Natural Law

August 26

NATURAL LAW

Gravity is always in effect, but invoke the laws of lift and you can make a stone fly.  I have no gills but strap on a tank and rebreather; I can share space with sharks.  Given enough willingness and step work I can walk through the world sober though every cell of my body is alcoholic.  The laws of nature are fluid.  When I flow with them I can keep my goals.  Instant gratification is often my stumbling block.  Gaining access to my far-flung desires is not impossible but it is also not immediate.

Make little plans with salt and big plans with sugar.

*

Make Use of Brown Soap

When I have death in my pocket

it makes it easy to cross the street without a glance.

A little arsenic in my in my veins

allows me to swallow the rest with no thought beyond want.

Twist the screws tight enough in my brain

and no other pressure seems problematic.

All of the trouble in the world can beat a path to my door

when I carry within me the seeds of destruction.

I have to check myself for stow-away devastation.

Ruin begins in tiny droplets but will wash me down the drain

if not wiped immediately from my skin.

Vigilant acknowledgement of the power of small burdens

protects me from the mind blown ravages of the ensuing cyclone.

Microbes cause mayhem,

so I must watch where I touch and wash before I eat.

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

Open Windows

June 13

OPEN WINDOWS

I roll down the window in the rain hoping reality will soak in with the droplets.  I tilt up my face as I leave the car and let the water shower my features.  The downpour is the jolt to living for which I have prayed.  I stand on my lawn and rinse the day out of my hair; I clear my brain in the fresh rainwater.  The driving rain pounds the house and trees but I feel massaged and cared for.  My skin, reflexive, teaches my mind to absorb and hydrate.  I turn my thoughts to Greater Powers.  Even if the doors have been closed, I can open the windows and let the rain come in.

Soap the windows on some of your ideas so you can work in privacy.

*

Down to the Watership

The immoderate champions immoderation;

the glutton recommends consumption,

more often than not a drunk will pour you a drink

It is part of the social norm to conform

to the addiction of the day.

If we are all high we laugh at each other’s jokes

and there is less finger pointing about the mess.

When we are all in this together we sink or we swim,

but we mustn’t look around.

Like the rabbits who cannot ask, “Where?”

We try to look at ease with dying

and contented with our lot.

More must be better

for we can’t survive on less than what we’ve got.

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

When a Snapper Crosses the Road

April 29

WHEN A SNAPPER CROSSES THE ROAD

What should I do?  I see the soggy green/gray lump creeping the macadam too slow to survive for long.  The surge in me, to aim and end the duckling eater's life, is a short-lived but palpable surge.  My Disney style justice is dismissed but heard from nonetheless.  Shall I pull over and assist?  This turtle is as ill equipped for this stretch of road as I am ill equipped to aid in its conveyance.  Should I reach with fingers or toes to something I know can extend its neck and sever me from parts I hold dear?  The ever-present missionary in me has spoken and is silenced.  In fact, what I can do is slow down and give wide berth.  I know this creature is a danger, but never more so than me.

Plot your graph and measure your curve.

*

Terry Bradshaw

When someone wants to take the easy way out

I condemn them for wanting ease

and fail to register that they want out.

I hear a whine when in fact it’s a cry.

A challenge is rarely passed up by the able bodied,

but must be foregone by the injured.

Carried from the field is no personal victory,

not a goal for sure.

When I would rather watch than play

I need to check for wounds not inflict them.

It is not natural for me to sit in the stands,

but accusation is never the way to get me on the field.

Suit up when I’m whole and hide when I’m not.

Absence is a fallback position for the fallen

I have to help myself to get back up.

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 Music

January 22

THE MUSIC

I hear a tinkling noise and look around the room.  No, it’s coming from my head.  It’s the sound of the music of my life.  The bells, a horn or two, the strings, always the strings.  The sharp clear cry of the vixen, calling from the hedge row.  The lonely voice of resolve.  The melody shifts, tomorrow’s tune warming up in the wee hours of the night.  I don’t try to part my lips.  Replication is not yet a possibility.  I am only just learning to move with the rhythm, keep the beat in my heart and draw it down for my toe to tap.  I cannot sing my song.  I must let it live in me a while longer.  I can’t share things of which I haven’t had my fill.  Giving too much, too often, makes the anthem run thin.  I have to be fully me, to be full voiced.  I need to stew in the juice of overflowing harmony.  The pounding of my feet on the steps unite the accord. 

Wild things and practiced plans put forward the waves of life on earth.  I follow, placing my feet in well-worn treads, the dance school reopened for sober living.  Passion plays and calls my response.  For today, I pass.  I leave the song inside.

Talk to yourself in a possibly unknown language.........Kindness

*

Guest Flag

The polite thing to do is

fly the silly blue rectangle

with its equally silly white diagonal stripe.

That would be the polite thing, for sure

but that would peek my disease’s hold card.

If anyone knew that my illness

was sailing my ship instead of me

the effect would be ruined.

Or so says the canker that grips me

and steers me to disaster.

Announcing this day-tripper as an unentitled accessory

to whatever wrong I am about to commit

might warn my friends or enlist my sponsor,

But no I leave my colors fly

and endanger the surrounding water.

For in truth my flag is just as fraudulent

as this vessel and is only on loan to me as well.

