Origins

December 7

ORIGINS

Pain-filled interactions with people better suited to be left alone changed me in the way of acceptance.  Wretched relationships with people made it difficult for me to have a loving relationship with the world.  I had imprinted as a fledgling on sarcasm and ridicule, bitter milk that starved my expectations of kind response.  I could not greet the world eagerly.  Having never embraced the world I failed to hang on as it turned.  I slid on my face and hands.  Mud covered, I try to keep an open mind and attempt a connection with this spinning orb.

Color your emotions.

*

Flight 548

What a happy flight wing to wing,

smiles, good cheer, the air is kind,

sweet, dry, easy to breathe.

I am so blessed.

I fly to destiny

watching the traveling baby circus

play around me.

Giggles and drool surround me,

infuse me with glee.

People wander the isle

looking like well loved characters

from long forgotten books and we soar.

Time does not pass any more quickly this way,

but it is similar to time in heaven

rather than time spent in hell.

Mosaic

December 6

MOSAIC

I couldn’t prevent this plate from shattering, so I saved all the pieces, losing none.  I laid them edge-to-edge and made a design, secured it with thin-set.  Pieces of pattern framed with grout are seen, as they never could be when this dish was whole.  I am part of this construction more than just handing china onto the table.  Integrity has been lost but replaced with fractured openness.  The plate has lost personal unity to become an ingrained part of my personal archeology.

Fly your kite in the wind.

*

The Way West

The sun reflected in the windows

winks at me as I fly over.

The plane climbs higher

and the reflected light no longer reaches me.

I slip from my eastern bonds.

I am west coast bound.

The carpet of snow was laid down

to quiet the passage.

Clouds take over the task,

then part to reveal the patchwork

of the middle ground.

We cross the Stateline without a sound;

a few more miles then touchdown.

The Boat

December 5

THE BOAT

On my ride home from work there is a boat stuck between two trees in the middle of a horse pasture next to a riverbed so dry it's filled with grass.  I think the boat is me.  I feel for the boat every time I see it.  Turned on edge, waiting for a river, which doesn't exist anymore and may never exist again.  Placed on edge for protection, not comfort. Although having my bottom rot out, well, let's just say might be more uncomfortable.  What good will I be even if the river runs again since I'm fenced in?  My sponsor says I shouldn't ask any question which starts with the word 'why'.  You know my reply.

If my Higher Power has a plan...if it includes a river and a fence…  if I'm in this plan, me, the rowboat…I just don't see it.  Not seeing my purpose in life is a theme in my life says my sponsor.  I don't tell her the theme in hers.

Truth is, I don't want to face the fact I might float away. Even though I'm supported by two big trees.  Even though there is a tall fence all around me.  Completely in spite of the fact THERE IS NO WATER!  My Higher Power loves me.  I am the boat.

Enjoy the flowers and slide on the snow.

*

It All Points to Joy

Can Love reweave the fabric which hate destroys?

Can Kindness resew the field

torn through with disregard?

Can Beauty paint the world anew

after so much ugliness has rained down upon us?

My heart believes these three cannot fail

to make things right

for what other point could there be than Joy?

Personal Dictionary

December 4

PERSONAL DICTIONARY

Everyone keeps a dictionary in his or her head.  All the words lay on platters each with its own flavor and meaning.  There are favorite menus, phrases, which form warmly in the mouth and hang sweetly for the ear.  Other vocabulary is exotic, pungent, occasionally with a strong aftertaste or off-key ringing.  Abundance brings a wealth of conversation and keeps the cold of boredom at bay.  Free for the taking, words grow out of life lived.  When we have lived separately, even if only in our separate heads, meanings vary and reference must be checked.  Blue sky is blue sky, but do you speak of azure, cerulean or peacock?  Life is so much show and tell.  Drink the sunshine with your eyes and flow it out to me with your words.

Write on scraps then tape them together.

*

Night Spaces

When it gets dark it gets dark fast.

They say, night falls,

though sometimes it feels like it falls down.

What is little realized is there is a lifting

when the light has gone away, the sky raises

its roof and there is more air to breathe.

Long lost is the pink wisp

that heralded this night

and far ahead is the next wisp

of pink singing of the moon.

Miraculous

December 3

MIRACULOUS

Sometimes the blind lead the deaf.  The subtle signs are the bumping into trouble and inability to listen to reason.  It is an expedition into disaster unfettered by common sense or boundaries.  Tumbles and falls propel this pairing to unknown destinations.  The attraction is baffling but undeniable.  These pairs can be seen through the ages.  In spite of this confounding coupling, sometimes the blind find their way and the deaf hear the call.  And even when they don’t, life seems to roll along.  But try to keep your eyes and ears open anyway.

Set the goalpost where you can see it.

*

Precious Cargo

Do I carry myself as well as I could?

Do I understand the value

of what is contained within me?

This journey matters,

it requires my attention and comprehension,

if only I am able.

When I fall short the road changes.

The distance I go has much to do with how well

and whether I acknowledge the nature of the cargo

with which I am embedded.

There are only 23 more shopping days left till my nervous break down

December 2

There are only 23 more shopping days left till my nervous break down

Shoppers beware: I have a careful plan!  I can juggle these thirty things, keep these twenty people happy, dig around in the dirt at these three excavation sites and hold on to my sanity for twenty-three more days.  

My sponsor says having a plan like that means I’m already crazy.  My sponsor says I don’t have to please anyone but myself, my Higher Power and her.  That can’t be right.  What is the point of sobriety if I can’t do it all? 

She says I don’t even have to please her or myself.  What does that mean?  How can I tell if I’m pleasing my Higher Power? 

She says, “Shut up and you’ll find out.” Great!  What a plan.  I like my countdown better.  Of course I do, it’s mine.  My countdown, my life, mine, mine, mine. 

Maybe my sponsor is not all wrong.  OK, quiet......da,da,da.....da,da.  OK, quiet for real.  Hmmm.  I don’t, don’t know.  This isn’t working.  I can’t do this.  Why would I need to stop being me in order to get better?

“Who are you?” she asks.  She thinks she’s so smart.  I’m the one in the middle.  She says the eye of the storm is empty and I need to get a life of my own.

Endurance lets you live in the house you built.

*

Anti-Forfeit Activity

I don’t want to write

bad, forced, poor, weak, care-worn poems,

but I won’t write any good ones if I don’t lift this pen.

The embarrassment I might feel for lackluster lines

is far less than the shame of empty notebooks.

I don’t always like what flows when I open the gates,

but I am sure glad the current is live and so am I.

Arrested Development

December 1

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT

Arrested development was bad enough; the living death sentence it imposes is completely unacceptable.  My childhood ran down the hill away from the mountain of confusion that is life in this society.  My ability to mature was damaged and what I learned to do was mutate.  I could move laterally but never grow up.  I became the goose being grown for its liver.  All the honk and squawk in the world couldn’t change my plight.  I don’t have to understand how I was let out of the prison of addiction.  As long as I don’t go back I’ll never fear breaking out in handcuffs or getting locked in my crib.

Effort is already made, just add your hand.

*

Flower Power

The man with the chrysanthemum on his head

walks up and down the isle.

Do I look like that, I wonder to myself?

Have I taken personal style to the point of caricature?

What is the boundary by which

the embarrassment is kept at bay?

Is there a point at which I can overcome

who I present myself as,

and represent the best of who I can be?

Who I might be if only I can manage

not to get carried away by impressionism?

I am given this dwelling and it suits me quite well,

when I treat it as a temple and not simply as a shrine.