenance and pleasure, but never to become so saturated that the air is lost.  Waterproof… is the way to go.

Give preconceived notions a place on the shelf or in the can but no place in your life.

*

Lame

I easily identify the big mistakes of my life,

but fail to recognize or report the little mistakes

that I make, mistakes, which cost me so much.

Repetitive irresponsibility has the effect of water torture;

drip, drip, drip and my peace of mind is worn away.

What can I say of what I refuse to see?

It was there all along like the view covered by the shade.

Who is to blame for not raising the curtain?

It may be me. may not, but I am the one who suffers,

I am the one who misses out.

Missing the opportunity to grow out of these

small deficiencies leaves me with a life long handicap

and I am not just speaking of my blindness,

but also how they make me lame.

Popcorn Flavored Lollipop

December 17

POPCORN FLAVORED LOLLIPOP

I can’t know it.  I can’t believe it.  The world of popcorn flavored lollipops is now being visited upon me.  Both a surprise and a comfort, a popcorn flavored lollipop is given to me by the gas station attendant.  A blast of sugar and salt waken my tongue.  What can a mind do in the face of a buttered, salted bonbon on a stick?  I wouldn’t have thought of it, not in a million years.  This is somehow a source of hope to me.  There are open-minded people living in the world around me.  I often pray for creative thinking on the part of my Higher Power; I inadvertently dismiss the populace who is producing prodigies of ingenious originality and cunning.  I want the world to be gifted with what sobriety has given me.  Candy is not world peace but many great things start with a little sweetness.

Real rules can’t be broken.

*

Not My Best Friend

No matter how tightly I hug a lump of coal

I will not prevail in turning it into a diamond.

Some days I accept this better than others.

My desire may affect the coal,

but this affect is not diamond producing;

though it is stress producing.

I know it stresses me and chills me to the bone.

I had thought of coal as warming,

but the disparate love of coal proves to be anything but.

I have pinned my hopes

on what this lump had the potential to become

rather than acceptance of what it is and now.

I see I must light my own fire

and know the coal is not mine.

Good Samaritan Pie

December 16

GOOD SAMARITAN PIE

The meal prepared from my cognition, the bread and jam of humility, salad of expectation, roast of determination and Good Samaritan pie, wait on the table to be devoured.  The courses pass and come dessert my kindly intentions are cut to wedges and pushed from setting to setting.  I can, with dollop after dollop, cover the requisite desires of this tart in an attempt to deny my addiction to fixing or I can serve up the plain truth.  I help and help and wander down roads looking for lost puppies to return to their homes.  I must admit my longing to lend support is sometimes half-baked, and if kept to home and hearth it might serve me better and make a sweeter dish.  Assistance is best in proportion to the meal.  I must live my life and save my pie till last.

Hold each other's hands but explore.

*

Touch Your Toes

Funny how we deal with feet.

I have seen a woman cradle hers

and treat it like the dearest babe.

I know some folks who shun their feet;

can barely stand to think of them,

let alone to touch them.

There are the Mani-Pedi people

who leave it in the hands of others.

I met a guy who soaks them soft

and tucks little bits of cotton

under the corners of his nails.

I know too,

the woman with the snarling crusty dogs

that serve to others as a warning.

My grandma warns me

not complain about my shoes

lest I meet the man who has no feet,

but I doubt I would fit in his.

Goose

December 15

GOOSE

I round this corner nearly every day.  There in the field stands a flock of problems pecking the ground and flapping their wings.  Uniform and regular, the honking and squawking is undistinguishable from yesterday.  I ponder and squint; are these the same or yet another gaggle making their way along a migratory path?  Trouble is feral, skulking the edges of the field but never sheltering in the yard.  I must leave my hands off, knowing these are not mine.  The feathers fly and I gather the strays acutely aware of the ticklish nature of this.  Awkwardly I face the truth, no matter how much of a perplexity this is to me or to others, it is only geese.

Run because you want to and the starter’s whistle won’t bother you.

*

Crazy Time

Picking the right time to be crazy

seems to be the key to getting away with it.

Wanting to get away with it slants the field a tad.

What crazy is, changes from place to place,

which puts all the more emphasis on the timing.

The surrounding company and barometric pressure,

play parts and put on airs.

Lighting, lighting must also be involved,

I assure you I don’t know how

and can’t calculate the Ohms,

but I flip the switches in case it helps.

