Live Bait

January 12

Live Bait

Is being a taunt to others really a life?  Dangling as the cover for a hook, luring intended and unintended to their deaths, is that living?  Or if I draw you with my attack rather than my appeal is that a worthwhile existence?  If I carry myself filled with poison praying for a strike is that anything other than a march to an unhappy grave for two, or more?  Hidden under an avalanche of harassment strips me of my vital quality and my soul loses its true nature. I am allowed to transcend the setup of competition and social strife.  It’s alright to be tempting with no agenda.  I could be an appetizer if only I removed the barbs or better yet I could be dessert.

Tuck tiny wishes between your toes.

*

JOY IS NOT ENOUGH

I was driving around in my car
Eating a meltingly ripe persimmon
On the radio came a fiddle playing band
Performing their rendition of In The White Room

I was traveling with the three drafts of my first step
Version one consisted of 690-some words
And the final had only four, JOY IS NOT ENOUGH
That's it, the whole thing.

Today my life is unmanageable
Due to the fact that having a balanced life
Feeling my wide range of feelings, including joy,
Is not sufficient to eliminate the pain and damage of the past.
My horrific childhood has not healed
Has not mended seamlessly
I have joy today, everyday, at some point
In proportion to my sober choices.

I fail to realize the promise doesn't say, Heal the past
It says, I will not regret the past.
I don't, at least not any of the choices I made,
Other peoples choices are not mine to regret.

I will not wish to shut the door on the past
And I don't wish to.
I want it Healed
I may not get my wish

Just because I am doing my part to heal the past
Doesn't make anyone else do it
I can't strong-arm the perpetrators into recovery
The way they strong-armed me into the abuse

JOY IS NOT ENOUGH but it's a hell of a start.

Vlog:  http://youtu.be/qnr7COwlqqU

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

Feeding the Monster

April 25

FEEDING THE MONSTER

Who will feed the monster once they’ve made her?  Her hunger burns in her like a beacon.  Should I let her starve?  Should I put her on rations of old crusts and tepid water?  Rebuke her as if she were her own idea?  Possibly bind her hands and cover her eyes?  Stand her in line with the good girls and fit her in?  Turn her visage from her desire and tell her to forget?  Hold her hand and tell her that’s enough?  When I stand in the face of her yawning hunger, what do I say? 

“It’s for your own good.”

Well, that’s what ‘They’ said, too.

Round the corners and square your shoulders.

*

Blinded

Alcoholism hits me like a kind of blindness.

I stagger through the living room

cursing anyone who changes familiar placement

or published timetables.

Like every aspect of this disease

shocked sightlessness is mine to deal with.

I must pick up the white cane,

procure the Seeing Eye pup,

learn to read clustered Braille.

When my vision clears

in these well worked spaces I am relieved

but I must accept that when I walk into a new room

more often then not I will be blind again

and must pick up my walking stick once more.

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

Wet Blanket

March 19

WET BLANKET

I have carried this sodden thing with me all my life, its weight a burden for numerous years.  I have never been able to explain my continuing drag of this pitiful thing.  Though it has been commented on by many, my fidelity is boundless.  In spite of inner questions and doubts, now that the fire is here, I am glad to have it.  I pull it over me and step into the fray.  Thick and moist, I somehow struggle under its influence and am able to do what others, bare of my encumbrance, cannot.  I don’t believe I can quench all the flames, but I hope to help some to safety and bat down the encroaching inferno a bit.

Acknowledge the upswings in your value.

*

Bent, Spindled, Mutilated

Injury changes memory,

not just the memory of the individual trauma,

but the very nature of the mind.

The hooks and loops distort

and I can’t hold on as I once did.

The misses and disconnects become more frequent,

then they become expected.

Emotional fluff-ups do not suffice,

the hardware is damaged

and a positive attitude is advisable

but the pliers are a necessity.

