correction Yesterday's actual post today

June 18

CLONING DAYS

The novelty of sobriety causing sweet days wore to gauze and I attempted control.  I cut, pasted and sutured elements of good living in an effort to make 24 hours of personal perfection.  I was so sure I could replicate these jewel like days.  I would make perfect spheres, everything round and even, one after another like a string of pearls.  The more I tried the harder God laughed.  Days are their own planets; Saturn is different from Mars and today will have just as little to do with tomorrow if I let it all work out.  Perfection is a thing, which is born to live, not a thing I can craft in a dish or a test tube.  Life must will-out or chaos will prevail.

Take two words and make a seesaw in your mind.

*

Who is Who

Remake the bed for the restless child in you

who sleeps better if attention is paid to the small kindnesses.

Placating her saves you the sound of her plaintive cry.

If you teach yourself

or allow yourself to grow fond of her, this child you,

these simple chores will seem light, refreshing, natural.

If you fight her she will grow strong

and you will grow weak.

Don’t resist nature.

Don’t resist your nature.

Take a hug to share

as you would take an apple divided

on a walk in the woods with a companion.

Share emotional embraces,

let your thoughts surround her

when you make plans and do deals.

If you treat her as if she is the best of you,

you will become the best of her.

Strong Words

May 18

STRONG WORDS

Serious language, deep language, real language helps me by grounding me.  I don’t have to be nice for company when I can just tell the truth.  I needn’t have guests with virgin ears or unrealistic expectations, and I no longer pander to such foolishness.  I know the layered meanings of my words and value the intensity of a large vocabulary.  I am not intimidated by prudish co-conspirators who stare down pointed noses at powerful utterances.  Weak words make poor boundaries and breed victims.  I will not be trapped by niceties; I will speak clearly out of necessity.

Allow your integrity to increase the value of your truth.

*

Martinizing

The price of upkeep scares me, it daunts me even.

I pay the initial cost, I have bitten that bullet

of required outlay; the continued charges for maintenance

push my face in the mud until my ears clog.

Avoiding the need of perpetual responsibility

to things, relationships, life, doesn’t change the reality,

rather it embeds in my skin a slick denial and an indignant retort

to the drycleaners and shoe-shiners of the world.

Waste and want play tag inside a misunderstanding

of what is required of me; of what life requires in general.

I must make quietude, draw a map

and find my way to this psychic change;

Unfortunately all the little voices scream

“Yes, you paid the price to see the show,

but you don’t make enough to stay!”

Bouquet

June 17

BOUQUET

I love the flowers in my garden.  Their upkeep is my solemn trust.  With my shears, I must cut, clear and swift, the runners that detract from their health and structure.  When fruiting is heavy, I must spare the stalk and choose what stays and what needs to be taken.  I am scrupulous in my observation of form and function.  The bucolic scene thrives; the pageant of color sweeps the rows.  I bend to nurture and stretch to prune.  I pay over-much attention to the plucking and forget I need to bring the blooms home.

Allow a dark worldview to illuminate a lightness of spirit.

*

Tea Totaler

My alcoholism was anonymous

even while I was active.

My destruction was internal,

outside evidence kept to a minimum.

It is easy to understand why so many

from my past as well as my present

are shocked to see me a member

in good standing for a club they never saw

me pay the price to join.

But cost doesn’t always advertise in the public square.

I know the score, the numbers etched upon my soul.

I need to be well even if you didn’t know I am sick.

I take the medicine;

offer a smile to those who think it prophylactic

and keep upon my path.

Just because you didn’t know the contents of my bottle

doesn’t mean I didn’t earn the tag on my tea.

The Bear

June 16

THE BEAR

Living with my disease is like having a sleeping bear in the house.  I knew it was there, could hear it snore.  I never felt comfortable or able to turn my back on it and get on with my life.  I felt under certain threat.  Fearing the bear would wake when my attention was elsewhere, I proceeded to poke my sleeping bear with a stick.  I prodded it to wakefulness; in retrospect, it is clear I was unprepared for a wakeful bear, even with my full attention fixed on this brute.  The bear, which is my disease, roamed about the house and made forays out into the world. I had no plan or tool for these events.   Finding a legion of people who had worked out living arrangements with their bears, I happily joined their ranks.  My bear wakes and sleeps at its will but I am no longer afraid or unskilled at handling this creature.  Today I am so grateful for the bear in my life and would never want a life without it.  I live in a world filled with bears and would be at a loss as to how to exist if not for the practice and success with the bear that is my own.