I have mapped for you a fair amount more than I know.

I wish you well on your attempt,

for crazy is a kindred club,

I would hate for you to feel inept.

Do We See

December 14

DO WE SEE

The old man walked down the road to see the end; I followed to glimpse the fruit of his pursuit.  Does the highway come to rest or like the river just feed a greater sea?  And time; will the clock stop him? Can he win the treasure hunt as the seconds tick away on the metronome?  Will the slowing of his steps and the advancing of his age create a curve, which will prevent his accomplishment?  Does this tag-along I am doing make me a part of his project?  The road is long and its end may never come, only ours.  When we take the road the road takes us.  More and less is what we are and so too the road.  I follow the contour of the ground, which curves around the world, spinning in our sky so we can all see the stars.

Reality builds contentment, fantasy disappointment.

*

Calm, Peaceful, On

Once I center my mind I can type in the dark.

All it takes is me present and willing to flow.

Limber up the learning curve,

press my fingers to the keys,

Let the story tell its tale.

Cease the interjections lest it all go stale.

There is nothing much to know,

its all inside, I just let it go.

Emptying this crowded vault,

I open up to prevent assault.

What to do when it hits the page;

marketing is all the rage,

but for this task I need a light.

To sell myself I must be bright.

What is Mine

December 13

WHAT IS MINE

The cloud of snow slept in the tree overnight and poured from the branches with the morning breezes.  Showers of crystal, dropping from a clear daylight sky, are telltales of intentions delayed.  What was meant for moon time has been kept till sunshine, a treat for bright eyes and young hearts.  How can I weep over altered destinations?  Arrivals and departures are truly within the province of poetry and postcards, not things for worry or fretting.  Putty is for forming into an image of my desire not the world.  Time is a liquid substance I cannot decant at my will.  Shoulds and oughts are parlor games for the bored and senseless.  If I waste my life playing a game I can’t win I will fail to see what I can’t lose.

Work with someone who works.

*

Pretty Girls

Pretty girls seem to live by separate rules,

but I don’t know why.

The world is filled with people and rules,

crazy circumstances and the uniformity of exception.

The where and what for, of arbitrary allowance

to be regulated based on symmetry or fashion

strikes me as odd, beyond survival

and this may explain so very much.

Gravity pulls down equally; discriminates for nothing.

Orbital rotation continues in spite of the fairness of an eye.

The universe supports us without end

but prejudice is our failing

and I blame it on the pretty girls

Bleating Formality

December 12

BLEATING FORMALITY

Stupidity stalks me when I am tired, hijacking my mouth.  I can put this off to pilot error or interruption of service on my neurologic pipeline, but truly I have been captured by senseless, irrational muttonness.  I would love to say it was pigheadedness but, alas, I am not self-determined, I am a sheep.  I open my lips and out pours the same plaintive cry as the surrounding herd.  In addition, once begun, the wail is unending; it’s as if the bellows works on its own carrying a tune which blends with the entire wool-coated world.  I shift and run with my position according to the movements at large.  I am following the reactionary breed, dropping the specifics of my personality as one of the crowd; my brain is switched off and a quick veneer grows over my eyes.  I can’t see, think, or speak for myself and yet it doesn’t occur to me to hit the hay.  When as a petulant three year old I do fall to sleep in my tracks, I wake as myself with many bleating apologies to be made.

Put morbidity on a leash and never walk it alone.

*

Peter and I

This flight is not filled

with the giggling cherubs of my westerly flight,

but among the solemn children on this flight

is Peter, the oldest of four,

who is reading Tolkien

and marking his place with a two page wish list.

Christmas is coming and Peter seems confident.

I wonder if we are what we read

and ponder if I am what I write.

Poetry, stories, novels, declarations,

it all feels like arms and legs,

things I cannot move right without.

I live better when they are out and free.

I am free too, when they live on their own

and I am not their soul residence.

I have to rededicate myself

to the work entrusted to me

for so much living depend upon it.

Tapers

December 11

TAPERS

I wax poetic and burn the candle at both ends.  I borrow from the beginning, I steal from the end, coming up short and feeling deeply cheated.  I pass myself off as the time-keeper but am the time-pleaser, arch-traitor selling short the days and hours for approval, not fulfillment.  I put away my true identity: mammal, human, the love of; I have exchanged it for the mask and cape of the Do-do-doer, a tragic figure of myth and legend who breaks the spirit of everyone who attempts the portrayal.  In spite of this the roads teem with actors becoming caricatures of a life less lived.  The world is more than a stage, and I must free powers greater than I to be more than an audience.

