Patricide

March 14

Patricide

I never killed my father.  Why finish a job that someone is completing all on his own.  It’s not that I didn’t wish him dead; I did and do for that matter.  Don’t misunderstand me, I wish him no harm, it’s just that he is like a creature so tortured that he is nothing but a danger and a misery.  Left to live he is a hazard to everyone he has contact with, an agony to live inside.  What can I wish for him, but departure and rest, something he can never give to himself.  I don’t plot, don’t scheme, I only know; know in part, the terrible lie he lives and hurt he drags from place to place acting like it is not there and nothing matters; let’s just get by.  So, if he is not dead he should be.  He is the embodiment of the hurtful impotent god and I don’t kill that man but I kill the image, perish that thought.

Provide for the future of your sanity

*

PRETTY FEET

I look at the line on my heel
Where I must stay vigilant with pumice and the moisturizer
My toes clean and straight but nothing more.

I see my feet as passable, it's hard to see them as beautiful,
Well cared for is the best I can do
But there is a beauty in that.

I think of myself,
I am an alcoholic
There is nothing beautiful about alcoholism either.

The care I take in tending my sobriety
The nurturing I see others use in their own lives
There is a certain loveliness to it.

Crusted over hearts
Scraped and oiled
Fit and ready to beat anew.

Polluted minds, drained and reformed
To turn lives upright
Step work and making meetings

Is just a functionary thing
But gorgeous in its own way
Efficacy is a pearl not to be disregarded.

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

Pepo

January 11

Pepo

My father used to destroy a perfectly good watermelon by cutting a triangle in the top and pouring a bottle of vodka into it.  I used to destroy my perfectly good melon the same way.  Emulating bad ideas in new ways was a onetime pastime of mine.  Giving it up was harder than I had expected.  Flawed thinking blends so freely with my mental landscape I have trouble distinguishing it.  Condemning the action and not the man is not usually my preferred method.  I would rather condemn the man, but this leaves me with the actions in place and him long gone.  And though I prefer him gone I will recreate him within myself if I don’t flush his actions as well.  I have a good pumpkin on my shoulders but it is my job to keep it intact.

No need to wait for joy, jump when you please

*

LIFE IS TOO GOOD

I know it sounds crazy, is crazy
But I hate having the fear, the gnawing gut, of WHAT IF
WHAT IF I can't maintain this, the sober life I live.
WHAT IF I get struck, unable to connect to my Higher Power?

I had a spiritual awaking
WHAT IF I get spiritual narcolepsy?
My spiritual cord was cut when I was young, not by my choosing
WHAT IF it gets cut again?

"WHAT IF this line of thinking cuts it?" Asks my sponsor
I hate when she's right.
WHAT IF this is a test?
Be like them or not.

Follow the path of the twelve steps
When there is no weight of need pushing me
When everything is going in my direction
I have to keep my eye on the ball for myself.

I am still not God
This is the lesson
The abusers never learned
The one I have to.

What went wrong was not bad people
Making bad choices, in bad circumstances
It was disconnected people
Making decisions without help.

I have to stay in your pocket
Never be a free bird
I have to remember what true freedom is
It's not being cut loose.

I have had that
And it never felt free
Keep your eye on the ball
And hold onto my hand.

Vlog:  http://youtu.be/zq1kwGdS8dI

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

Slaying Old Dragons

November 8

SLAYING OLD DRAGONS

Your roar is Doppler-low and I can feel my steps move the earth as I go forward.  Former dominator, scary from every angle, I come for you today.  The scales are falling.  I don’t rip them but they fall.  I can breathe at the heights of your lair; I am not shrinking.  The booming voice you had is gone, the power spilling away from you.  I don’t fly from you.  Gone is the tremble you once instilled.  The curtain has parted and you are revealed not as the dragon, the serpent, the monster but as the peacock you have always been, preening and screeching as ever.

Put your foot down and dance with the other.

*

Come What May

Inevitable things are very much like inedible things;

you can’t quite swallow them yet they are hard to throw up.

It can’t seem to get here quick enough to comfort my fear

nor will it pass with any speed once it has arrived.

I am like a boa with a hedgehog as my lunch,

the shredding is rightfully dreaded and in no way preventable.

Not everything that wings my way is anxiety driven,

but I have to admit that some things are.

I cannot spend my days wishing the storm clouds away

so I will put on my slicker and hunker down for the drenching.

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

Birth of an Apple

October 24

BIRTH OF AN APPLE

When an apple gives birth what is the result?   Seed or sauce?  Crunch or crisp?  The act of creation is so much an act of sacrifice, how can it be limited to only one kind of delivery?  The children of effort produce fruit of their own; who am I to call them other than my kin?  How many times have I thrown over bluster for blizzard?  But snow is snow.  I can accept every squall if I keep clear and willing.  I may finish my days in a winter orchard if I spend my life picking not choosing.

Keep two lists: what you want and what you have.

*

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.

