Bouquet

June 17

BOUQUET

I love the flowers in my garden.  Their upkeep is my solemn trust.  With my shears, I must cut, clear and swift, the runners that detract from their health and structure.  When fruiting is heavy, I must spare the stalk and choose what stays and what needs to be taken.  I am scrupulous in my observation of form and function.  The bucolic scene thrives; the pageant of color sweeps the rows.  I bend to nurture and stretch to prune.  I pay over-much attention to the plucking and forget I need to bring the blooms home.

Allow a dark worldview to illuminate a lightness of spirit.

*

Tea Totaler

My alcoholism was anonymous

even while I was active.

My destruction was internal,

outside evidence kept to a minimum.

It is easy to understand why so many

from my past as well as my present

are shocked to see me a member

in good standing for a club they never saw

me pay the price to join.

But cost doesn’t always advertise in the public square.

I know the score, the numbers etched upon my soul.

I need to be well even if you didn’t know, I am sick.

I take the medicine;

offer a smile to those who think it prophylactic

and keep upon my path.

Just because you didn’t know the contents of my bottle

doesn’t mean I didn’t earn the tag on my tea.

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

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

Enclosed Space

June 8

Enclosed Space

In the echo chamber it is the cymbals which cause the most pain.  The drums resound, deep and loud, but it is the crashing of brass that drives me wild.  Cotton wool and sealing wax can not put my head at ease. Resonate walls with their hollow effects create the feedback loops of hurt, like the endless reflection of parallel mirrors the sounds come back to me with relentless repetition.  Aural illusion might have been the idea, but chaos is the result and leaving the space between these ears will be, will allow, the band to play on without the benefit of my torment.

Write the stories the clouds illustrate

*

BOUQUET

I love the flowers in my garden

Their upkeep is my solemn trust

With my shears I must cut

Clear and swift the runners

Which detract from the health and structure.

When fruiting is heavy I must spare the stalk

And choose what stays and what needs to be taken

I am scrupulous in my observation of form and function

The bucolic scene thrives

The pageant of color sweeps the rows

I bend to nurture and stretch to prune

I pay over much attention to the plucking

And forget I need to bring the blooms home.

Bouquet

June 17

BOUQUET



I love the flowers in my garden. Their upkeep is my solemn trust. With my shears, I must cut, clear and swift, the runners that detract from their health and structure. When fruiting is heavy, I must spare the stalk and choose what stays and what needs to be taken. I am scrupulous in my observation of form and function. The bucolic scene thrives; the pageant of color sweeps the rows. I bend to nurture and stretch to prune. I pay over-much attention to the plucking and forget I need to bring the blooms home.


Allow a dark worldview to illuminate a lightness of spirit.