Some things are easier to break than to repair,

in fact most things are easier to break, no skill required,

though some take it on as skill,

Most destruction is ignorant or accidental,

nothing personal just a part of a pain filled landscape.

Direct intervention is not the same as hands-free degradation,

though both have their cost.

Redemption, restoration, is sought from all comers.

Possibilities and probabilities stack;

action is a relief, whether or not it is a fix.

I take a breath to face the final blow,

for when the cost adds up

and I look for recompense

all I hear is the check is in the mail

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 First Father

March 14

THE FIRST FATHER

The rest of what I have to say I will slip under your gravestone if I have time after I buy that red dress.  To say I hate you is an overstatement; I only detest what I know of you, the rest I leave to other people who might have the misfortune to cross your path.  Your unavailability can protect you from anything I could ever do to you.  Your hurt and arrogance is far worse a punishment than I could ever inflict on you if I thought you were worth the energy of an attempt.  Having to be you every day must make it hard to leave the bed in the morning; I know I couldn’t do it if I had to drag your baggage around all day.  The sad part is I’m not sure you know it’s baggage.  You might think it’s armor, but your misnaming of everything is just another of the things I never miss about you.  That is why, although I pray everyday for your well being for the sake of mine, if I never see you again, it might just be long enough.

Live up to your height.

*

Bad Acting

Because there never seems to be enough love

in the world to fill the wound,

my wounded self riots.

At times the debauchery seems good natured enough,

flamboyant yet without harm,

at other times the disturbance is apparently violent

and the issuing tumult a crime.

All for want of wholeness and sanity

I pursue shattered fractured activity

just to keep from dwelling where I cannot live,

where there is no air.

I want land beneath my feet

and full, full lungs

on my own I find neither of these

and little else of use.

Isolation even in a crowd is the tell tale sign

that I am in the, me, myself and I mode

of drowning in a teacup and require rescue.

Little more than raising my hand above the surface

and asking for help is needed

though this is a Herculean effort as we all know.

Rowing up stream is a bigger battle then it ever looks

and I know the river runs through me.

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

Life is Unfair

February 19

LIFE IS UNFAIR

Assuring myself I will not be permitted through the gate, I walk the perimeter, assessing the fence, looking for a place to exploit, a wire slightly high.  Trying to look graceful, I duck under the fence, telling myself I prefer life on the edge.  The water is less dangerous here on the fringe; I wouldn’t want to be swept away.  I stay clear of my peers.  I stand in the baby pool and feel confident I won’t drown, brushing from my conscience that I won’t swim either.

Struggling to the top of the pile or scurrying underneath is a blatant lack of humility.  Skirting the margin is the same.  Facing life and finding it unfair, I take to the world of exception and hope to slip through the cracks to a life of safety.  In that act I discount my talent and ability.  Worst of all, I disconnect from God.

Toy with your thoughts, play with your food.

*

Jenny

Though ignorance may be bliss,

living in the shadow of someone else’s

ignorance is sheer hell.

The confusion is bad, but the lies are worse.

Want to cripple a child for life

give it to a well meaning fool

who has the rule book to the wrong board game,

That child will grow to need crutches they don’t make

and medicine they can’t brew.

Dependent on misguided insanity the child will require

a miracle cure and may lack the ability to ingest it.

Best case scenario the kid makes a brave escape

into a world she can barely comprehend,

worse case she turns the rule book upside down

and reads it backwards to her own unfortunate brood.

Ignorance is always a twilight proposition,

half agreement the other half handcuffed nightmare.

Full consent is by necessity impossible

while blameless innocents is similarly unachievable.

The only suggestion I can make

from this side of the looking glass

is to pick your poison and plan your getaway.

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

Lame

December 23

Lame

I easily identify the big mistakes of my life, but fail to recognize or report the little mistakes that I make, mistakes, which cost me so much.  Repetitive irresponsibility has the effect of water torture; drip, drip, drip and my peace of mind is worn away.  What can I say of what I refuse to see?  It was there all along like the view covered by the shade.  Who is to blame for not raising the curtain?  It may be me. may not, but I am the one who suffers, I am the one who misses out.  Missing the opportunity to grow out of these small deficiencies leaves me with a lifelong handicap and I am not just speaking of my blindness, but also how they make me lame.

