Change in Menu

December 22

CHANGE IN MENU

If God is drunk we pray for spiritual sobriety and strong sponsorship.  If God is sober we ask for these things on God’s behalf and glory in answered prayer.  It is amazing that the rain comes down if I dance for it or not.  I can get this wonderful recovery just like the rest of ‘we agnostics’, I don’t have to shake your hand, wink my eye or say some special bit of poetry to have it.  Just the same way that weather is and changes and deepens so too is my spiritual condition.  It is there as I tread this path.  I don’t have to mark the rows in my garden for the plants to grow.  I wish for God a salad with two forks, we no longer need to share a bottle.

Dance with your skeletons.

*

Harriet Powers

Like a creature with a long tale

told in a hushed voice.

The whispers tell the story

with inflection and innuendo.

I slink away from the mirror

and the disembodied voices it engenders.

Thirty versions of my past spin away from me

in the eddies of time gone and misremembered.

I gather my fragments and tatters;

I thread my needle

and sit to quilt me into the present.

The odd assortment left from all which has worn out

or been pulled apart fit in a pinwheel pattern

and turn toward a better day.

The night is warmer for now I have it covered,

settled and safe, perhaps now I might even sleep.

Vlog:  http://youtu.be/ojIx1wut2qY

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

Quilter

November 11

QUILTER

What more comfort can exist in the world than a conglomeration of turned edges and love?  Fancy stitches or not, the assembled world of cloth stands testament to devotion and diligence.  Careful collections, meaningful to the collector and mysterious to the possessor, fulfill the primal urge to shelter and be safe.  Time is testimony to endurance.  Thread against thread, solidarity is strength embracing flexibility.  The bed of life is made and remade daily with the affection of kind quilters’ needles of love.

Find a room for zeal.

*

Wrong as wrong as wrong can be

To be wrong in my family and in my past

meant to be tortured and I prefer death to torture,

so being wrong meant death or longing for death.

I tried never to be wrong

as a way to stave of the desire to leap from tall buildings;

I did not turn into superman,

wonder woman or mighty mouse through my efforts.

I did turn into someone else;

I became a cartoon of a real person,

two dimensional and overflowing with irrational color.

Now I see how wrong, wrong can be.

Wrong is not an allowable excuse to be tormented.

It can be the turning point for knowledge if I choose

or the stairway to something deep dark and ugly;

my choice, always my choice.

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

Harriet Powers

December 27

Harriet Powers

Like a creature with a long tale told in a hushed voice.  The whispers tell the story with inflection and innuendo.  I slink away from the mirror and the disembodied voices it engenders.  Thirty versions of my past spin away from me in the eddies of time gone and misremembered.  I gather my fragments and tatters; I thread my needle and sit to quilt me into the present.  The odd assortment left from all which has worn out or been pulled apart fit in a pinwheel pattern and turn toward a better day.  The night is warmer for now I have it covered, settled and safe, perhaps now I might even sleep.

Use a crutch if you have to but move

*

Best so Far

Being the best so far doesn’t mean so awful much

Makes you the current standard bearer is all

Not even keeper of the watch.

I can’t give you a torch to hold

Certainly not a title either of Daddy or of Din

You will find your way through this morass

Keep your courage if not your cast

But this is a hard thing my dear, dear friend

Because the old tricks they don’t work no more

And the new tools ain’t broke in.

And lest I should forget

Just because you say you have a sense of humor about yourself

Doesn’t mean you have it

And when you try to take me to hand

It doesn’t mean you ken it

And all the days that dreams drift by

It doesn’t mean they’re yours and mine

For time must play its evil trick

And leave good things to pass by us

But this doesn’t mean that hope is lost

Or even that I’ve found it

Only that peace is a thing which seeps

And pressing will confound it

So maybe when you are pushing seventy

And are sober nearly as I am now

I will read this to you

And we will laugh

For by then being the best so far

Will matter a little more and hurt a little less.

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

Change in Menu

December 22

CHANGE IN MENU

If God is drunk we pray for spiritual sobriety and strong sponsorship.  If God is sober we ask for these things on God’s behalf and glory in answered prayer.  It is amazing that the rain comes down if I dance for it or not.  I can get this wonderful recovery just like the rest of ‘we agnostics’, I don’t have to shake your hand, wink my eye or say some special bit of poetry to have it.  Just the same way that weather is and changes and deepens so too is my spiritual condition.  It is there as I tread this path.  I don’t have to mark the rows in my garden for the plants to grow.  I wish for God a salad with two forks, we no longer need to share a bottle.

Dance with your skeletons.

*

Harriet Powers

Like a creature with a long tale

told in a hushed voice.

The whispers tell the story

with inflection and innuendo.

I slink away from the mirror

and the disembodied voices it engenders.

Thirty versions of my past spin away from me

in the eddies of time gone and misremembered.

I gather my fragments and tatters;

I thread my needle

and sit to quilt me into the present.

The odd assortment left from all which has worn out

or been pulled apart fit in a pinwheel pattern

and turn toward a better day.

The night is warmer for now I have it covered,

settled and safe, perhaps now I might even sleep.

