Networks

May 28

NETWORKS

Testing my sponsor when I’m hurt is like probing for gas with a lit cigar in my mouth.  If I can’t find a way to douse the cheroot before posing my questions it’s guaranteed I will get an explosive response.  I need a network; they follow me with sand, snatch from me my burning pacifier and save me from sticking my smoldering end where it doesn’t belong.  We all need a little excitement in our lives but I don’t have to become an incendiary device to fill that need.  I forget that boring isn’t the same as death; it just feels that way.  Some days, distance prevents disaster; a good support system carries me away to face it on another day.

Don’t be afraid to turn the kaleidoscope.

*

RAID !!!

So, you stepped into a hornets nest

and now how am I to respond?

Blame you, no, I don’t think so,

I mean you are the exterminator

and some stings are to be expected,

but this is far beyond even your honed ability

to anticipate wasps.

Cry, running from this ambush?

Again, I decline

I still want you after the war is over,

even if I can not fight by your side.

Protest, I try to refrain,

I never want to make your job harder

but I don’t want to leave the impression

I have no concern, so I walk the fine line.

Standing on the sidelines is harder than you think,

I am helpless and lonely,

not as exciting as your work

and no comfort from this distance.

I must hold my breath

while you provoke the bees.

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

Crumpled Petals in my Pocket

April 23

CRUMPLED PETALS IN MY POCKET

I can’t bring back the bloom.  Cohesion, lost in 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 of 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.

Line your clouds with anything you like.

*

Coming Home to Work

I have arrived home to a beehive;

everyone industrious,

everyone filled with purpose,

everything buzzing right along.

My response to this of course is anger.

I have a sting and I want to use it.

I have a place it falls into yet I fear falling.

The living world is now opened to me,

but my destination had been death for so long

that the prospect of diligence ignites steel blue fury.

I divide my time between gratitude and rage.

I want to accuse myself, rescue myself,

then I remember everyone in this place too

has a buzz, a stripe and a stinger.

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

Coming Home to Work

April 25

Coming Home to Work

I have arrived home to a beehive; everyone industrious, everyone filled with purpose, everything buzzing right along.  My response to this of course is anger.  I have a sting and I want to use it.  I have a place it falls into yet I fear falling.  The living world is now opened to me, but my destination had been death for so long that the prospect of diligence ignites steel blue fury.  I divide my time between gratitude and rage.  I want to accuse myself, rescue myself, then I remember everyone in this place has a buzz, a stripe and a stinger.

Hum in a foreign language

*

DESSERT

I have to be my own appetizer

I have to be the thing which entices and intrigues me

I must be the roughage, the salad full of color and variety

The entrée must be me, as well.

The things which sustain me

The meat of my life

I have to supply and swallow it down

I can be all this.

I run to the sweetness of others

But this cannot be my source of sustenance

The greater part of me

Needs to derive from me.

I can set the table

And fill it with the fullness of who I am

I am enough and others are dessert

Twinkies will never be sufficient, they can only be a treat.

Bad Acting

March 16

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.

Turn, turn, turn then rest

*

UNNECESSARY WORDS

I've spent years trying to put names on the streets in my 12 th step map post.
Clear signs with monikers easy to remember, themed and progressive
But I have been wasting my time, the map is there, no doubt.

I have seen people follow it to varying degrees.
The names are unnecessary, like ants, we trail each others scent.
We track so closely as not to loose visual contact, we don't play with our survival.

Or we are bees standing in front of the meeting
Doing the dance, which describes the path to sobriety
With meaningful jokes, and well earned tears.

As I stand at the foot of a few twenty-fours
And see the evolution of my recovery
I realize the names in the placards are ever-changing.

Meaning and value pour through the kaleidoscope of time
And come out as indescribable gifts, Which I can only give through action.
I will no longer fritter away my time looking for tags and titles

Crumpled Petals in my Pocket

April 23

CRUMPLED PETALS IN MY POCKET

I can’t bring back the bloom. Cohesion, lost in 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 of 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.

Line your clouds with anything you like.

*

Coming Home to Work

I have arrived home to a beehive;

everyone industrious,

everyone filled with purpose,

everything buzzing right along.

My response to this of course is anger.

I have a sting and I want to use it.

I have a place it falls into yet I fear falling.

The living world is now opened to me,

but my destination had been death for so long

that the prospect of diligence ignites steel blue fury.

I divide my time between gratitude and rage.

I want to accuse myself, rescue myself,

then I remember everyone in this place too

has a buzz, a stripe and a stinger.