Protest ignorance

*

Beginning and End

She stepped through my window and the clock stopped.

The shock of her arrival heart pounding fun and fury.

Forever I felt as if she weren’t there.

Fear lurked in my eyes.

Smile enchanting.

Exit at hand.

Good-

Bye.

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

Desert Island

November 2

Desert Island

When I am left to amuse myself, more often than not I turn my wicked wit to redress those whose neglect, I sorely feel; this is childish.  This is pointless and yet I do it and do it well.  I am, too good at being alone and I resent it and resent every necessity for honing that skill set.  When in the past I have made my mind up to accept seclusion each overture is a slashing intrusion.  I am not a happy medium, though I do doubt if such a thing exists.  I am an attention seeker when I am not I am an isolation monger.  The wavering nature of human interaction is an uncertain sea for me, alternating downing me or leaving me washed- up on some remote shore.  Even amid those I love the most, I am a skinless writhing neonate, hyper-reactive and living on the edge.  I somehow know the answer is self-esteem or spiritual development, but when in the midst of this imprudent reaction the paths to these are lost.  I try to hold my breath when underwater, when on the beach I try not to breathe the sand.  If I survive today I may grow out of this tomorrow.

Make peace with your pillow before bedtime

*

DESERVING

Tender toes crushed by moving memories
Fresh pain from ancient injuries
Shock incurred from these lifeless reminiscence
Unhappy reconstructions slap inspecting faces.

The people who stood by
To let the chips fall where they may
Try to pretend innocent bystanders now
That shit is falling from the sky.

Unexposed skin will burn when the flames leap high
Idiotic excuses will not retard the fire
Of injustice coming to call
Too late tears carry no freight with the past recipients
Of the “It all runs down hill” award.

Cowards make themselves cripples
And fracture at the force of incoming reality
And deserve more than they get.

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

Barnum Bailey & Me

September 9

Barnum, Bailey & Me

When I wake to find a whip and a chair by the side of my bed I know I am in for a circus of a day and the tears of this clown will not change a thing.  I ready myself for the tightrope walk and watch out for stray elephants.  All the trained poodles in the world can’t make this into a day in the park.  Painted ponies prance through their paces; I try to stick to my own act, meanwhile remembering that no matter how difficult these routines may be it still beats a seat in the stands.

Raffle off the surplus grit from your nitty gritty

*

MEGAPHONE

The point of surviving

Or maybe the goal after survival

Is enabling the voices of victims to be heard

Starting with my own.

I allow the surging waves of thought and feelings

To rush the gates and exit

I try to bleed the bad

With and without the use of leaches.

So much is stumbled upon rather than sought after,

Some things hound me, I run down the street

With memory at my heels

I must let the screams out or become them.

Today I talk, tomorrow is for others.

When I pour forth I open the way for the rest

I have become the megaphone

Rather than the cheerleader

It is good to be of use.

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

The Naked Not the Dead

September 4

The Naked Not the Dead

Because comfort is sometimes no comfort I can shave my hair and walk bare in the naked world.  Removing pretense helps in unexpected ways.  Foolish action becomes formulaic when you are scared or hurt.  I lived through the summers of blood; the winter is not enough to stem the tide or heal the wound.  I have no want to raise the dead, but how to save the living?  Poverty is the inheritance of so much misguided lethargy and I must shear off the illusion of maturity and let the children speak.

Bury pettiness in an unmarked grave

*

WHINING BRATS

Some days whining brats come at me from all directions

And my hair won’t curl,

Apathy chases me around the house.

I wonder how it has more energy than I do.

My mind twists into a wrinkled mess

I drag my good foot and hop on the bad one.

And even on those days I still rather be me.

