Horse Play

July 17

Horse Play

The sequestered equestrian rides alone through the night; the wood is as quiet as she.  Passing no one; speaking not a word, she slips into the paddock without a nicker or a neigh. I long to be just as she, not silent sentinel, but living a whist fleet life, a power unto myself.  What stands between are my hurt feelings and my longing to be loved.  I can’t blame myself for either, but work to heal and grow.  Nagging need is a pestilence I will be well rid of; the irredeemable past is luggage for a catalog, not for hauling on my back.  I will mount up and ride my great round stead, the night is mine when I am ready the path is there I know.

Imagine an ostrich in flight

*

GRAFT

The bottom has been cut out

My underpinnings stripped from me..

Budding ambition whittled down, transplanted,

Saddled onto the rock like stock of other peoples sobriety.

Taped to the leg of my sponsor I heal and grow.

I splice my thinking with the rich ideas of improved living

I cling to the cleft, divisions made from the people,

Places and things of my past leave me split,

Primed for fresh growth and opportunity.

Never again do I need return to the sordid

Acquisition of power or control

There is no gain when I am bolted to position and influence

Graft is graft for good or bad

I don’t have to grow where I was planted.

Tea Totaler

June 19

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.

Attend the clues your body gives you

*

ONIONS

I heard people in meetings sharing about peeling onions

They say they peel layer after layer until it’s all gone!

What the hell is that all about?

I demand in the general direction of my sponsor.

Zealotry, it’s about zealotry

I peel my onions too,

I have many layers of dried-up, paper-thin rhetoric

Which I use to protect myself.

I have to slit this papery husk

And eject myself from the illusion

To get the living and vital usefulness underneath

Then what?

Then I try to let God decide where is the best place

To add flavor, stew is good but salad is a treat

I can go anywhere once the waste is stripped away.

What about the issues you haven’t worked out yet?

I bait my sponsor

Well those are other onions-

Is all she would say.

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?

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.