Surfeit? No Longer

I’ve had too much —
food, drink, anger, hatred,
too many too much’s.
I’ve had scarcity —
not enough love, too few friends,
too few too little’s.
Now I have surfeit —
enough food, enough faith,
to make small portions fill.
Enough serenity,
enough recovery
to share with everyone around.

The Gathering

We gather, sick folk,
formerly insane, fully
professing inability
to manage our lives,
rejoicing in our disorder.
We gather for we are ours,
we are one whether strangers
or family, whether alike
or opposites in others’ eyes.
We gather, home,
more fully belonging
than we ever dreamed.

Claiming the Peace

By identifying and branding our experience, with exactness and with truth, we claim it as our own. And nothing could be more intimate. (Julia Cameron)

Wandering, the journey
appeared endless, pointless,
aimless. Wayside stops
for fast food, for self-indulgence,
the high points – I missed the trip.

Recovering, the journey
not my business, only today,
this moment important,
I look around, see scenery,
experience now, relish each moment
each step of the trip a high point.

I, the Onion

I was an onion
in fruit salad.
Nobody understood me,
appreciated me,
welcomed me.
Until I met other
onions and figured out
we’re sweet, we’re appropriate
in fruit salad as in chili.
Understanding me,
you let me love myself.

Whenever Pain

Isolating doesn’t stop pain,
doesn’t ward off fear,
doesn’t mend hearts.
I know. I tried.
How many times,
how many years
I tried.

Addiction doesn’t stop pain,
doesn’t ward off fear,
doesn’t mend hearts.
I know. I tried.
How many times,
how many years
I tried.

Recovery stops pain,
wards off fear,
mends hearts.
I know. I’ve tried.
It works.
Whenever I think
of trying isolation,
of seeking comforts of old
I remember
the times, the years
I tried.

Best Ever

To come

and sit as one

in time of change —

to rest, embraced at heart,

despite large strides down sundry paths —

I’m blessed.

Suspicious Mind

You’re only doing that
to make me look bad.
You want to embarrass me,
to bring scorn on me.
Why do you hate me that much?

What do you mean, who am I?
I’m who you obsess over,
who you scheme against
all the time. I’m who you envy,
who you want to be…
I’m the one you think about,
the only one you think about.
Do you really not know me?

Too Late

I feel like an idiot, standing here,
conversing with a rock.
Why I should have come
makes no sense, seems pointless,
cruel even. Heck, I didn’t come
when they planted you here,
haven’t been these twenty years since,
shouldn’t be here now. Amends.
Charlie’s full of himself and the title.
I don’t need to make amends.
You screwed me around as much
as I did you. Well, maybe I railed
about your leaving me, abandonment.
I believed it then, not much now.
I needed you. I’d have told you that,
had I known then what I’ve learned.
But I didn’t. I skipped out
on the funeral. I shouldn’t have.
Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it,
didn’t hate you, really don’t now.
I’m so sorry. It’s too late for you,
you can’t hear. But I needed to know
what I’d say.

More Will Be Revealed

Where is the phrase “more will be revealed” found in the Big Book or other AA books?

The phrase “more will be revealed” is not in the main text of the Big Book though a lot of people assume it is. The closest phrase we know of is from page 164:

Our book is meant to be suggestive only. We realize we know only a little. God will constantly disclose more to you and to us.

Perhaps the phrase is just remembered that way. The wording of that sentence has been the same in all versions of the Big Book.

The wording seems to come from the “Basic Text” of Narcotics Anonymous. The title of Chapter 10 is “More Will Be Revealed” and the last paragraph of the book is:
“We have found a way out, and we see it work for others. Each day more will be revealed.” (Anonpress.org)

Who would have guessed?
Told to write of a revelation —
an obvious answer, a familiar truth.
Who would have guessed
just what writing this poem
was to reveal to me?

deadly

thanks to the administrator of this post for the invitation to share a recent poem here.  enjoy.

Deadly

hiding in dark corners

not large but venomous

having distinctive markings

yet difficult to identify

biding silently until bestirred

then attacking, often unseen

leaving a festering wound

how very like the brown recluse

is resentment

bh

nov 2011

Once Upon a Nightmare

On those days nostalgia tempts,

when good old days seem dear,
illusive comfort looms corporeal —
on those days I forget the nightmare
addiction became, let me never unfetter
the hope I've found. Let it tether me
to the dream. 

Contagious

Love seeps among us
infecting families, soft,
God’s loving embrace.

