Red Roses

June 14

RED ROSES

From tight green buds come beautiful red roses.  From small verdant places I blossom, too.  I open to richness unexpected and fullness unbelieved.  I look at laundry crumpled, never anticipating the look of clean sheets blowing on the line.  Doors I perceive as blocked by vast boulders are thrown open by willingness.  Who I am today is no one I recognize; I didn’t see myself coming.  I write though I can’t spell.  I love though my heart is broken.  I think though my mind is warped and I trust though the amulet is long shattered.  Promise is not a laid out plan but the continuum of change.  I can fight it or let it carry me where it goes.

Smile at similes.

*

What I Heard Through the Snow

The commentator’s voice fades in and out

as the reception is lost and found

among the static of my drive home.

In here is a pattern, a connect the dots matrix;

I try to feel my way too

as I weave past the slow and stubborn traffic.

Like a call from the wilderness

distorted through a storm, my frantic thoughts obscure,

sometimes distort the content, the intent,

the soul of a message I so desperately need.

Broadcast warnings, safety suggestions,

help and hope are torn to slivers

and rewoven in my careworn brain.

The distraction of the road allows the subliminal heart beat

to tattoo in my ear then my chest, all the way to my toes,

bodily acceptance overpowers my relentless mind

and clarity is achieved, no matter the drifts.

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 Hope Diamond

June 5

The Hope Diamond

My guess is the same god that wants me stupid also wants me to suffer.  I ask myself what could be all powerful about that?  I wonder is G-d like a friend or a lover?  I carefully chose my friends whereas my lover found me against my greatest plans and well thought out rules.  And if this is to be like marriage, may I file for divorce if things go astray?  Or am I stuck with this match, like I am stuck with my deformed ear there underneath my hat or fringe of hair?  I never thought of my relationship with G-d like a necklace I could take on and off at will, though the more I study it seems this beautiful thing enhances my beauty if all is right and will strangle me if it gets hung up.

Sort genius from fortune

*

RED ROSES

From tight green buds come beautiful roses.

From small verdant places I blossom too.

I open to richness unexpected and fullness unbelieved.

I look at crumpled laundry

Never anticipating the look of clean sheets blowing on the line

Doors I perceive as blocked by vast boulders

Are thrown open by willingness.

Who I am today is no one I recognize

I didn’t see myself coming.

I write though I can’t spell

I love though my heart is broken.

I think though my mind is warped

And I trust though the amulet is long shattered.

Promise is not a laid out plan but the continuum of change

I can fight it or let it carry me where it goes.

Who to Ask

April 14

Who to Ask

“You ask good questions and you ask the right people,” said my sponsor.

“I ask questions because I need answers,” my reply.

“Do you know how many people need answers and never ask?” she quipped.

“I ask my friends, no stroke of genius there,” I continue.

“You ask your playmates, you ask the people you trust enough to have fun with.  You don’t realize how clever that is.  You know lots of folks who work hard and you could ask your questions of these, but instead you save them for those diligent ones who still know how to play and that, Sweetie Pie is proof that you are no dummy.”

You may mute your horn, but don’t soap your bow

*

CRUMPLED PETALS IN MY POCKET

I can't bring back the bloom

Cohesion, lost ripeness

Is left only to memory

I carry home the parts

Folded, petite, fragrant bedding

For my wistful desires

I put these colored remnants into a jar of salt

I make an aromatic rub

For the sweetest wounds

Transforming the parts to useful duty

Doesn't restore the flower

It doesn't pay tribute to the past, it is survival

I have a mind filled with roses but I must make hay

Today I live, today the rose is dead

Its pieces in my pocket

I don't die with the blossom

Though my head blows in the wind

The rose runs its course, I run mine.

Red Roses

June 14

RED ROSES

From tight green buds come beautiful red roses.  From small verdant places I blossom, too.  I open to richness unexpected and fullness unbelieved.  I look at laundry crumpled, never anticipating the look of clean sheets blowing on the line.  Doors I perceive as blocked by vast boulders are thrown open by willingness.  Who I am today is no one I recognize; I didn’t see myself coming.  I write though I can’t spell.  I love though my heart is broken.  I think though my mind is warped and I trust though the amulet is long shattered.  Promise is not a laid out plan but the continuum of change.  I can fight it or let it carry me where it goes.

Smile at similes.

*

What I Heard Through the Snow

The commentator’s voice fades in and out

as the reception is lost and found

among the static of my drive home.

In here is a pattern, a connect the dots matrix;

I try to feel my way too

as I weave past the slow and stubborn traffic.

Like a call from the wilderness

distorted through a storm, my frantic thoughts obscure,

sometimes distort the content, the intent,

the soul of a message I so desperately need.

Broadcast warnings, safety suggestions,

help and hope are torn to slivers

and rewoven in my careworn brain.

The distraction of the road allows the subliminal heart beat

to tattoo in my ear then my chest, all the way to my toes,

bodily acceptance overpowers my relentless mind

and clarity is achieved, no matter the drifts.

Red Roses

June 14

RED ROSES




From tight green buds come beautiful red roses. From small verdant places I blossom, too. I open to richness unexpected and fullness unbelieved. I look at laundry crumpled, never anticipating the look of clean sheets blowing on the line. Doors I perceive as blocked by vast boulders are thrown open by willingness. Who I am today is no one I recognize; I didn’t see myself coming. I write though I can’t spell. I love though my heart is broken. I think though my mind is warped and I trust though the amulet is long shattered. Promise is not a laid out plan but the continuum of change. I can fight it or let it carry me where it goes.


Smile at similes.