Key

July 14

KEY

I asked for the key to my problems.  My expectation was a metal instrument with which to unbolt the lock to my desires. What I was given was a systematic explanation of the symbols on the plan of my life.  This has been a wonderful gift and I have benefited greatly, but first I had to stop brooding about the loss of my wished for trinket.  Putting names on my map helps me stay off cliffs and out of rivers.  The code is broken; I can decipher direction and intent.  The compositions of life’s offerings fit and harmonize in unimagined ways and create archways strong and unbending, giving me access to reefs of beauty and rest.  I asked for the means to open a door but gained entry to the world.

Don’t lug excess baggage, ship it.

*

Sympathetic Strings

A guitar with 28 strings generates much sympathy

from the cords which were not strummed.

Pluck is contagious and inspires much harmony and verve

in the vicinity in which it shows face.

Sympathetic strings vibrate in response to the jangling

around them but are tuned to their own notes.

Much distortion adds to the depth of the sound

created by this throng.

Can you hear my life?

How a disturbance in my life rings

in the lives which surround me?

How I twitch and chime when things are twanged

in the lives of my neighbors, my friends, my kin.

We make the music of care,

the discord of reaction.

To every move there is a sound,

to every sympathy a harmony.

Distillation

July 13

DISTILLATION

I came into these rooms with a mixed mental make-up and a polluted physical chemistry.  I have been transformed but only into tiny droplets.  The drops are not dramatic but the process is.  Distillation of my thinking is a powerful thing.  A volatile act of concentration takes place as my brain boils over and the sane is separated from the profane.  Purity is a spiritual gift, the result of vaporizing my old thoughts.  Many times the night distills the dew and I am quickly refreshed; other times I must cook for quite a while.

Exact a toll for crossed boundaries.

*

Wales

It is safe for the houses to sleep in the streets,

but not for me.

I cannot follow that which is so right and regular

for mundane things.

I am a jagged piece and it is hard for me

to find my place.

The sun comes though everyone’s windows

and peeks around the blinds left down.

I must mind my manners

and not be a nuisance or a bother;

draw no undue attention to my brightness

carry a basket to hide it in.

And while every river can drown its sorrows

in the rush of the downhill sweep to the sea.

I must stand here stock cold sober

and bear the pain appointed to me.

Noun, Verb, Adjective

July 12

NOUN, VERB, ADJECTIVE

Model Sobriety (mod`<sup>e</sup>l so-bri`i te), n., v., adj., 1. model sobriety acts like clay. Durable and flexible it molds to any situation.  2. model sobriety is like a clotheshorse; everything you put on it fits and looks good.  3. model sobriety is the 24-hour version of a life-long process.  4.  model sobriety is a set of axioms with which we interpret truth.  5.  model sobriety is what we put in the window for other sufferers to see.  6.  model sobriety is the mirror we use to learn what is natural.  7. model sobriety eliminates extremes in behavior and thinking.  8. model sobriety is the mode by which we become a channel.  9.  model sobriety is the definition in and of my life.  Noun, verb, and adjective.

Write an acrostic poem for a dog.

*

Old Nasty

My addiction is like a Percheron,

bigger and more powerful than I am,

but what I have learned is that if I treat this horse

with due respect and a guiding hand

from my recovery and my Higher Power

I can harness the energy of my illness

and use its’ force to make my life work.

I can never be the master of alcoholism,

but I can see it for what it is;

an overgrown instinct looking for an outlet.

When I am given my way out I take this beast with me

and when I value that partnership we are both safe.

When I have tried to lock it in a stall

and run far from the barn, it kicks my life down.

When I put my head in the yoke willingly,

together we are led and we do the work

which is fulfilling and rich.

I was meant to work in a team,

I am grateful to have a teammate.

Spontaneous Generation

July 11

SPONTANEOUS GENERATION

Dust under the bed turns into bugs. My grandfather believed in these alchemies of myth.   I thought myself free from the small witchcrafts of threat.  The longer I stay sober, the more real is the insidious nature of my disease.  Mental clutter does breed all manner of squirming and chattering vermin.  Every intellectual closet I leave uncleaned is a brooding box of contempt, false pride and bloated ego. The synchronism of hatchling defects and nursing grudges, fairy tale thinking and firebrand action, mimic Grandpa’s bedbug rantings.  I can never turn my back on unswept philosophy or the dross of assumptions I’ve left waiting in piles.  Spiritual house cleaning is all that saves me from the transmigration of blood sucking, life-draining phantasm.  Supernatural transformation needn’t plague me if I take right action. The difference between blessings and curses is the direction you are going.

