Guest Flag

January 21

Guest Flag

The polite thing to do is fly the silly blue rectangle with its equally silly white diagonal stripe.   That would be the polite thing, for sure but that would peek my disease’s hold card.  If anyone knew that my illness was sailing my ship instead of me the effect would be ruined.  Or so says the canker that grips me and steers me to disaster.  Announcing this day-tripper as an unentitled accessory to whatever wrong I am about to commit might warn my friends or enlist my sponsor, but no I leave my colors fly and endanger the surrounding water.  For in truth my flag is just as fraudulent as this vessel and is only on loan to me as well.

Panoramic inventory shows the landscape in a better light.

*

THE MUSIC

I hear a tinkling noise and look around the room.
No, it's coming from my head.
It's the sound of the music of my life.

The bells, a horn or two
The strings,
Always the strings.

The sharp clear cry of the vixen
Calling from the hedgerow
The lonely voice of resolve.

The melody shifts
Tomorrow's tune warming up
In the wee hours of the night.


I don't try to part my lips
Replication is not a possibility
I am only just learning to move with the rhythm.

Keep the beat in my heart
And draw it down
For my toe to tap.

I cannot sing my song
I must let it live in me awhile longer.
I can't share things of which I haven't had my fill.

Giving too much
Too often
Makes the anthem run thin.

I have to be fully me, to be full voiced.
I need to stew in the juice
Of overflowing harmony.

The pounding of my feet on the steps unite the accord
Wild things and practiced plans
Put forward the waves of life on earth.

I follow
Placing my feet in well worn trends
The dance school reopened for sober living.

Passion plays and calls my response
For today, I pass
I leave the song inside

Vlog:  http://youtu.be/jTBmHZkNh3U

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

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Slipstream

October 27

SLIPSTREAM

I look in the rearview mirror; I see the headliner and a river of road flowing out behind me.  Dual viewing is the kind gift of hindsight.  I can see my internal workings and the past laid bare.  The beauty and sadness can transfix me.  I will lose my way if I keep looking back.  I catch glimpses and move my eyes forward.  I can’t advance without a full vision so I remain grateful for the mirror.  Awareness and cognition, the brakes and gas, I have the full package; I just have to make sure to steer.

Tell a joke to a cat.

*

Picard

The little tin whistle I yearn to play

squeaks in my head

warning that I have no time to learn

and a tin whistle though slender is not easy.

I think if I had a magic wrinkler for time I might learn,

I remember characters that have, but I rethink this

and remember I don’t want to win the lottery again.

I am too good at too many things

and have no time to enjoy their full round pleasure.

I have no need for additional longing or extended guilt.

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

Bells

October 4

BELLS

The bells are ringing but no one sings.  There are no peals of laughter and that’s just fine, for pleasure is not the only response to sound.  Shock and distain are other options, too.  I have what I want in relationship to the buzz in my ear, equal opportunity attitude, pro and con.  Some songs bring joy when they end.  I have to lower my expectation of pleasure and value my distaste for tinkling sounds or any other preordained sweetness.

See through your problems.

*

Jeopardy

Today I tore down the isolation booth.

I didn’t live in there exactly;

sometimes I stuffed God in there

and went out for a ride.

I left that shack stand for far, too long;

a testimony to ill conceived,

ham-handed, control freaks everywhere.

I said all I wanted was some peace,

but a vacuum is not tranquility

and escape won’t substitute either.

Since the live studio audience has gone home

and the house lights are dimmed,

I feel pretty foolish for playing

round after round on my own.

This game was never any fun

and the sponsors were death merchants and scavengers

whose interest lay in destruction and nothing else.

I must not cast aspersions, I didn’t care

that the contest was merely an upright pit

with a lethal pendulum, I used it as a hideout and a lair,

A place whose walls

I could keep between me and my Higher Power

and an activity I could depend on

to keep me free from living a life.

It all came to the ground today;

I walk over the splinters and shards,

I know there has to be a better game

and I’m ready to play.