Laugh at old jokes and tell new ones.

*

Whose Oxygen Mask goes on First?

Desperation is the fuel which forges my resentments.

When I fear for my survival,

physical, emotional or financial

this will turn my response to your behavior into tinder,

sometimes gasoline and set our interaction ablaze.

Melt all which is steel strong between us

and create a molten mess

from which it will be a struggle to recover.

This is why me,

taking good care of me,

attending to my life, and quelling my fears

is the very best way for me to protect you

from my attitude and save me

from a negative balance sheet during my 10^th step.

Electric Connections

December 10

ELECTRIC CONNECTIONS

I step into a room and take its currency.  Is the flow good?  Steady?  The pulse even and strong?  Where are the power brokers and are they sharing the time or using their magnetic personalities to draw the current off others? I check the complement of resisters, examine their stripes and assess the possibilities. I pump in energy when I can and take when it is available. I keep in mind we are all transformers and change is possible for everyone as long as we make the connections.

Rich mistakes make good batter.

*

What’s that in the Pool?

Parts of the Rocky Mountains look like

algae bloom out in the Indian Ocean.

Parts of me look like parts of you

and here we go with oneness

being nothing more than

pattern recognition and optical illusion;

though I hope there is more to it than that.

My hurt might not be your hurt,

but I have a sense of it.

Likewise your hope may not resemble mine,

but it cheers you just the same

and we are all the better for it.

We needn’t replicate each other

or attempt imitation,

but recognition is a kind thing

and art is what we all have to share.

Climbing on the Arc

December 9

CLIMBING ON THE ARC

If time swings and the seasons swirl and I pulse out my existence, why does the bird's wing flap and the rain fall down?  If the song comes from my mother’s lips and my father tells his tales and I dance my heritage with each step I take, then why does the flower open to the bee and the swan trumpet her way home?  If everything pulls from the ground and reaches for the light, then how can I duck my head, hide my heart and pass this all off as a coincidence?  Am I less than the rain or greater than the swan?  Why can’t I just climb on the arc and let the continuum spin its web around me?  Well, you see I can, but will I?

Let little birdies speak.

*

What I give you

If I give you a piece of my mind,

a piece of my heart, a piece of my liver,

how do I go on in its absence?

Or does it ever leave me?

Is this more like an excision than segmentation?

Is it similar to how I carry you with me

when I catch a resentment; only in a good way?

I don’t know that I can be truly divided up,

but I do know that parts of me

don’t belong exclusively to me anymore

and I believe this is all for the better.

The Way I Do It

December 8

THE WAY I DO IT

Cooking by smell, parking by ear, recovering by touch.  The latter has to be done this way; I cannot see into the black-box technology, which keeps me sober.  Feel through the resentments, pain, sadness, joy; find myself under a pile of rags with a match in my hand.  The many times the steps have saved me from becoming a human torch are balanced by the weight of the rope, woven from these same rags, that together we use to drag one another to safety.  The savory scent of a meal, or the glee of front row parking can’t compare with the tender sense of a sober heart.

Write bad advice on tissue and wipe with it.

*

Master Mind

I was taught that it was my job to master fear;

raised in a religion swearing they could master death.

I used to spend all I had trying to create a master plan,

while trying to keep secure using a Master lock.

I have seen Master & Commander

and do not long for that burden;

in fact mastery is so much a snare and illusion.

Life is quite improved

when we each have an oar and we all row on.

Origins

December 7

ORIGINS

Pain-filled interactions with people better suited to be left alone changed me in the way of acceptance.  Wretched relationships with people made it difficult for me to have a loving relationship with the world.  I had imprinted as a fledgling on sarcasm and ridicule, bitter milk that starved my expectations of kind response.  I could not greet the world eagerly.  Having never embraced the world I failed to hang on as it turned.  I slid on my face and hands.  Mud covered, I try to keep an open mind and attempt a connection with this spinning orb.

Color your emotions.

*

Flight 548

What a happy flight wing to wing,

smiles, good cheer, the air is kind,

sweet, dry, easy to breathe.

I am so blessed.

I fly to destiny

watching the traveling baby circus

play around me.