Brotherly Love

So close so many years,
adjacent bedrooms; both
in one most often. Secrets
parents weren’t supposed to know —
ATM fix everything. So many miles
as wheels roll, adjoining
as electrons fly. But hugs need arms,
late-night chats languish
without the touch. Wheels
roll as hearts gravitate
to love.

Deadly

...the alcoholic is an extreme example of self-will run riot, though he usually doesn't think so. Above everything, we alcoholics must be rid of this selfishness. We must, or it kills us! (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 62)

Selfish! How bad can it be to be selfish?
Seeing to my own needs? If I don't,
who will? Am I to let everybody else
decide what I need, what I should do?
Should I take the leftovers, the dross,
the dregs? Didn't the other Big Book
say to take the splinter out of my eye first,
to see to my needs? Oh. The plank from mine.
Yes. I can look to my own needs, my own
deficits - and surplusage. I can earnestly will
to lose my character defects besides the plank,
to move past my addiction, to see where my will
stands in the way of the right will, the one
I yield to. Maybe that's not selfish. A wise woman said
being selfish is seeking what I really need,
is doing what I must to have true gaps filled,
If what I'm doing for me makes me more useful,
a better tool, okay. But if I'm in charge, my will
run riot, that's dangerous, that's daring the dark,
that's death-dealing deeds.

An Act of Kindness

This favor you ask for —
the answer is “no.”
My impulse —
the people-pleaser —
is to quickly say yes.
But I would feel
the knot in my gut
and spend a while
avoiding acting on it
then make an excuse.
Believe me,
“no” is kindness.

On This Hand, Many

I can’t start today – nor this week,
not this year! It’s twelve days
’til Thanksgiving, and family’s coming
from four states! Aunt Bessy would die
if I turned down her cheesecake!
The next week I host the reception,
and the whole month’s full. You know
how I love peppermint fudge!
And Old Mrs. Tyler will bring macaroons,
stand there while we each try them,
tell us they just didn’t work this year,
and expect us to deny it. Taffy and eggnog,
dressing and gravy, champagne to Auld Lang Syne —
think of the people who'd feel hurt if I start now!
So you see, I just have to tolerate it, then tackle
this weight – and twenty pounds more.
I've so many reasons not to rush, to not be
so rash. I owe it to all of them not to ruin the season.
What do you mean, what do I owe myself?

One at a Time

A year's calendar isn't long enough,
so they make them for eighteen months.
Experts expect a five-year plan, short term,
but a twenty-year outlook for the vista.
I'll buy their calendars, list goals far-fetched,
but the only way to get there is forgetting
the plans, not considering even next week.
I recover, I live, I have peace
one day at a time.

It Used to Be Fun!

I hate OA. The day you first

went through those doors 

was worse for me than a root canal,

than your death would have been. 

We had such fun together, before,

when you'd match me at the buffet,

send me back when I'd stuffed myself

for what you found couldn't be missed.

I miss the food, the fun. And I miss you

though you're still here. When I have

the juiciest story, you stop me cold,

say it's not your business, 

you're not interested. You won't

get mad even at your hot-button issues,

won't have a screaming fit, won't plan

revenge. We can't share clothes.

Oh, you gave me what you had, but your

not needing them makes me embarrassed

when I put them on. You're gone so much. 

You skipped the 7th World Series game

for a stupid meeting. And you'd been

two days before! It's no fun anymore.

You may laugh a lot, look happy all day,

but you make me miserable.

I hate OA. 

You or Me

You have your idea
what would make you happy.

I have found my way —

at long last – to joy.

You have no response

to my bliss 

but that it's so final. 

I would give you glee

were it mine to gift.

But stripping mine

helps neither. 

Well-being can't

be grafted or nourished

from outside.

Paranormal Normal

I knew normal growing up.

Maybe I didn't feel normal
or know how to act normal,
but the rules were set and I knew
pretty much what they were but
just as surely I had no capacity 

to do that, be that. 

Then I found folks who read tarot
or runes, spoke of past lives, 

heat from spirits, read auras. 

Normal trembled, shuddered, swayed.

Like sorting out God from arcane pictures,

from childhood jury-rigging, 

from hardheaded stubbornness,

I found I could define my own,

make my normal. Sometimes,

in wrapping my head around truth,

I find a paranormal normal.

Always, though, the plethora
of soul mates I've found in rooms
of recovery, make a paranormal
cloud around me, a love between
strangers or old pals, making a normal
beyond my wildest dreams. How
paranormal is that?

Can't Wait!