I never long to be the innocent victim

Or spiritual leader, the tough guy or the Ph D.

No matter how bad it gets

Or what the struggle is

There  is no place sweeter than in my head.

Many are the days I wished not to exist at all

But never to shuck my skin

for the skin of another.

.

Now that I manage breathe right

And to face each day with cheer

I know it was almost worth it

And might be worth it yet.

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

Rounder

July 16

Rounder

Back again, yes, that I see, but change is not the same as return.  What I know of you is your past.  I believe the past because I know it.  If there is a new you to meet that remains to be seen.  Even a chameleon sheds its skin, though I doubt its intrinsic nature is altered much in the process.  So flash your smile and wind your words into the thoughts of those with whom you have no history.  I’ve been exposed before, the virus doesn’t conquer me, I am immune.  Once bitten makes me wary when you come around again.

Pick a color and let it find you all day

*

TO SLOOP

When I was a tanker- I carried such a heavy load.

The diesel cycle ran at regular intervals

And my internal temperature was terrific.

The fuel sprayed and things went round and round

The cost was high.

Now my principal means of propulsion

Is the wind in my sails.

Conversion was difficult

Though I found the rigging and mast a fascination

The ballast was a heavy load to bear.

Cargo is something short lived

To be cast off at the next port.

Incumbent discretion is welded to my keel

And will go with me to every harbor.

As a tankard, liquid was transported or consumed.

As a cutter, dependability keeps me tacking into the wind.

Now my outlay is low and my rewards are high

I carry only what I need, I am free, a sloop upon the sea.

Dido

June 12

Dido

Either I can have a bad relationship that I never wanted or no relationship and the painful isolation of having been lied to and deceived by someone who, in theory, should have been trustworthy.  You are off to war and I am agape not having realized until too late that you are a soldier.  The fact is that one of these things will occur; you will be killed by a machine which cares nothing for you and sees you as its enemy or destroyed by the organization that sees you as its own or you will throw yourself on your sword and keep from bothering anyone else with this task.  There is no scenario where you are the One you promised me you’d be.  No homecoming, no welcoming arms to hold me.  I stand on the sidewalk a garbage pail of cold water poured over my shock and dismay.  To my grief you say that you have heard it all before, so why did you set me up to say it all again?  I am heart stricken and cut in a place to obvious to hide and too hidden to speak of.  You have no time to talk, no aid to give, no love to spare.  I thought I was yours, but see that I have been swept from your life by the flood of a large gauge hose and water of questionable origin.  Everything is wet but nothing is clean.  This is an unholy act and I am defeated and living in Carthage.

Forgive loneliness

*

FABULOUS

I don’t care what else is on the inventory-----

You still have to take responsibility for FABULOUS

Said my sponsor with a determined look on her face.

But you don’t understand------

The other things on the list make it impossible

For me to be FABULOUS

You can’t see how incapable I truly am, I say

As I collapse into a pathetic heap in the overstuffed chair.

What you don’t comprehend is that FABULOUS

Is not affected by your other little grumblings

You can’t tarnish FABULOUS

It doesn’t wear away with burden or neglect .

This is why no matter how far you bury it

Or misname it, or even flatly deny it

FABULOUS shines like a beacon

And you end up with every Todd, Nick and Martha

On your doorstep.

Expecting you to be who you are

And let them warm in the glow

So my cherub--you can fight it or live with it

But FABULOUS is here to stay

The Price of Today's Ride

March 6

The Price of Today’s Ride

Much of my spiritual awakening has been spent separating myself from the nightmare of the past, reassuring myself that in fact, it, the horror, is over.  As my present has improved my reactions are still invested with, the hide or fly, coping of a child dealing with terror.  Things get better yet barricades are erected, departing flights secured.  Disengaging the clutch of fingers wrapped so tightly around the escape hatch takes a great deal of my short supply of faith and confidence.  Laying down my anticipatory reluctance in favor of optimism has had the breathtaking feel of pain, though in fact it was only the separation from a poisonous crutch and the vacuum it creates.  Allowing myself to see beauty at the same time as I deal with the truth of the past; standing in the full light of morning and not blocking out the brilliant ache of night is the outstanding gift my spiritual path affords me. 

