What is Past

October 5

WHAT IS PAST

The past cannot hold me in a loving embrace.  I run too often looking for affection and recognition in things long dead and purportedly buried.  I return to the ghoulish obsession of digging up old hates and sorrows, longing for support and finding only the cause of the ulcers in my soul.  I wallpaper the crumbling facade not wanting to cover it up but to hold it together, trying to unify something, which is totally shattered.  When I view it with a sober eye, the past is nothing but a slideshow under a strobe light.  The pulse triggers the impulsive belief that it was all real when, in truth, it was the lie I survived.  No life existed in the past and only now is there air to breathe.  The past is all vacuum and I don’t need to be sucked away.

Take an enemy’s inventory and don’t give it back.

*

MCBuddLake

Barefoot smokers sit downstairs

chatting on cell phones as I wait.

Wait for the Doctor to come and tell me what?

Tell me that I am ill or hale

based on a hammer hit on the knee

and a deep look into my eyes.

I will leave this place hours late

for a life I barely understand

but am grateful to be living.

Like one of the dancing flowers from Fantasia

I am swept downstream,

but it’s an amazing journey even while I wait

in this six by eight room.

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

Generational River

November 22

Generational River

The history in my genes have cut a channel in the rock of existence; I pour through it everyday.  I too change the face of life one grain at a time, though I rarely recognize my affect I am so busy running.  Damns, ponding, acts of G-d leave their marks for future readings, but I keep moving.  The water is never the same twice; it changes even more than the mineral face and yet its liquid life looks more than unchanged from a distance and is a world filled with variety up close.  Circle the globe, the sun, the sands of time, the river of life flows from here to there and back again.

Bake pies to warm the crisp apples

*

CARGO LOST, CARGO FOUND

I fill the pallet of a New Years sobriety
And when it has been accomplished
Make a manifest and strap this pallet
With the others on the flatbed of my life.

The cargo is secure and weighty
And there is ample pressure
Where the rubber meets the road.
I maneuver my rig carefully.

I feel assured as I stream
With the traffic on the byways.
The power and magnitude of my transport
Prompts in me over confidence.

I fail to realize variation
In weather or road conditions
Can jeopardize my journey.
Eighteen wheels make for poor cantilever
When traction is lost and top heavy wins out.

In losing the battle of gravity,
Inertia and control, I realize the past
Is not a weight I need to haul.
All that is necessary is the inventory.

I slip the pages into my pocket
And walk the rest of the way.
I am my only freight.

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

Out on Your Front Porch

April 8

Out on Your Front Porch

“If you want what we have,” said my sponsor, “you will have to follow somebody and lead somebody and do a few other things.”

“I have to follow somebody, that shouldn’t be too hard,” I mumble.

“In order to follow it helps if you stop looking at the ground, lift you gaze,” her retort. I raise my chin until I meet her eyes.  “Better,” says she. 

“I follow you?” I ask.

“Me, yes, if I have what you want, follow others if I don’t,” she says.

“Okay and lead somebody, how do I do that?” I ask.

“It’s attraction, Sweetie, be attractive, show your smile and your smarts, but most of all show that you’re sober, because that is always your best asset.  And no matter what anybody tells you about the allure of bad girls, nobody can resist a good set of assets”

Don’t let the rush of the river scare you from the bank

*

WHAT IS PAST

The past cannot hold me in a loving embrace    
I run too often looking for affection and recognition
In things long dead and purportedly buried

I return to the ghoulish obsession of digging up
Old hates and sorrows longing for support
And finding only the cause of the ulcers in my soul

I wallpaper the crumbling facade
Not wanting to cover it up but to hold it together
Trying to unify something which is totally scattered

When I view it with a sober eye
The past is nothing but a slideshow
Under a strobe light

The pulse triggers the impulsive belief that it was all real
When in truth it was the lie I survived
No life existed in the past

Only now is there air to breathe
The past is all vacuum
And I don't need to be sucked away

What is Past

October 5

WHAT IS PAST

The past cannot hold me in a loving embrace.  I run too often looking for affection and recognition in things long dead and purportedly buried.  I return to the ghoulish obsession of digging up old hates and sorrows, longing for support and finding only the cause of the ulcers in my soul.  I wallpaper the crumbling facade not wanting to cover it up but to hold it together, trying to unify something, which is totally shattered.  When I view it with a sober eye, the past is nothing but a slideshow under a strobe light.  The pulse triggers the impulsive belief that it was all real when, in truth, it was the lie I survived.  No life existed in the past and only now is there air to breathe.  The past is all vacuum and I don’t need to be sucked away.

Take an enemy’s inventory and don’t give it back.

*

MCBuddLake

Barefoot smokers sit downstairs

chatting on cell phones as I wait.

Wait for the Doctor to come and tell me what?

Tell me that I am ill or hail

based on a hammer hit on the knee

and a deep look into my eyes.

I will leave this place hours late

for a life I barely understand

but am grateful to be living.

Like one of the dancing flowers from Fantasia

I am swept downstream,

but an amazing journey even while I wait

in this six by eight room.