I'm spent my life waiting,
preparing, perfecting.
When I lose ten more pounds,
when that dress fits again,
when the kids grow up and leave,
when the dog dies...
It never happens. Oh, some of it does.
Sometimes even the weight and size,
but the perfect tomorrow scheduled
at the crossroad never comes. Because
it's a lie. It never existed, never will
except in my mind. What comes is now,
today, this weight, this size, this me.
This I have to work with. Waiting
for different only makes me miss
what I wanted to live.

An Addict Sestina

[I've been using Robert Lee Brewer's prompts for his November PAD Chapbook Challenge. His suggestion for the poem written November 6th (these are posted the next morning) is "For today’s prompt, write an addict poem." What does he think I do with ALL his prompts? Oh. Okay. He's writing more more than just me. So I'll use the sestina format to make it a challenge.]

No one sets out to become an addict
but a sense of comfort yields to habit
and comfort feels required, makes it hard
to spurn the flimsy solace, to face fear
in minutia or in watershed moments, its power
rooting, swelling, no thought of needing recovery.

Who could eschew coziness for recovery
when the ideal fun and chums make "addict"
a concept not even on the radar, for the power
of the use may at times nag, may seem bad habit,
but the usefulness to stave off surges of fear
means letting go of it is too darned hard.

Time comes, though, when stopping's not just hard
but flat-out impossible, when dreaming of recovery
begins to creep in, when what once forestalled fear
now haunts, now burdens, now burns the word "addict"
into the synapses and the loudest roar can't stop the "habit"
from barging in, taking over, zapping creation's power.

And all control is there, in the substance, in the fear – the power
surely will never again be yours, you can't grab on hard
to the comfort, the solace once swaddled in the habit
but now the despised talk of the rooms of recovery
no longer feels childish, as admitting to being an addict
actually brings release, no need to be enslaved by fear.

And that little word is truly an evil and corroding tread, fear,
causing mighty trouble – but reviewed, put on paper, the act saps power
so fear can be examined, turned over by the vilest addict
who dares to ask a greater power to remove the fear, a hard
step – daring to ask – but the doing it, we've heard witness, gives recovery
in place of the vilest and most derelict old pattern of habits.

Change is occasionally sudden, sometimes gradual, but habit
does give way to a pattern of life free from paralyzing fear —
a tapestry woven into life depicting the glorious state of recovery,
leading on, a gentle hand on our shoulder, or around us, a Power
that assures us wordlessly, silently, but completely it's not hard
to set aside the substance, no matter how many years await the addict.

The door swings open, habit changing from problem to power
in facing uncertainty, yielding fear to a Power whose way is never hard
but guarantees to those who seek recovery they'll nevermore act as addict.

Broken

Duct-taped together
beneath a flimsy veneer
hiding my brokenness —
others believed me functional,
able, effective. Little did they know...
Alone I cringed picking up a phone,
drowning in recriminations
after what I sensed as social
faux pas, never daring to claim
any rights, any favors, despite
social standing so significant
as to make others uncomfortable
when I held back. Broken, I was.
My life had become unmanageable;
I was powerless over addiction,
fear, over life. Then the secret emerged.
The fractured life was far from hopeless.
Hope for me, and for my fellows,
sprang from the shards.

Unexpected

"I have learned that faith means trusting in advance what will only make sense in reverse." ~ Philip Yancey

She said I didn't have to believe,
I didn't have to expect results,
I didn't have to be real, I could
act as if. As if there were a God,
as if some ethereal being some millions
of years old gave a rat's patootie about me,
as if I were serious. I should get down
on my knees, just say out loud
what I thought, even if it was rude,
even if it was my disbelief. Just say
in the morning, "Have it your way,"
then in the evening say, "Thanks"
even if, "Thanks for a lousy day!"
I figured the sooner I went through
the stupid routine, the quicker I proved
it didn't work, the sooner she'd quit,
let me alone, move on to the next sucker.
A week was enough.
And I just about made seven days
before it stopped being pretend.

Sort of Recovered

I can tell you how to mend
relationships, find satisfaction —
even joy – in life, alone or together,
hale or unwell, in spite of others.
Find a meeting, get – and use – a sponsor,
work the Steps, recover. Yet,
I won't. So why? How could I deny
your happiness, your wholeness?
Because I know – or at least fear, believe —
you would hear only to go to a few meetings,
and you would, but to sit and listen,
share your wisdom along with disdain
for vulnerability expressed,
the weakness confessed.
You'd find repugnant the very idea,
the humiliation of showing up, of implying
by silent – or vocal – presence your flaws.
But having gone through the motions
you'd come to me, haughty in having followed
the guidance. Then you'd be repulsed
when I denied you'd changed, you'd complied
with the directive. You'd rage when I said
it's not recovery when you sort of submit.
It's not like I think I've got recovery conquered,
completed. Heaven knows I don't.
The difference seems I'll always know that,
but would you ever start to see?