Quilter

November 11

QUILTER

What more comfort can exist in the world than a conglomeration of turned edges and love?  Fancy stitches or not, the assembled world of cloth stands testament to devotion and diligence.  Careful collections, meaningful to the collector and mysterious to the possessor, fulfill the primal urge to shelter and be safe.  Time is testimony to endurance.  Thread against thread, solidarity is strength embracing flexibility.  The bed of life is made and remade daily with the affection of kind quilters’ needles of love.

Find a room for zeal.

*

Wrong as wrong as wrong can be

To be wrong in my family and in my past

meant to be tortured and I prefer death to torture,

so being wrong meant death or longing for death.

I tried never to be wrong

as a way to stave of the desire to leap from tall buildings;

I did not turn into superman,

wonder woman or mighty mouse through my efforts.

I did turn into someone else;

I became a cartoon of a real person,

two dimensional and overflowing with irrational color.

Now I see how wrong, wrong can be.

Wrong is not an allowable excuse to be tormented.

It can be the turning point for knowledge if I choose

or the stairway to something deep dark and ugly;

my choice, always my choice.

Harriet Powers

December 27

Harriet Powers

Like a creature with a long tale told in a hushed voice. The whispers tell the story with inflection and innuendo. I slink away from the mirror and the disembodied voices it engenders. Thirty versions of my past spin away from me in the eddies of time gone and misremembered. I gather my fragments and tatters; I thread my needle and sit to quilt me into the present. The odd assortment left from all which has worn out or been pulled apart fit in a pinwheel pattern and turn toward a better day. The night is warmer for now I have it covered, settled and safe, perhaps now I might even sleep.

Use a crutch if you have to but move

*

Best so Far

Being the best so far doesn’t mean so awful much

Makes you the current standard bearer is all

Not even keeper of the watch.

I can’t give you a torch to hold

Certainly not a title either of Daddy or of Din

You will find your way through this morass

Keep your courage if not your cast

But this is a hard thing my dear, dear friend

Because the old tricks they don’t work no more

And the new tools ain’t broke in.

And lest I should forget

Just because you say you have a sense of humor about yourself

Doesn’t mean you have it

And when you try to take me to hand

It doesn’t mean you ken it

And all the days that dreams drift by

It doesn’t mean they’re yours and mine

For time must play its evil trick

And leave good things to pass by us

But this doesn’t mean that hope is lost

Or even that I’ve found it

Only that peace is a thing which seeps

And pressing will confound it

So maybe when you are pushing seventy

And are sober nearly as I am now

I will read this to you

And we will laugh

For by then being the best so far

Will matter a little more and hurt a little less.

To Your Health

October 29

To Your Health

Health is a pleasure; health restored is celebration girded with gratitude. The shock of illness quickly imbeds itself to an irrefutable unchangeable fact. When this veil is lifted the body responds with glee, the soul with relief touched with disbelief. The satisfaction of being hale is the bedrock and once this is shaken its return is nothing more than astonishing. I am never more aware of the miraculous nature of life than when I feel alive once more after having felt the doom of sickness.

Throw out ancestral trash

*

QUILTER

What more comfort can exist in the world
Than a conglomeration of turned edges and love?
Fancy stitches or not the assembled world of cloth
Stands testament to devotion and diligence.

Careful collections, meaningful to the collector
And mysterious to the possessor,
Fulfill the primal urge to shelter and be safe.
Time is testimony to endurance.

Thread against thread,
Solidarity is strength embracing flexibility.
The bed of life is made and remade daily
With the affection of kind quilters needles of love.

Harriet Powers

December 27

Harriet Powers

Like a creature with a long tale told in a hushed voice. The whispers tell the story with inflection and innuendo. I slink away from the mirror and the disembodied voices it engenders. Thirty versions of my past spin away from me in the eddies of time gone and misremembered. I gather my fragments and tatters; I thread my needle and sit to quilt me into the present. The odd assortment left from all which has worn out or been pulled apart fit in a pinwheel pattern and turn toward a better day. The night is warmer for now I have it covered, settled and safe, perhaps now I might even sleep.

Use a crutch if you have to but move

*

Best so Far

Being the best so far doesn’t mean so awful much

Makes you the current standard bearer is all

Not even keeper of the watch.

I can’t give you a torch to hold

Certainly not a title either of Daddy or of Din

You will find your way through this morass

Keep your courage if not your cast

But this is a hard thing my dear, dear friend

Because the old tricks they don’t work no more

And the new tools ain’t broke in.

And lest I should forget

Just because you say you have a sense of humor about yourself

Doesn’t mean you have it

And when you try to take me to hand

It doesn’t mean you ken it

And all the days that dreams drift by

It doesn’t mean they’re yours and mine

For time must play its evil trick

And leave good things to pass by us

But this doesn’t mean that hope is lost

Or even that I’ve found it

Only that peace is a thing which seeps

And pressing will confound it

So maybe when you are pushing seventy

And are sober nearly as I am now

I will read this to you

And we will laugh

For by then being the best so far

Will matter a little more and hurt a little less.