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

Key

July 14

KEY

I asked for the key to my problems.  My expectation was a metal instrument with which to unbolt the lock to my desires. What I was given was a systematic explanation of the symbols on the plan of my life.  This has been a wonderful gift and I have benefited greatly, but first I had to stop brooding about the loss of my wished for trinket.  Putting names on my map helps me stay off cliffs and out of rivers.  The code is broken; I can decipher direction and intent.  The compositions of life’s offerings fit and harmonize in unimagined ways and create archways strong and unbending, giving me access to reefs of beauty and rest.  I asked for the means to open a door but gained entry to the world.

Don’t lug excess baggage, ship it.

*

Sympathetic Strings

A guitar with 28 strings generates much sympathy

from the cords which were not strummed.

Pluck is contagious and inspires much harmony and verve

in the vicinity in which it shows face.

Sympathetic strings vibrate in response to the jangling

around them but are tuned to their own notes.

Much distortion adds to the depth of the sound

created by this throng.

Can you hear my life?

How a disturbance in my life rings

in the lives which surround me?

How I twitch and chime when things are twanged

in the lives of my neighbors, my friends, my kin.

We make the music of care,

the discord of reaction.

To every move there is a sound,

to every sympathy a harmony.

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

The One I Bought

June 6

THE ONE I BOUGHT

There are fairy tales I never gave credence to.  Multiple bear stories don’t move me.  Cats with footwear have not warranted a second thought.  True love-----now that one I still buy hook, line and sinker.  Work hard and true love will fix the rest; that is what I have always believed.  The evil spell I have walked under during my sad little life will be broken only by the durable and all-fulfilling love of my betrothed.  Each time this plan fell through, the blame was leveled at the wrongness of the match but not the wrongness of the plot.  Anytime I work to be restored to sanity by one person, I have displaced a rightful power and thrown myself to the sea.

Let a whisker width of optimism carry your day.

*

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

cannot 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.

Leaving the space between these ears

will be, will allow, the band to play on

without the benefit of my torment.

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

Celebrations

May 24

CELEBRATIONS

“You wore a wrist corsage to the dump?”

“You said to celebrate every activity,” I retorted to my sponsor.

“Yes, by doing them with purpose.  Not everything needs to be a production number.  Sometimes just showing up is enough.  Putting too much energy into preparation can leave you without resources.  It’s okay to make an appearance, do the simple act and move on.  That is a celebration in its own way.  Don’t squander your vitality on the mundane.  Do you know what I mean?” asks my sponsor.

“Don’t waste flowers on trash heaps?"  I answer.

“Yes, and don’t wipe your bottom with poetry.  I mention this in case you get any ideas.”

Put flower petals in your phone book

*

If Garfunkel Was Here

Speak of the dead and paint the living.

Paint them in a good light when you can

and into a corner when you have to.

Read the books of future generations

rather than acting as the arrogant,

who attempt to write these volumes.

Expunge nothing leave it all on view,

but move past it after taking in the implications.

Water flows under the bridge until it collapses

then it carries the bridge away.

So, speak of the dead don’t drown them,

paint the living don’t stain them,

look to the future don’t dictate to it

and let the water run.

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

The Music

January 22

THE MUSIC

I hear a tinkling noise and look around the room.  No, it’s coming from my head.  It’s the sound of the music of my life.  The bells, a horn or two, the strings, always the strings.  The sharp clear cry of the vixen, calling from the hedge row.  The lonely voice of resolve.  The melody shifts, tomorrow’s tune warming up in the wee hours of the night.  I don’t try to part my lips.  Replication is not yet a possibility.  I am only just learning to move with the rhythm, keep the beat in my heart and draw it down for my toe to tap.  I cannot sing my song.  I must let it live in me a while longer.  I can’t share things of which I haven’t had my fill.  Giving too much, too often, makes the anthem run thin.  I have to be fully me, to be full voiced.  I need to stew in the juice of overflowing harmony.  The pounding of my feet on the steps unite the accord. 

Wild things and practiced plans put forward the waves of life on earth.  I follow, placing my feet in well-worn treads, the dance school reopened for sober living.  Passion plays and calls my response.  For today, I pass.  I leave the song inside.