Open stored creativity

*

ECHOES OF ACTION

Squares of light outline a patchwork on walls and ceiling.
Ripples of water formed this ancient glass.
Three hundred years these waves have shone through those panes.
Three hundred years these waves have held,
Like stability in a world of change.

Looking through the window
The City rams life down it's own throat.
The ripples are invisible,
Caressing currents imbed the glass
The wavelengths shining projections only with the street lights.

How much mundane activity is captured,
Only revealing itself surreptitiously.
What is not echoed from year to year comes to final rest.
My voice does not terminate at my mouth
How therefore can I consider a blunted end to my behavior?

Timely

November 17

TIMELY

Spend a minute to rub the sleep gently from your eyes.

Spend an hour smoothing lotion from one end to the other.

Spend a day in tribute to the gifts you give and gifts given you.

Spend a week researching your goals, dreams and hopes.

Spend a month routing energy to a viable flow.

Spend a year studying truth.

Spend a life living it.

Your life is worth all the time you have.

Take it.

Balance doubt and dreams.

*

Human Sacrifice

How much does it have to cost me

in order for you to feel better?

Why is it that my suffering improves your mood?

Does it confirm for you that you are not alone

when you are feeling scared?

Or does it give you the sense

that at least you’re not as pitiful as me?

Is it pleading that strikes a chord,

is it the animal pain which stirs your compassion?

What about this scenario completes the cycle for you

to be able to move back to your comfort zone?

What happens if I don’t fall to pieces?

If I hold my emotions to my chest,

take them to my sponsor,

in some way keep them from your hungry eyes?

Will you move on and leave me behind?

Will you climb over the hurdle

which currently stands between us?

Or will you store away this bitter thing

like a rotten nut hidden by a Secret Squirrel?

My Heroine

October 18

MY HEROINE

The corpse that is my childhood is mine to protect from the wolves and rats of denial and collusion.  The infant who commits suicide in self-defense is my heroine.  The pure thinking of an uncluttered mind seizes on the only possible way for me to survive.  Her death at her own hand is my rescue.  If the bad had killed her I would have died with her.  In her plan, I was left as the seed she ejected in her assent.  She is gone from this place; I feel her only as the wisp of memory.  The tiny body laid flat on the carpet, her pressed pinafore somehow more alive than she, is the unfinished business of prevention.  As long as I see her there and do not walk away from my responsibility and never forget she protected me with the life she never lived, I am free to live this life.

Throw ice cubes up for God to catch.

*

Earl Grey is not my Friend

Scabby knees is what I look for;

I need to be with those who climb,

not those who slide.

I hate to say it, but looking cool

and sitting on the sidelines

does nothing for me or my sobriety.

I have to build those calluses,

require patches in my clothes,

carry a hammer to pound in those spikes.

If I don’t see tools in your hands

and bodily evidence that you have been using them,

I really don’t have time for you.

This is a “let’s go, lets go” kind of recovery for me

and if it isn’t for you then have fun

and I hope you have a good seat,

but I am not staying for your tea party;

I have no time for tarts.

Water Babies

June 24

WATER BABIES

Timeless babies bobble in their underwater positions.  Voiceless cherubs bounce and wink the river of their wisdom streams to my feeble mind.  The noise of silence wrinkles and tinkles as the waves crash soundlessly above.  My head fills; I must surface but beg not to lose my connection when I break the tension of top-side sobriety; I turn these angels to screened-off faithfuls.  I owe all I have to these aquatic infants.  Every hope, all my fear is held to test in the face of swimming heroines and their embryonic grave.

Read a poem to a plant.

*

Living as a Megaphone

He whispers in my ear,

I part my lips and let it all run out.

