The Shiny Thing

May 8

THE SHINY THING

The starling stands with the candy wrapper in its beak; the cellophane flexes in the breeze.  Here is my life.  I have the shiny thing in my possession.  What do I do?  Do I give up my intended tasks to attempt dominance or control of the shiny thing?  Do I release this thing of intrigue and beauty?  I am drawn to the shimmer and sparkle but shudder at the price.  The world is filled with shiny things.  I can enjoy them but leave them where they lay.

Play the tune but change the lyrics.

*

More Than a Fedora

I have no explanations only expletives,

I wish I had something to say

that you wished to hear,

but that is not current events;

Foul humored broadcasts are what fill the air this day.

Bad temper is tempting,

but I can no longer be satisfied in this way

nor is this a performance that you care to witness.

I will play FCC to my ruminations

curtailing this colorful darkness for my benefit

and the clearing of the air.

I have never shied from dramatic vocabulary

and I do not now,

but throwing out words is waste

and I am learning to conserve.

I don’t have to leak my power

I can cover my head

and close my mouth.

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

What I Give You

December 13

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. 

Zoom up to anticipation

*

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 binding phrases
Sealed deals with my spirits 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 up turned 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 have picked up the page.

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

I didn't mean to make you laugh

August 6

I didn’t mean to make you laugh

You think I’m witty, well, yes, I have always been like this, no one knew quite what to do with me as a small child, but I have grown into this acumen, or possibly grown out into it is closer to accurate.  I was dark witted when I was young, I think of myself as less so now, optimism is a blessing I have gained through the years, it feels good and I keep it close. I need to be a blithe spirit to travel the road I do.  Tears have their place, I know that for sure, but I rather not go around with a puss on all day and all night.  Additionally it is so much about perspective; you see, the honey makes the peas taste funny but at least now they stick to my knife.

Assign colors to numbers

*

I AM

I am my own hope.

The spring of willingness flows within me

And makes everything possible.

I am my own dream.

Colors and sprinkles fly in my mind

And mix with a sprite’s laugh

And make me enchanted.

I am my own joy.

Filled with wonder and delight,

My quick turns and ready mind warm

My heart and pink my checks.

I am my own prize.

New and exciting

Every day that I am myself,

I win.

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

Jane Street

April 30

Jane Street

The space between wanting to live and not wanting to hurt is the alley in which I live.  This lane is not as narrow as you might think, in some places there is room for parking on one side.  Since I reside here more often than not I have filled it with many of the appliances, which allow me to pretend at life.  It doesn’t afford a truly clean or cheerful locale, but there are laughs, sometimes flowers in the spring.  Finding my way out of this is tricky.  When unlocked I find these are backdoors to commerce and though better than being sold wholesale, retail is not what I was hoping to find as I wrest myself from a confined existence.  I have heard of those who drive through   plate glass ignoring the structure.  I think this is less workable from the back.  What is left when I can’t bully or climb?  I guess I will have to throw my hands up and pray.

Acknowledge a myth about yourself

*

ROLES

You don’t have to give up playing God

Because it was a bad thing to do.

You have to give it up because it doesn’t work

Said my sponsor in her most gentle voice.

In a world seemingly spinning out of control

You, brave child, stepped up to the plate and took a swing

That is heroic not demonic

But impractical nevertheless

You have to be your own full-time job

Even when it feels like there are other jobs left unfilled

You don’t have to run around finding the feet

To fill those empty shoes

Maybe those empty shoes are just bait for a bad trap

Keep on your journey and you will come to a place where the work

Is being accomplished by a surprising cast of characters

You will be free to stick to the role ahead of you.

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.