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

Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon

September 10

Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon

Tying myself to one rail of a set of railroad tracks gets me the same results as tying myself to the other.  Swapping one chemical fix for another is like changing my socks in a rainstorm, nothing dry will come of it.  Not seeing potential harm does not eliminate the harm.  Like a child with my hands pressed firmly over my eyes I yell, “You can’t see me,” and run headlong into disaster.  Whether the train comes and makes a mess or not I make my own soup Ducky and must get on track by staying off the rails.

Go relax on the porch of your imagination

*

WILD

When I run wild through the rain

My hair streaming behind me

Water fleeing my face

I see with my heart

The thousand other rains

Pouring from my past.

How I peel from me the soaking luggage

Covering my naked pain

Nothing drives me to the cozy retreat

Of my bed like the humid chill

Of an early fall drizzle.

I slip my trembling skin between

The comfort and the comforter,

Flex my toes,

Towel my hair, wipe scenes of lost love

From my pale, pale soul.

Leaves rush my gutters, clog my mind.

I see the change in me as I turn heel to heel.

Trees spinning bare in a blank wet world,

I know this ever relived fluid, recycled life.

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 Dark Fantastic

August 15

The Dark Fantastic

When the tornado touches down worry ends; the anticipation is over and thought stops.  Tragedy is funny that way.  In the aftermath I find out what mattered and what didn’t; whether I have helped or injured myself trying to plan for the worst.  I fail to realize there are cloud filled days when nothing happens and days when trouble comes from out of the blue.  What matters ultimately is if I was happy yesterday all the way into today until the thunder struck.  Greed is not: living for today; greed is my attempt at gathering the future while dragging the past.

Compel your brilliance to shine

*

AUTUMN

The falling leaves slap my hand

As I ride the road at fifty mile per

My arm dangling.

Exposed they stand stark,

Stripped naked to the soul.

The growth of this years yearnings on the fringe.

I can follow this lead

Remove pretence not clothing

Stand before all who have an interest in seeing me.

Unashamed of my wants and the things I reach for

I can cast off the uniform of evolution

And enjoy a long winter of truth.

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.

Entrenched

November 1

Entrenched

I have dug myself a trench and invited my friends and family. Truth is, I drug many and tricked others and there they are in the trench I have so recently climbed out of. It is a nasty place and I feel horribly responsible, but here is the sacred truth; I can’t climb down there again, not even on a rescue mission. I am obligated to help them, this is for sure, but the fact still remains that it is not safe to get into the water with a drowning person, even if I am the one who caused the drowning. If I am to be of any help at all I must get my footing and keep it safely on the bank and only then might I be able to throw down a rope or lend a hand to anyone, especially those I love. I pray for the sturdy stance of helpful strangers and try my best to cause no further harm, more than that will have to wait until my cleats are soundly lodged into the earth and my head is squarely upon my shoulders, for headlong and mud covered I am no help.

Topple trivial towers

*

MY MOTHERS FACE

The way that age pours down my mothers face
When she is sad reminds me
That grief runs through my blood.

Generation after generation
Has been transfused with anxious woe.
Heartbreak vexes minds full of fear.
There is no easy way
To round the bend on sharp pointed issues
The route is circuitous.

I battle the chaotic thinking to fight my way back
To a place where my mothers eyes sparkle
As they squint closed with her smile.
The war of peace is not easily won by contemporaries.
We must close ranks between the ages
To keep the joy from sheeting off our skin
And keep the sadness in proportion.

Restore us to our possible bliss
We can over take ecstasy from there.

Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon

September 10

Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon

Tying myself to one rail of a set of railroad tracks gets me the same results as tying myself to the other. Swapping one chemical fix for another is like changing my socks in a rainstorm, nothing dry will come of it. Not seeing potential harm does not eliminate the harm. Like a child with my hands pressed firmly over my eyes I yell, “You can’t see me,” and run headlong into disaster. Whether the train comes and makes a mess or not I make my own soup Ducky and must get on track by staying off the rails.

Go relax on the porch of your imagination

*

WILD

When I run wild through the rain

My hair streaming behind me

Water fleeing my face

I see with my heart

The thousand other rains

Pouring from my past.

How I peel from me the soaking luggage

Covering my naked pain

Nothing drives me to the cozy retreat

Of my bed like the humid chill

Of an early fall drizzle.

I slip my trembling skin between the comfort

And the comforter, flex my toes,

Towel my hair, wipe scenes of lost love

From my pale, pale soul.

Leaves rush my gutters, clog my mind.

I see the change in me as I turn heel to heel.

Trees spinning bare in a blank wet world,

I know this ever relived fluid, recycled life.

Helping Hands?

September 8

Helping Hands?

Why would you go to a rattler for a snakebite remedy? It feels so much like the hair of the dog that bit me. The truth is I must, must stay away from the quick answers. I am a slow healer, but I do heal if I allow myself to do so unencumbered by poison or untruth. When I am returning to the vomit of my past it is incumbent upon me to search for the old lies and/or the new ones, either or both will get me drunk; do I even need the help of a prescription pad?

Never cage harbingers

*

SELF-SEEKING IS A DEBIT

Trying to get credit for everything I do

Has run me into debt in my anonymity account

Which draws directly from my humility bank.

I cannot expend my resources seeking acknowledgement

And expect to retain much dignity or class.

How can I build within, while constantly grasping,

For nods and smiles from scenery and landscaping?

I want approval so much that I have lost my center.

In an attempt to top the charts I forgot my song.

My ego writes checks that my soul can’t cover.

I run my potential into the red

Looking to get my name in black and white.

If I keep my name out of lights

I have a chance of building up my dignity.