Tiptoe into your heart for a peek.

*

A Year for Me

The world is my mollusk

and I am its pennyweight paragon,

witty girl that I am.

I have spent enough time

surrounded by wet feet and confining shells,

all held at the bottom of the sea.

This is a year for me.

I am going to climb over the rim of my briny brink

and try myself against the fearsome winds of chance.

Although souse is buoyant

I feel strong enough to stand my ground.

Time has come for life, open and raw,

but I shall leave the clams to the casino.

Regeneration

July 10

REGENERATION

When I am grabbed by the extremity of my thinking I drop my mind like a reptilian tail.  My feet believe they are in no need of my brain in order to run; independent flight is the action of the day.  Far from the time and place of my dissection I find regrowth the problem to be solved.  Unlike a salamander’s toe, can I generate my wits to their former ability or must I live out my existence with a docked psyche?  My desire curls like a python but dreams of becoming the phoenix.

Smile at your orange wedges.

*

Let God Do What?

I hesitate to let go to God because

I fear that God doesn’t like me, or likes me now,

but doesn’t like me all the time.

I think I got this belief from being the only child

of parents who don’t like children.

It never mattered how good I was,

how smart or thoughtful, well informed, helpful,

I always ended up being treated like I was a burden,

someone to be endured.

If only I was likeable, I would think to myself

and try recreating me to become….what?

Finally I settled on indispensable,

if I could make myself necessary,

then my life would be okay.

People would need me therefore they would want me.

What I discovered is that people who can’t live without me

end up resenting me, by the time I was so important to others

I was no longer important to me, so I didn’t need God’s help

because I didn’t need anything, I didn’t exist.

Over time what I have settled on are a few truths:

People who don’t like kids shouldn’t have them.

And I need God’s help to learn how to want to be here on this planet

since I was not brought to earth by people who wanted me.

Shimmer

July 9

SHIMMER

The water ruffles over metallic sheen, lap after lap screen the view, and still the gilt reflection shines in my eyes.  Hypnotic, the undulence pulls me near.  I stand on the edge, gaze, then gawk; I follow the underwater movements and iridescent tremolo.  I forget place and time. I lose sight of the facts.  Gold isn’t the only thing that shimmers. Sometimes that glint is just a fish.  Life is full of fins and fantasy.  My sponsor suggests I stop looking for my life in a wishing well.

Think of all beans as magical in someway.

*

Special

Is it the wiring between my ears,

the size of the pump in my chest?

The difference which can be seen

when you look from me to the neighbors?

I know that you feel me to be special.

I feel me to be special, too,

just like you.

Defining that thing, that combination

which unlocks the mundane

is more than just an attempt to point a finger,

it’s a search for that little light.

Close and closer we pull together

and that is special but now I will whisper it,

tell you the secret truth is my ability to play.

Come play with me!

Pastry

July 8

PASTRY

Like French pastry, sobriety gets richer with each layer.  As I investigate these layers I approach the buttery center.  The fat seeps through the years, makes boundaries crisp and intimacy velvety.  Ingredients, which ordinarily wouldn’t mix, somehow blend and counterpoint one another in a flaky shell.  Fruit and nuts improve every bite. Though there are times which are a bit crumbly, most of the structure is strong and the invention skillful. Pastry and sobriety are compositions of strength and brilliance, which are meant to be taken internally.

Juggle solutions.

*

Night Clothes and Bed Clothes

Is there any indulgence

quite like that of clean sleepwear

warm from the laundry?

Pulling on jammies over squeaky clean skin

and the little shutter that goes with tired hedonism

is a pleasure without formed words,

left for grateful sounds and little moans.

Hard work creates more than stability,

more than cash flow, more than mere exhaustion,

hard work changes my mind about delight.

It allows me to see it in the most obvious,

most subtle of places.

My bed has become haven, hospital, refuge

and I am tucked up in my nest, safely out of my mind.