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

Safety in my Chair

February 22

SAFETY IN MY CHAIR

Sometimes I have to sit with my knees tucked up under my chin.  My feet can’t touch the floor at these moments.  I hug my legs to me, I feel contained but somehow adrift in my chair.  I center my mind on breath and pulse.  Pure fear flits and flutters while I gain my composure.  When I feel safe enough to put one foot down, then the other, and connect with the world again, I am leaving home to embark on this earthly trek.  The journey is there for me every day but some days I curl up in my chair.

Complement your feet with your shoes.

*

Patricide

I never killed my father.

Why finish a job that

someone is completing all on his own.

It’s not that I didn’t wish him dead;

I did and do for that matter.

Don’t misunderstand me,

I wish him no harm,

It’s just that he is like a creature so tortured

that he is nothing but a danger and a misery.

Left to live he is a hazard to everyone

he has contact with, an agony to live inside.

What can I wish for him,

but departure and rest,

something he can never give to himself.

I don’t plot, don’t scheme,

I only know; know in part,

the terrible lie he lives

and hurt he drags from place to place

Acting like it is not there and nothing matters;

let’s just get by.  So, if he is not dead he should be.

He is the embodiment of the hurtful impotent god

and I don’t kill that man

but I kill the image, perish that thought.

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

Loneliness Eats My Lunch

January 11

LONELINESS EATS MY LUNCH

There are days loneliness eats my lunch and I can’t fight back.  How can I stand it?  How can it still be this bad?  I pull out the old chestnuts:  If I’m not happy with what I have, how could I be happier with more?   And, Even tickets on the fifty yard line don’t interest me; I came to play!  I roll them around.  I think of the other slogans, the tidbits, the smiles and hugs.  Still, there are days my lunch is gulped down and I sit with my plate empty.  Pickle juice, coleslaw drool is small comfort.  Actually, it’s a jeer.  I stare at my empty plate.  I turn it and twist it.  I stick out my tongue at it.

“You're good company,” says my sponsor.

Then why am I alone?  If I’m so good, if my company is worthwhile, why do I sit here hungry and desperate?

“Are you sure you are?”

It sure feels that way.

“Well it might be true.”

And it might not.  I get it.  I am unhooked from myself; I’m ignoring the multitude at my elbow, looking for someone in my lap.  I’m holding out for old terms from a new contract.  I am loved by people who aren’t trying to consume me and I am letting my expectations dine for free.

Imagine who the wind visited before you and who it is on its way to visit now.

*

Pepo

My father used to destroy a perfectly good watermelon

by cutting a triangle in the top

and pouring a bottle of vodka into it.

I used to destroy my perfectly good melon the same way.

Emulating bad ideas in new ways

was a onetime pastime of mine.

Giving it up was harder than I had expected.

Flawed thinking blends so freely with my mental landscape

I have trouble distinguishing it.

Condemning the action and not the man

is not usually my preferred method.

I would rather condemn the man.

But this leaves me with the actions in place

and him long gone and though I prefer him gone

I will recreate him within myself

if I don’t flush his actions as well.

I have a good pumpkin on my shoulders

but it is my job to keep it intact.

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 Little Black Dress

May 9

The Little Black Dress

The holes in my pockets cause me to feel naked.  Though it is an inside pocket and no one can see through I feel exposed, my thinking changed and for that matter chained, one link looped through the next.  I start with a hole in my pocket so I know I can’t stay in this dress all day. I know I will need the storage later as time wears on but I can’t change now and I don’t want to waste time putting on my tights.  My legs are cold.  I fly from room to room.  I gather my keys, but forget my phone.  I am bare legged and unreachable, overexposed due to a hole in my pocket.

Keep in mind that love doesn’t conform to opinion, even well meaning opinion

*

SLAYING OLD DRAGONS

Your roar is Doppler-low

And I can feel my steps move the earth

As I go forward.

Former dominator

Scary from every angle

I come for you today

The scales are falling, I don’t rip them but they fall

I can breathe at the heights of you lair

I am not shrinking

The booming voice you had is gone

The power spilling away from you

I don’t fly from you

Gone is the tremble you once instilled

The curtain has parted

And you are revealed

Patricide

March 14

Patricide

I never killed my father.  Why finish a job that someone is completing all on his own.  It’s not that I didn’t wish him dead; I did and do for that matter.  Don’t misunderstand me, I wish him no harm, it’s just that he is like a creature so tortured that he is nothing but a danger and a misery.  Left to live he is a hazard to everyone he has contact with, an agony to live inside.  What can I wish for him, but departure and rest, something he can never give to himself.  I don’t plot, don’t scheme, I only know; know in part, the terrible lie he lives and hurt he drags from place to place acting like it is not there and nothing matters; let’s just get by.  So, if he is not dead he should be.  He is the embodiment of the hurtful impotent god and I don’t kill that man but I kill the image, perish that thought.

Provide for the future of your sanity

*

PRETTY FEET

I look at the line on my heel
Where I must stay vigilant with pumice and the moisturizer
My toes clean and straight but nothing more.

I see my feet as passable, it's hard to see them as beautiful,
Well cared for is the best I can do
But there is a beauty in that.

