I Don't See How

November 10

I DON’T SEE HOW

This is the smallest of the fragile excuses I use to keep from doing things to make me happy.  Petty in a way I would never be with others, I rake my desires and tiny little hopes over the coals.  Tired platitudes are plated up as first serves by my short order shortsightedness.  Protecting crusted-over nonsense, I live the life of a lockout, not even a squatter on the fringes of my dreams.  I stumble in my efforts to see hope, joy or my purpose, ignoring the fact that I must step from the box before I can see the horizon or more.

Rub your own head.

*

Olive Juice

For whatever the reason olives are often pitted

and once they are pit-less

there seems to rise an irresistible urge to fill that wound,

whether with pimento or children’s chubby little fingers

as they fish them from the can.

There is an opening, an answer must be found.

When I find my center gone

I have that same yearning, fill that hole!

It is an imperative,

a need that must be met no matter how poorly.

I will stuff just about anything in that gap;

the list is longer than the Bell directory

and yet none of it is an adequate replacement

for what has gone amiss.

So here I stand rife with questions.

What to put in there, what to keep out.

Is cream cheese preferred to cobwebs?

Prosciutto better than ice?

Nothing is better than some things

and the right thing is better than having given 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

Olive Juice

November 12

Olive Juice

For whatever the reason olives are often pitted and once they are pit-less there seems to rise an irresistible urge to fill that wound, whether with pimento or children’s cubby little fingers as they fish them from the can. There is an opening, an answer must be found. When I find my center gone I have that same yearning, fill that hole! It is an imperative, a need that must be met no matter how poorly. I will stuff just about anything in that gap; the list is longer than the Bell directory and yet none of it is an adequate replacement for what has gone amiss. So here I stand rife with questions. What to put in there and what to keep out. Is cream cheese preferred to cobwebs? Prosciutto better than ice? Nothing is better than some things and the right thing is better than having given up.

Maple leaves change the world, so do you

*

THE FLYING MIND

When my brain flies out my ear
Destination unknown I am left mentally bereft
I feel intellectual convolution and show no affliction
Other than my inability to fulfill my assignments.

I stare out, sure a ring of blue birds circle my head
Or maybe stars like any other cartoon patsy.
What to do, these parodied wingdings ridicule me privately
Leaving the impression of idiocy with onlookers and supervisors.

My focus and perceptions quaver and I lose my place.
I have to find a way to spot and keep emotional balance,
The way I stay upright during pirouettes
By watching one doorframe or light switch.

I need an unmoving object in a sea of swimming thoughts
I still need to make the mental turns
But this should be much easier
If I stop landing on my face.