Vacant tube of a thing,

his words pour through me

nothing to stem the flow,

He hides behind me, the bully that he is.

I stand with rings painted bright concentric, bold.

I am nothing;

 I know it

and don’t need him to tell me,

My inactions speak louder than his words.

He is not the one who bore right through my core;

he is just the little worm who is living there secure.

I will have to purge him out to be his megaphone no more.

The Deals I've Made

February 16

THE DEALS I’VE MADE

Because they are deals and not resentments or secrets, these circular schemes did not come out in my fourth step. They didn’t come out in the wash; they come out whenever they are broken. If the deal is don’t eat pickled herring and you won’t have to remember X, the deal will get broken when pickled herring is served to me at some social gathering. As I get healthier, the breaks connect ever more deeply. What in early sobriety would have given me unexplained discomfort now gives me full-blown flashbacks. And I watch the deal unravel… you weren’t supposed to eat this because this is what was on the plate when… but now that it’s on the plate here, now you have to face this ugly roiling mess. The deals saved my life, but unless they are handled with care and honesty, they can cost me the life I have now. I must choose a safe person and place to share these broken shards, living alone with this will not work and making it public fodder is a set up as well. In every one of these deals there is a back door to a drink and therefore We have to go out the front door together.

Pick three color words and use them all day.

*

The Long Dark Ride

Are fear and ignorance one thing

that looks like itself

or terrifying twins who feed one another?

Can they be separated

and if they can will it kill them?

And if they die

what will spring from their remains?

Will it be better or worse?

Can I tell what better is?

Should I tell if it turns out to be worse?

Is there ever an end to either fear or ignorance?

If there is, how deep is that well

and will I survive a trip to the bottom?

Do you know and do you care?

Will you go with me if I find the way?

Will you take me if you find it first?

Behind Closed Doors

October 25

Behind Closed Doors

The children of happy fathers make no sense to me. I have known no such peace. What is it to live in a world where there is a man who likes you, someone who approves? I feel like my chin would have always been out there to see, no ducking, no need to hide, had there been a good man to whom I could turn. The dark circles under the eyes of my soul make me old, old and different from those kids, mere children, safe in a home with a happy man whose joy it is to be their Dad.

Dance cheek to cheek with your muse when you can

*

DETAIL DAYS

Detail days seem like lost soulless days.
I sort the piles of endless junk mail
Catch up on bills, letters, laundry.
I don’t leave the house but in someway
I feel like I’m not in my home.

It’s like a day of pulling out all the needles,
Splinters and thorns which accumulate
Under my skin from rough weeks and road rash.
I steel myself to the pain of relief and rescue.

Cleared counters, emptied baskets, finished worry list
Leave me with that newly moved in feel.
Piles overwhelm me but sometimes details define me.

Megaphone

September 22

MEGAPHONE


The point of surviving, or maybe the goal after survival, is enabling the voices of victims to be heard, starting with my own. I allow the surging waves of thought and feeling to rush the gates and exit. I try to bleed the bad with and without the use of leaches. So much is stumbled upon rather than sought after. Some things hound me; I run down the street with memory at my heels. I must let the screams out or become them. Today I talk, tomorrow is for others. When I pour forth, I open the way for the rest. I have become the megaphone rather than the cheerleader. It is good to be of use.


Pollinate ideas.

Feeding the Monster

April 25

FEEDING THE MONSTER



Who will feed the monster once they’ve made her? Her hunger burns in her like a beacon. Should I let her starve? Should I put her on rations of old crusts and tepid water? Rebuke her as if she were her own idea? Possibly bind her hands and cover her eyes? Stand her in line with the good girls and fit her in? Turn her visage from her desire and tell her to forget? Hold her hand and tell her that’s enough? When I stand in the face of her yawning hunger, what do I say?
“It’s for your own good.”
Well, that’s what ‘They’ said, too.


Round the corners and square your shoulders.