Talk to yourself in a possibly unknown language.........Kindness

*

Guest Flag

The polite thing to do is

fly the silly blue rectangle

with its equally silly white diagonal stripe.

That would be the polite thing, for sure

but that would peek my disease’s hold card.

If anyone knew that my illness

was sailing my ship instead of me

the effect would be ruined.

Or so says the canker that grips me

and steers me to disaster.

Announcing this day-tripper as an unentitled accessory

to whatever wrong I am about to commit

might warn my friends or enlist my sponsor,

But no I leave my colors fly

and endanger the surrounding water.

For in truth my flag is just as fraudulent

as this vessel and is only on loan to me as well.

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

Mercy

September 21

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 G-d, the rest I ejected and sped from as fast as I could.  I cannot face what is left when I make G-d 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 G-d 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 G-d and go home.

Make time for lullabies

*

BELLS

The bells are ringing but no one sings

There are no peals of laughter and that’s just fine

For pleasure is not the only response to sound.

Shock and distain are other options, too.

I have what I want in relationship to the buzz in my ear

Equal opportunity attitude, pro and con.

Some songs bring joy when they end.

I have to lower my expectation of pleasure

And value my distaste for tinkling sounds

Or any other preordained sweetness.

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

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Stand Hear

August 8

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. 

Let bad habits run away from home; pack their bags when you can

*

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 mopy

Smile fore the camera and pretend for everyone.

I often wondered why I felt like dyeing

And it took me years to understand why,

Don’t be = 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 don’t be Them.

Look back when you have to

But step out of the grave.

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

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Clap

July 28

Clap

I know how to put my hands together, but I am unable to clap.  It’s not that my palms can’t locate each other; it’s that I cannot find the beat.  I sing; lilting rhythms rolling from my tongue.  I keep time and drum the tattoo of jingle dress dance songs, but when my hand comes against its mate something is off.  Faltering nuance plays havoc with my exuberant desire.  I want to join the crowd in syncopated applause, yet my brain drops out.  Because the gap is too far to leap I must walk around to the other side and by then I’ve lost the moment, the world has moved on without me.  I used to think I needed to run my routine a little faster, but now I realize I need to learn to leap the gap and trust the beat to find me.

Engender your actions with optimism

*

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 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 slide of hand.

It slides my hand from glass to grace

I don’t need to pull a rabbit from my hat.

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

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Sympathetic Strings

July 15

Sympathetic Strings

A guitar with 28 strings generates much sympathy from the cords which were not strummed.  Pluck is contagious and inspires much harmony and verve in the vicinity in which it shows face.  Sympathetic strings vibrate in response to the jangling around them but are tuned to their own notes.  Much distortion adds to the depth of the sound created by this throng.  Can you hear my life?  How a disturbance in my life rings in the lives which surround me?  How I twitch and chime when things are twanged in the lives of my neighbors, my friends, my kin.  We make the music of care, the discord of reaction.  To every move there is a sound to every sympathy a harmony. 

Surprise yourself with the light in your own eyes

*

THE LIVING DREAM

Throwing yourself into the river in pieces

Drowns you as crumbs.

Casting aside love and longing

makes you less in your heart

and your soul stops beating.

Pitching your tent with critics and complainers

Leaves you out in the cold on warm summer evenings.

Crest the hill to meet the rising sun

Orbit the constellations without hesitation.

Petit point the pictures in your mind

Then set them to music.

The world is your dream

Live it into reality.

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.

Queens

May 29

Queens: More than a Borough

My drama is bigger than yours.  My drama can kick your drama’s ass.  Well maybe not, but it sure is kicking mine.  Like a rain soaked grave, I stand in this muddy hole, sides slick, unassailable and count the piles of tragedy, all the while knowing it will bury me not facilitate a climb out.  I attempt to display the face of comedy and yet the mask can not fool me, my true audience.  I think if I can keep it all up on stage I will be alright, but then the point of theater is that everything is carried away in the minds of all who come and watch.  Silence doesn’t help either for there is little worse than a bad mime and doing it well just makes me Lillian Gish.  So, back to Bohemia for isn’t it all a rhapsody, though it would all be so much better if Freddy Mercury weren’t dead.