Draw a picture of time.

*

Limen

Do you leave when it is time to go

or are you the type who exits early?

Does departure time find you lingering

trying to squeeze out one more minute

rooted in this spot?

Are you the kind of person who loves the street,

but avoids the parade?

Can you bear to go, bear to stay,

bear to think that the world exists beyond this door?

Do you move with the other sheep

when all the crowd says, “Baa.”

Are you fleet with a sky full of clouds obeying the breeze,

flaunting the tides?

Do you change with the seasons

or are you passed from hand to hand,

living your life in the snow of a globe?

My life is my life,

but the most vital evidence of how I live it

is what I do on thresholds.

In The Meadow

June 15

IN THE MEADOW

Being the only tree in the meadow often leaves me feeling lonely.  I tell myself of the camaraderie I imagine in the forest.  These images are more poetic than real.  I believe in community and support; I think of the woods as this place apart from the complications of my exposed life.  I shrug off the very real competition and struggle from sharing every inch of root space and the search for each square of sunlight.  There is much joy in being an individual.  An eco-system of diversity allows me to fully develop.  I can spread my branches and my roots.  I can offer shelter to those in need of my reaching and my shadow; tender flowers and tired birds find me a haven.  I have unique abilities in this field.  Space can feel lonely but it is full of possibilities.

Press up against your iron will.

*

Poe-etiquette

Cosmic questions cross the sky,

I wonder but don’t ask why

I pitch the tent, but don’t stay the night

I borrow money and don’t pay the rent

I sooth myself but can’t be content

I earn my keep though it is all been spent

The real true meanings are pushed away,

Has ready tragedy come to stay

Forever darkness, no more light of day

Cheerful greeting left to lay

All the poets bring their knives

For blood letting’s become their prize

Here I sit and tend the boat

Rocking dingy out to moor

I play the Raven, black and poor

I dare not speak it but in my mind sing

“Never more”

Red Roses

June 14

RED ROSES

From tight green buds come beautiful red roses.  From small verdant places I blossom, too.  I open to richness unexpected and fullness unbelieved.  I look at laundry crumpled, never anticipating the look of clean sheets blowing on the line.  Doors I perceive as blocked by vast boulders are thrown open by willingness.  Who I am today is no one I recognize; I didn’t see myself coming.  I write though I can’t spell.  I love though my heart is broken.  I think though my mind is warped and I trust though the amulet is long shattered.  Promise is not a laid out plan but the continuum of change.  I can fight it or let it carry me where it goes.

Smile at similes.

*

What I Heard Through the Snow

The commentator’s voice fades in and out

as the reception is lost and found

among the static of my drive home.

In here is a pattern, a connect the dots matrix;

I try to feel my way too

as I weave past the slow and stubborn traffic.

Like a call from the wilderness

distorted through a storm, my frantic thoughts obscure,

sometimes distort the content, the intent,

the soul of a message I so desperately need.

Broadcast warnings, safety suggestions,

help and hope are torn to slivers

and rewoven in my careworn brain.

The distraction of the road allows the subliminal heart beat

to tattoo in my ear then my chest, all the way to my toes,

bodily acceptance overpowers my relentless mind

and clarity is achieved, no matter the drifts.

Open Windows

June 13

OPEN WINDOWS

I roll down the window in the rain hoping reality will soak in with the droplets.  I tilt up my face as I leave the car and let the water shower my features.  The downpour is the jolt to living for which I have prayed.  I stand on my lawn and rinse the day out of my hair; I clear my brain in the fresh rainwater.  The driving rain pounds the house and trees but I feel massaged and cared for.  My skin, reflexive, teaches my mind to absorb and hydrate.  I turn my thoughts to Greater Powers.  Even if the doors have been closed, I can open the windows and let the rain come in.

Soap the windows on some of your ideas so you can work in privacy.

*

Down to the Watership

The immoderate champions immoderation;

the glutton recommends consumption,

more often than not a drunk will pour you a drink

It is part of the social norm to conform

to the addiction of the day.

If we are all high we laugh at each other’s jokes

and there is less finger pointing about the mess.

When we are all in this together we sink or we swim,

but we mustn’t look around.

Like the rabbits who cannot ask, “Where?”

We try to look at ease with dying

and contented with our lot.

More must be better

for we can’t survive on less than what we’ve got.