On-Coming

May 11

ON-COMING

Anticipation of the approaching traffic consumes.  The tiny spec grows and develops into the arriving vehicle.  50 miles per and the rapid succession of the coming and those leaving eats quickly at my heart.  The pain seers me.  Why are these who travel from the direction of my destination passing me by?  For miles and miles, they appear to be greeters.  The breeze created by their passing chaps my face and I question my goals.  How can so many abandon my objective?  But flee it they do.  My hunger does not diminish and I press on.  Of course if we all went this way, we might tip the globe.   Maybe that’s what they fear.

Smile with your eyes, laugh with your hands, rest your heart, ease your mind.

*

Be That Girl

I have tried to protect the investment I made in the past

by selling the soul of my future.

I arrived self-possessed, a winning girl,

but I slid the self from the scene leaving me simply possessed.

I gained everything then lost it a piece at a time

starting with the parts nearest my heart.

I must draw the shards together once more

and mend this lovely crystal.

The art of living is insured by my action

not by grasping at slivers in terror

of what slips from my fingers.

I am what I have inviolate

and all else comes to fruition when I am pleased;

when I am myself.

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

Arabian Days

April 7

ARABIAN DAYS

There are days I feel like Scheherazade and could spin a thousand tales.  Other days I feel my brain grab for its satchel and exit my ear.  I find it hard to be a hospitable host to all of me, but when I stretch or strain my elbow or knee I think, “oh well, they go out, they go out,” but if my brain runs off and leaves me I am in a serious mess.  I try to be a lover of my mind for when I don’t I grow small in my heart.  I scent the mental bath water and light the little lights; I sing sweet songs.  I wait for response.  I smile broadly to hear the quick report of Rimsky-Korsakov.

Don’t transpose your feelings.

*

Out on Your Front Porch

“If you want what we have,” said my sponsor,

“you will have to follow somebody

and lead somebody and do a few other things.”

“I have to follow somebody,

that shouldn’t be too hard,” I mumble.

“In order to follow it helps if you stop looking at the ground,

lift you gaze,” her retort.

I raised my chin until I met her eyes.  “Better,” said she.

“I follow you?” I ask.

“Me, yes, if I have what you want,

follow others if I don’t,” she said.

“Okay and lead somebody, how do I do that?” I ask.

“It’s attraction, Sweetie, be attractive,

show your smile and your smarts,

But most of all show that you’re sober,

because that is always your best asset.

And no matter what anybody tells you

about the allure of bad girls,

nobody can resist a good set of assets”

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

Scalene

December 24

Scalene

Strangeness is attracting, I don’t try to deny it.  I have looked longingly at oddness and every skewed thing.  Though I try to divert my gaze the acute angles draw me back to peer again and again.  Strange attractors have an unexplainable beauty to me.  The wane charisma digs its hooks into my soul and I carry it off like a burr stuck to my hide.  What does this say of me, I am not sure?  What does it say of the sidelong loves of mine?  Volumes, I think it speaks volumes, all of it unknown to me.

Collect friendly faces

*

WHAT’S LEFT AFTER HOPE RUNS AWAY

shoes and socks

old post cards

tennis balls with no more bounce

memories that have lost their fun

dreams left in the box

earrings with the clasp askew

things I’ve said

dead thoughts, too

stacks of books

letters written

tender feelings

wonder---smitten

the pain is left

and runs around wildly

my face is stained

and left untidy

I can never fill the space

Which hope leaves behind it

The stage is dark

And everything quiet

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 Twelfth of April

December 3

The Twelfth of April

When I met you, you were a power tagged and trapped in a box. A tiger caught by its toe and yet I could do nothing but fall under the spell of your roar. The suppressed growl you leave for me like an invitation I could never decline. I write to you a note of explanation; words testifying to my desire, which I promise to hold back out of respect for you. And a wish to survive my drive toward you and your furious stripes and claws. Your bite which I long to feel, yet know I must not ask for. When I inquire if you have read, you say with sanguine smile, “Read it to me.” When I am done and with tear stained face, all you reply is, “I have lost my taste for anyone but you.”

Keep an ear out for more than danger

*

GOOD SAMARITAN PIE

The meal prepared from my cognition,
The bread and jam of humility, salad of expectation,
Roast of determination and Good Samaritan pie
Wait on the table to be devoured.

The courses pass and come desert, my kindly intentions.
Are cut to wedges and pushed from setting to setting.
I can dollop after dollop cover the requisite desires
Of this tart in attempt to deny my addiction to fixing
Or I can serve up the plain truth.

I help and help, and wander down roads looking
For lost puppies to return to their homes.
I must admit my longing to lend support
Is sometimes half-baked and if kept to home and hearth
It might serve me better and make a sweeter dish.

Assistance is best in proportion to the meal
I must live my life and save my Good Samaritan pie till last.

Out on Your Front Porch

April 8

Out on Your Front Porch

“If you want what we have,” said my sponsor, “you will have to follow somebody and lead somebody and do a few other things.”

“I have to follow somebody, that shouldn’t be too hard,” I mumble.

“In order to follow it helps if you stop looking at the ground, lift you gaze,” her retort. I raise my chin until I meet her eyes. “Better,” says she.

“I follow you?” I ask.

“Me, yes, if I have what you want, follow others if I don’t,” she says.

“Okay and lead somebody, how do I do that?” I ask.

“It’s attraction, Sweetie, be attractive, show your smile and your smarts, but most of all show that you’re sober, because that is always your best asset. And no matter what anybody tells you about the allure of bad girls, nobody can resist a good set of assets”

Don’t let the rush of the river scare you from the bank

*

WHAT IS PAST

The past cannot hold me in a loving embrace
I run too often looking for affection and recognition
In things long dead and purportedly buried

I return to the ghoulish obsession of digging up
Old hates and sorrows longing for support
And finding only the cause of the ulcers in my soul

I wallpaper the crumbling facade
Not wanting to cover it up but to hold it together
Trying to unify something which is totally scattered

When I view it with a sober eye
The past is nothing but a slideshow
Under a strobe light

The pulse triggers the impulsive belief that it was all real
When in truth it was the lie I survived
No life existed in the past

Only now is there air to breathe
The past is all vacuum
And I don't need to be sucked away

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.