String your dreams together and let them fly

*

HOSTAGE DOLL

A doll stands wedged between two mailboxes

Naked and exposed,

The edge of the road passing her by.

She is there to pay for my self-loathing

I throw my treasures in the air

As skeet to be shot and shattered.

Hate is the obnoxious microbe

Which sours my digestion

And rids me of nutrition and affection.

I purge love and tenderness

I rip the covers from my playthings

And leave them to bleed.

I hide in my self-destruction

I put garish displays streetside

And cry my tears alone.

I cannot ransom to pay the price of fear

I must bring in the broken babies

And put hate out on the curb.

If Garfunkel Was Here

May 26

If Garfunkel Was Here

Speak of the dead and paint the living.  Paint them in a good light when you can and into a corner when you have to.  Read the books of future generations rather than acting as the arrogant, who attempt to write these volumes.   Expunge nothing leave it all on view, but move past it after taking in the implications.  Water flows under the bridge until it collapses then it carries the bridge away.  So, speak of the dead don’t drown them, paint the living don’t stain them, look to the future don’t dictate to it and let the water run.

Rinse off your first impressions

*

FREQUENTLY

When my daydream gets so threadbare

I no longer use it

I must turn to other sources.

When I cannot conjure on my own

And elucidation makes me cross-eyed

I must turn to HP.

I have puttered and prolonged

The way to naming this legendary

And fabulous enigma.

I drew out even longer

Any desire for close association

With the same.

I have milled with the millstone

And surfed in the whirlpool

Drug my feet and thrown a fit.

This only stalled the inevitable result,

Naming and interaction is the need

And now is the time

I have a Higher Power

And I chose to call it

Frequently.

Guest Flag

January 21

Guest Flag

The polite thing to do is fly the silly blue rectangle with its equally silly white diagonal stripe.   That would be the polite thing, for sure but that would peek my disease’s hold card.  If anyone knew that my illness was sailing my ship instead of me the effect would be ruined.  Or so says the canker that grips me and steers me to disaster.  Announcing this day-tripper as an unentitled accessory to whatever wrong I am about to commit might warn my friends or enlist my sponsor, but no I leave my colors fly and endanger the surrounding water.  For in truth my flag is just as fraudulent as this vessel and is only on loan to me as well.

Panoramic inventory shows the landscape in a better light.

*

THE MUSIC

I hear a tinkling noise and look around the room.
No, it's coming from my head.
It's the sound of the music of my life.

The bells, a horn or two
The strings,
Always the strings.

The sharp clear cry of the vixen
Calling from the hedgerow
The lonely voice of resolve.

The melody shifts
Tomorrow's tune warming up
In the wee hours of the night.


I don't try to part my lips
Replication is not a possibility
I am only just learning to move with the rhythm.

Keep the beat in my heart
And draw it down
For my toe to tap.

I cannot sing my song
I must let it live in me awhile longer.
I can't share things of which I haven't had my fill.

Giving too much
Too often
Makes the anthem run thin.

I have to be fully me, to be full voiced.
I need to stew in the juice
Of overflowing harmony.

The pounding of my feet on the steps unite the accord
Wild things and practiced plans
Put forward the waves of life on earth.

I follow
Placing my feet in well worn trends
The dance school reopened for sober living.

Passion plays and calls my response
For today, I pass
I leave the song inside

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.

Key

July 14

KEY

I asked for the key to my problems.  My expectation was a metal instrument with which to unbolt the lock to my desires. What I was given was a systematic explanation of the symbols on the plan of my life.  This has been a wonderful gift and I have benefited greatly, but first I had to stop brooding about the loss of my wished for trinket.  Putting names on my map helps me stay off cliffs and out of rivers.  The code is broken; I can decipher direction and intent.  The compositions of life’s offerings fit and harmonize in unimagined ways and create archways strong and unbending, giving me access to reefs of beauty and rest.  I asked for the means to open a door but gained entry to the world.