Earthly Good

"Don't be so spiritual you're no earthly good." Wanda S.

Holy folk talk of God,

mention prayer 'most every breath,

pontificate on pious deeds,

profess their faith to all.

Godly folk have heavenly chats

comfortably serving soup

or teaching kids, visiting the sick,

living faith for all to see.

Proactive Procrastination

Tons of things to do today,
schedule stuffed full, big stuff,
important opportunities. And
late, to start out. I'll have to hurry,
don't have time to sit, read,
meditate – no time for God
this morning. I've read them all,
a day won't hurt.

No. I can't. I've got tons of things
to do today, schedule stuffed full,
big stuff, important. I can't begin
without the boost, without the calm
that comes from those few moments.



[Note: My poetry in November will be based on Robert Lee Brewer's Poem a Day challenge. The prompt today was:

And today just happens to be a Tuesday, which means two prompts! For those new to the PAD challenge, you can pick one of the two prompts or do both–if that’s how you roll...

• Write a procrastination poem, or as I like to call it a “I’ll get to it tomorrow” poem. Or… 
• Write a proactive poem, or the old “I’ll get to it today” poem."]

Changing the World

When you are kind to others it not only changes you, it changes the world. ~ Harold Kushner

How easy it is to match mean
with mean. Vindication thaws
glacial resentment, freeing the heart
to high-five the wounded gut.
But mean, matched or original,
builds resentment, wounds other guts,
returns mean for mean from base folk.

Hard is matching mean with kind,
seeing as sick the hurtful, the catty.
Kind dissolves resentment, frees hearts
to soar above road kill, to rise to peace,
Kindness grows in the giver,
can sprout in the receiver, take root,
and grow, coming back in kind
to the kind, repeating the process
as benevolence prevails.

Spirits Abound

All Hallows Eve, the day before
the day of the dead, All Saints Day.
Spirits abound, not necessarily Yoda,
Charlie Sheen, or even zombies.
The old hymn celebrates them —
"For all the saints who from their labors rest,
who thee by faith before the world confessed."
Not only St. Augustine, Martin Luther,
John Wesley, Calvin, Joan of Arc but
Jim Wilson, Bob Smith, Sister Ignatia,
Ebby, Dr. Silkwood, the first one hundred,
Jim Willis for gamblers, Roxanne
for overeaters, and countless others
with foresight and vision – and hopelessness,
addiction, lack of power, at the end of their rope.
We're grateful for the spirits who led us all
to rooms of recovery, and honored to be
the old folks who prepare the way for those to come,
saving ourselves in the process.

Desperation

Diet's didn't work,
the weight lurked,
ruled, oppressed.
Overeaters Anonymous?
You've got to be kidding.
People sitting in a circle,
reading, talking,
chanting rituals.
No diets, no reporting,
no plans to follow.
Just talk about insanity,
some higher power,
resentments, fear,
face people harmed.
What changes is life!
Weight loss is a byproduct.

Aim First

A phone call, my stranger,
his friend, a question
in my field. But my friend,
his stranger would be
rebuffed. His wrong,
not his friend's.
My reciprocation makes
my wrong. Phone call
answer given. Contrast
conveyed to him.
A wrong is a wrong
even for a wrong.
Conveying truth,
kindly and directly,
is a right.

Yesterday's Junk

You can't reach for anything new if your hands are still full of yesterday's junk. ~ Louise Smith

There's comfort even in misery.
When you've done it long enough,
it's what you know, natural,
even when odious. Hope springs
and chiseling drops dig deeper, deeper,
trenching.  Insanity demands
repetition of worn-out behaviors,
expecting this time, finally,
to get it right, to convince him,
to prove your worth.

Paradise strikes fear, unworthiness,
discomfort, so new, so different,
so unknown. Seeing Elysian fields
intrigues us, yet approaching them
means agitation, unrest, angst.
Worthy, worthy, worthy.
I hear the truth, dare to trust
it's verity. Paradise distant
may be lovely, but only is mine
when I dare to drop comfort
for the anomaly of grace,
of love.

What if I Don't?