Giggles and drool surround me,

infuse me with glee.

People wander the isle

looking like well loved characters

from long forgotten books and we soar.

Time does not pass any more quickly this way,

but it is similar to time in heaven

rather than time spent in hell.

Mosaic

December 6

MOSAIC

I couldn’t prevent this plate from shattering, so I saved all the pieces, losing none.  I laid them edge-to-edge and made a design, secured it with thin-set.  Pieces of pattern framed with grout are seen, as they never could be when this dish was whole.  I am part of this construction more than just handing china onto the table.  Integrity has been lost but replaced with fractured openness.  The plate has lost personal unity to become an ingrained part of my personal archeology.

Fly your kite in the wind.

*

The Way West

The sun reflected in the windows

winks at me as I fly over.

The plane climbs higher

and the reflected light no longer reaches me.

I slip from my eastern bonds.

I am west coast bound.

The carpet of snow was laid down

to quiet the passage.

Clouds take over the task,

then part to reveal the patchwork

of the middle ground.

We cross the Stateline without a sound;

a few more miles then touchdown.

The Boat

December 5

THE BOAT

On my ride home from work there is a boat stuck between two trees in the middle of a horse pasture next to a riverbed so dry it's filled with grass.  I think the boat is me.  I feel for the boat every time I see it.  Turned on edge, waiting for a river, which doesn't exist anymore and may never exist again.  Placed on edge for protection, not comfort. Although having my bottom rot out, well, let's just say might be more uncomfortable.  What good will I be even if the river runs again since I'm fenced in?  My sponsor says I shouldn't ask any question which starts with the word 'why'.  You know my reply.

If my Higher Power has a plan...if it includes a river and a fence…  if I'm in this plan, me, the rowboat…I just don't see it.  Not seeing my purpose in life is a theme in my life says my sponsor.  I don't tell her the theme in hers.

Truth is, I don't want to face the fact I might float away. Even though I'm supported by two big trees.  Even though there is a tall fence all around me.  Completely in spite of the fact THERE IS NO WATER!  My Higher Power loves me.  I am the boat.

Enjoy the flowers and slide on the snow.

*

It All Points to Joy

Can Love reweave the fabric which hate destroys?

Can Kindness resew the field

torn through with disregard?

Can Beauty paint the world anew

after so much ugliness has rained down upon us?

My heart believes these three cannot fail

to make things right

for what other point could there be than Joy?

Personal Dictionary

December 4

PERSONAL DICTIONARY

Everyone keeps a dictionary in his or her head.  All the words lay on platters each with its own flavor and meaning.  There are favorite menus, phrases, which form warmly in the mouth and hang sweetly for the ear.  Other vocabulary is exotic, pungent, occasionally with a strong aftertaste or off-key ringing.  Abundance brings a wealth of conversation and keeps the cold of boredom at bay.  Free for the taking, words grow out of life lived.  When we have lived separately, even if only in our separate heads, meanings vary and reference must be checked.  Blue sky is blue sky, but do you speak of azure, cerulean or peacock?  Life is so much show and tell.  Drink the sunshine with your eyes and flow it out to me with your words.

Write on scraps then tape them together.

*

Night Spaces

When it gets dark it gets dark fast.

They say, night falls,

though sometimes it feels like it falls down.

What is little realized is there is a lifting

when the light has gone away, the sky raises

its roof and there is more air to breathe.

Long lost is the pink wisp

that heralded this night

and far ahead is the next wisp

of pink singing of the moon.

Miraculous

December 3

MIRACULOUS

Sometimes the blind lead the deaf.  The subtle signs are the bumping into trouble and inability to listen to reason.  It is an expedition into disaster unfettered by common sense or boundaries.  Tumbles and falls propel this pairing to unknown destinations.  The attraction is baffling but undeniable.  These pairs can be seen through the ages.  In spite of this confounding coupling, sometimes the blind find their way and the deaf hear the call.  And even when they don’t, life seems to roll along.  But try to keep your eyes and ears open anyway.

Set the goalpost where you can see it.

*

Precious Cargo

Do I carry myself as well as I could?

Do I understand the value

of what is contained within me?

This journey matters,

it requires my attention and comprehension,

if only I am able.

When I fall short the road changes.

The distance I go has much to do with how well

and whether I acknowledge the nature of the cargo

with which I am embedded.