Don’t lug excess baggage, ship it.

*

Sympathetic Strings

A guitar with 28 strings generates much sympathy

from the cords which were not strummed.

Pluck is contagious and inspires much harmony and verve

in the vicinity in which it shows face.

Sympathetic strings vibrate in response to the jangling

around them but are tuned to their own notes.

Much distortion adds to the depth of the sound

created by this throng.

Can you hear my life?

How a disturbance in my life rings

in the lives which surround me?

How I twitch and chime when things are twanged

in the lives of my neighbors, my friends, my kin.

We make the music of care,

the discord of reaction.

To every move there is a sound,

to every sympathy a harmony.

The One I Bought

June 6

THE ONE I BOUGHT

There are fairy tales I never gave credence to.  Multiple bear stories don’t move me.  Cats with footwear have not warranted a second thought.  True love-----now that one I still buy hook, line and sinker.  Work hard and true love will fix the rest; that is what I have always believed.  The evil spell I have walked under during my sad little life will be broken only by the durable and all-fulfilling love of my betrothed.  Each time this plan fell through, the blame was leveled at the wrongness of the match but not the wrongness of the plot.  Anytime I work to be restored to sanity by one person, I have displaced a rightful power and thrown myself to the sea.

Let a whisker width of optimism carry your day.

*

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

cannot 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.

Leaving the space between these ears

will be, will allow, the band to play on

without the benefit of my torment.

The Music

January 22

THE MUSIC

I hear a tinkling noise and look around the room. No, it’s coming from my head. It’s the sound of the music of my life. The bells, a horn or two, the strings, always the strings. The sharp clear cry of the vixen, calling from the hedge row. The lonely voice of resolve. The melody shifts, tomorrow’s tune warming up in the wee hours of the night. I don’t try to part my lips. Replication is not yet a possibility. I am only just learning to move with the rhythm, keep the beat in my heart and draw it down for my toe to tap. I cannot sing my song. I must let it live in me a while longer. I can’t share things of which I haven’t had my fill. Giving too much, too often, makes the anthem run thin. I have to be fully me, to be full voiced. I need to stew in the juice of overflowing harmony. The pounding of my feet on the steps unite the accord.

Wild things and practiced plans put forward the waves of life on earth. I follow, placing my feet in well-worn treads, the dance school reopened for sober living. Passion plays and calls my response. For today, I pass. I leave the song inside.

Talk to yourself in a possibly unknown language.........Kindness

*

Guest Flag

The polite thing to do is

fly the silly blue rectangle

with its equally silly white diagonal stripe.

That would be the polite thing, for sure

but that would peek my disease’s hold card.

If anyone knew that my illness

was sailing my ship instead of me

the effect would be ruined.

Or so says the canker that grips me

and steers me to disaster.

Announcing this day-tripper as an unentitled accessory

to whatever wrong I am about to commit

might warn my friends or enlist my sponsor,

But no I leave my colors fly

and endanger the surrounding water.

For in truth my flag is just as fraudulent

as this vessel and is only on loan to me as well.

Sympathetic Strings

July 15

Sympathetic Strings

A guitar with 28 strings generates much sympathy from the cords which were not strummed. Pluck is contagious and inspires much harmony and verve in the vicinity in which it shows face. Sympathetic strings vibrate in response to the jangling around them but are tuned to their own notes. Much distortion adds to the depth of the sound created by this throng. Can you hear my life? How a disturbance in my life rings in the lives which surround me? How I twitch and chime when things are twanged in the lives of my neighbors, my friends, my kin. We make the music of care, the discord of reaction. To every move there is a sound to every sympathy a harmony.

Surprise yourself with the light in your own eyes

*

THE LIVING DREAM

Throwing yourself into the river in pieces

Drowns you as crumbs.

Casting aside love and longing

makes you less in your heart

and your soul stops beating.

Pitching your tent with critics and complainers

Leaves you out in the cold on warm summer evenings.

Crest the hill to meet the rising sun

Orbit the constellations without hesitation.

Petit point the pictures in your mind

Then set them to music.

The world is your dream

Live it into reality.