I think of myself,
I am an alcoholic
There is nothing beautiful about alcoholism either.

The care I take in tending my sobriety
The nurturing I see others use in their own lives
There is a certain loveliness to it.

Crusted over hearts
Scraped and oiled
Fit and ready to beat anew.

Polluted minds, drained and reformed
To turn lives upright
Step work and making meetings

Is just a functionary thing
But gorgeous in its own way
Efficacy is a pearl not to be disregarded.

Pepo

January 11

Pepo

My father used to destroy a perfectly good watermelon by cutting a triangle in the top and pouring a bottle of vodka into it.  I used to destroy my perfectly good melon the same way.  Emulating bad ideas in new ways was a onetime pastime of mine.  Giving it up was harder than I had expected.  Flawed thinking blends so freely with my mental landscape I have trouble distinguishing it.  Condemning the action and not the man is not usually my preferred method.  I would rather condemn the man, but this leaves me with the actions in place and him long gone.  And though I prefer him gone I will recreate him within myself if I don’t flush his actions as well.  I have a good pumpkin on my shoulders but it is my job to keep it intact.

No need to wait for joy, jump when you please

*

LIFE IS TOO GOOD

I know it sounds crazy, is crazy
But I hate having the fear, the gnawing gut, of WHAT IF
WHAT IF I can't maintain this, the sober life I live.
WHAT IF I get struck, unable to connect to my Higher Power?

I had a spiritual awaking
WHAT IF I get spiritual narcolepsy?
My spiritual cord was cut when I was young, not by my choosing
WHAT IF it gets cut again?

"WHAT IF this line of thinking cuts it?" Asks my sponsor
I hate when she's right.
WHAT IF this is a test?
Be like them or not.

Follow the path of the twelve steps
When there is no weight of need pushing me
When everything is going in my direction
I have to keep my eye on the ball for myself.

I am still not God
This is the lesson
The abusers never learned
The one I have to.

What went wrong was not bad people
Making bad choices, in bad circumstances
It was disconnected people
Making decisions without help.

I have to stay in your pocket
Never be a free bird
I have to remember what true freedom is
It's not being cut loose.

I have had that
And it never felt free
Keep your eye on the ball
And hold onto my hand.

Birth of an Apple

October 24

BIRTH OF AN APPLE

When an apple gives birth what is the result?   Seed or sauce?  Crunch or crisp?  The act of creation is so much an act of sacrifice, how can it be limited to only one kind of delivery?  The children of effort produce fruit of their own; who am I to call them other than my kin?  How many times have I thrown over bluster for blizzard?  But snow is snow.  I can accept every squall if I keep clear and willing.  I may finish my days in a winter orchard if I spend my life picking not choosing.

Keep two lists: what you want and what you have.

*

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.

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 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.

Crazy Time

December 19

Crazy Time

Picking the right time to be crazy seems to be the key to getting away with it. Wanting to get away with it slants the field a tad. What crazy is changes from place to place, which puts all the more emphasis on the timing. The surrounding company and barometric pressure play parts and put on airs. Lighting, lighting must also be involved, I assure you I don’t know how and can’t calculate the Ohms, but I flip the switches in case it helps. I have mapped for you a fair amount more than I know. I wish you well on your attempt, for crazy is a kindred club, I would hate for you to feel inept.

Admire your friends

*

THE FIRST FATHER

The rest of what I have to say
I will slip under your gravestone.
If I have time after I buy the 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 punishment.
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.

Which is why although I pray every day
For your wellbeing for the sake of mine
If I never see you again
It might just be long enough.

Patricide

March 14

Patricide

I never killed my father. Why finish a job that someone is completing all on his own. It’s not that I didn’t wish him dead; I did and do for that matter. Don’t misunderstand me, I wish him no harm, it’s just that he is like a creature so tortured that he is nothing but a danger and a misery. Left to live he is a hazard to everyone he has contact with, an agony to live inside. What can I wish for him, but departure and rest, something he can never give to himself. I don’t plot, don’t scheme, I only know; know in part, the terrible lie he lives and hurt he drags from place to place acting like it is not there and nothing matters; let’s just get by. So, if he is not dead he should be. He is the embodiment of the hurtful impotent god and I don’t kill that man but I kill the image, perish that thought.

Provide for the future of your sanity

*

PRETTY FEET

I look at the line on my heel
Where I must stay vigilant with pumice and the moisturizer
My toes clean and straight but nothing more.

I see my feet as passable, it's hard to see them as beautiful,
Well cared for is the best I can do
But there is a beauty in that.

I think of myself,
I am an alcoholic
There is nothing beautiful about alcoholism either.

The care I take in tending my sobriety
The nurturing I see others use in their own lives
There is a certain loveliness to it.

Crusted over hearts
Scraped and oiled
Fit and ready to beat anew.

Polluted minds, drained and reformed
To turn lives upright
Step work and making meetings

Is just a functionary thing
But gorgeous in its own way
Efficacy is a pearl not to be disregarded.

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.