Megaphone

September 22

MEGAPHONE

The point of surviving, or maybe the goal after survival, is enabling the voices of victims to be heard, starting with my own.  I allow the surging waves of thought and feeling to rush the gates and exit.  I try to bleed the bad with and without the use of leaches.  So much is stumbled upon rather than sought after.  Some things hound me; I run down the street with memory at my heels.  I must let the screams out or become them.  Today I talk, tomorrow is for others.  When I pour forth, I open the way for the rest.  I have become the megaphone rather than the cheerleader.  It is good to be of use.

Pollinate ideas.

*

Peace Time

I have been to the wars and through the wars

and now sit on the stoop and wonder;

will I learn to live here in the world of everyday

after having had to spend so much time running for cover.

Each time I return to what I believe is my home

I sit and rock trying to pour my soul back inside

from my hipflask where it was held for safekeeping.

I try not to spill a drop

for it is worse than shed blood and harder to rebuild.

My soul has grown pale from confinement and lack of sun,

but it still exists and for that I pat my back

and suck on my Lifesaver;

I could have done worse, was unable to do better.

I console myself with the knowledge

I never started the conflict just learned to survive it.

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

Why not home?

September 12

WHY NOT HOME?

Power is not production and production is not art.  I have to keep pulling the car over to the side of the road so I don’t miss the train of words sent to me from out of the dark blue life I am on the edge of living.  But I still want to go home.  I will never give up these roadside excursions into the river of thought, though I do wonder why the cable shoved into my house never gets this channel?  Why is the connection so strong on the bus not the bed?  The minefields of thought explosions seem seeded anywhere as long as it’s at least five miles away.  Power is not production and production is not art.  I let it pour through me; it’s not mine to sort.

Learn to read God’s handwriting.

*

Hypothetical

Is my inability to understand what creates mystery?

If I were brighter, swifter, keener,

would life be free of unknown communion?

Would comprehension eliminate revelation?

Would I lose perceptual apprehension

by arming myself with knowledge of forethought?

Could I end mysticism through education?

Should I even if I could?

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

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.

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

Shadows of Doubt

September 1

Shadow of Doubt

The long dark cast covers my face, my thoughts, my life; it is the light blocked by my skepticism.  To tear down the obstruction means a profound change of my internal architecture; walls will have to be knocked down, windows installed.  The poor mouthed structure takes better to the steamroller than I wish it would.  I fear the loss of my hideout, panic at the thought of a life in the sun.  Skepticism builds a paper world; opaque, weak yet frightening to tear apart.

Rub the place where you land

*

WHY NOT HOME

Power is not production and production is not art.

I have to keep pulling the car to the side of the road

so I don’t miss the train of words sent to me,

from out of the dark blue life I am on the edge of living

but I still want to go home.

I will never give up these roadside excursions

into the river of thought though I do wonder why

the cable shoved into my house never gets this channel?

Why is the connection so strong on the bus not the bed?

The minefields of thought explosions seem seeded anywhere

as long as it’s at least five miles away.

Power is not production and production is not art.

I let it pour through me---it is not mine to sort.

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

Home to Hope

May 26

HOME TO HOPE

Shadows of doubt fall across my face on dark days and I have trouble finding my way home to hope.  Reliance on sunshine fails me come dusk.  Twinkling stars bare their souls to little avail.  I am lost.  Absurdity and obsession plague me for time and attention.  I wander deeper into a dismal wood.  How can I chop my way free?  Dejection dulls my senses; I am blind to solemn assurance.  I must reevaluate the shimmering enthusiasm from the night sky.  Skepticism passes like storm clouds, I may feel the rain for a time; necessity reigns on both sides of every street but still I can crawl into my bed.  Morning will come and I will fear less the coming night.

Hop right after you put your foot down and you can skip most of your problems.

*

Estranged

After long years I have made my own acquaintance,

friendship is on a far distant shore.

I know who I am and can recognize myself

on the street or in a crowded room.

I have a legitimate sense of wariness

of the  afore mentioned persona,

nothing too nasty, just a discomfort.

She is not someone I would bring home,

maybe not even share a meal with

but I can stand her, minus intimacy,

minus any deep empathy.

I feel an awkwardness in acknowledging her,

strange as this might sound.

She is no one to be ashamed of,

not a truly bad actor

Yet the reports say she doesn’t live up to her potential

and I have it on personal authority

that she actually surpasses it on most days

and keeps this a closely held confidence.

And there it is, I know her secrets

but I don’t keep her.

This is what makes me strange and her stranger.