Believe in God? Then you're like lots

of us when we came into the rooms.

It says "God as you understand him."

But you could say, "God as I don't

understand him. Or her." 

What's comfortable for you? Nature?

The universe? A thousand-year-old tree?

You don't have to take anybody's god,

not your parents', the preacher's, mine.

Some people even start by using the group,

the peace, the recovery, the power here.

Heck, you can use the chair you're sitting on --

it's more formidable than you, it's holding you.

Bottom line, find something more powerful

than you and latch on. Just believe there's

some "god" and you're not it.

Pushing the Boundaries

Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go. ~ T.S. Eliot

I'm here. See my work.
Read my books.
Examine me to depths
of my soul.

I've been here.
I've done good work.
Some read my books,
find them of value,
commend my deep honesty,
my soul.

I'm comfortable here
in my world. I feel tugged
outside, to the world,
to stand up, face to face,
and say, "I'm here.
See my work. Read my books.
Examine me to depths
of my soul." I'm not
comfortable there.

But there, through the fear,
through the self-deprecation,
open to answers I don't want to hear,
is where I must go now.
I'm frightened to depths
of my soul.

The Best Way Out Is Through

A conversation, long overdue,
beyond my control of topic,
breadth. Ubiquitous fear revved,
crushing me, yet I faced it, scorning
deep desires to stuff it down,
to quell emotion. I held my ground,
listening rather than planning
response. I empathized,
understood, accepted as his,
his premise without assuming
imposition of the premise on me.
Recalling my role – to say what I mean,
mean what I say, and don't say
it mean – I answered point by point,
my truth, my premise, my response
and came away enhanced.

Casual Reply

You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply ~ John Denver

What a friend we have,
a pal we talk to, rant at,
dare to dream around,
anticipate time with,
enjoy. Even when comfort
becomes the order of the day
in our chats, we'll always
stand in awe when the
genesis, the omega,
bestows a friendly hug.

Contentment

It is right to be contented with what we have, but never with what we are. ~ James Mackintosh

I really can say with Paul
I've learned to be content
where I am – now.
And things, possessions,
never mattered much
so I craved their power
to please – ever.
I bought today, but less
suited me fine, furnishing
a room for forty bucks,
and an inexpensive heater
to save money.
But contentment eluded me
those years, not from things
but the longing in my soul
for peace – inside.
Sometimes still I'm restless,
irritable, discontented,
yearning for love, for meaning
for excitement.
But when I calm my thoughts,
examine my life, find the fear,
I know the answer's right there,
waiting for me  – to accept.

Forget What They Say!

"Just this little bit – you've done so well,

this can't hurt – I made it special for you."

"It's your birthday! Don't you know?

We want you to celebrate with us, just today." 

"You deserve a treat!"

"But They don't get it. We're different.

We can't do it just this once. We're special!"

The Temple of Forgiveness

The temple of forgiveness is within your heart, if you wish to be free, you must ask God to release the hatred within you. ~ Spiritual Truths @TheGodLight

Temples are for worship,
for serenity, for peace with power.
What can forgiveness have to do
with a temple, much less be one
or have one exclusively?
Forgiveness means a wrong
happened, something that hurts.
Temples and hurt —
polar opposites, ne'er the twain
to meet. But freedom,
precious freedom, the pearl
to be sought, to get by sacrifice,
to sell all else for. First – a must??!! —
let hatred be released – even ASK
to lose the enmity? She doesn't deserve
forgiveness. He must be punished
by my scorn, my derision
forever. But freedom, precious,
the pearl... Worth any price?
Worth giving up my loathing,
my contempt, my hate?
What a price!
What a prize...

Let Us Love You

You fear us, expect rejection,

fear humiliation should you offer trust.

You shut us out to keep us

from shutting you out, to shield

your soul, to preempt pain.

Isolation's the same 

inside out or outside in.

And your premise fails --

at least in these rooms.

We love you at first sight.

Believe it. Realize acceptance.

Feel it. Let us love you

until you can love yourself.

Sending Fear

Please help!
Can you help me by sending me Fear to complete my What Big Teeth You Have quest?
Just click the link to send Fear! (Facebook game request)

Send fear? Why? Send away, oh yeah!
"God, take my fear and show me
what you would have me be,"
like the Big Book says.
But "help me by sending me Fear" —
maybe in a horror story,
maybe at Halloween.
Who could possibly want fear?
Well, maybe a little bit. Maybe to get
that message from God to break through.
Maybe for the joys that come from facing
fear.

Simple, Not Easy

If you can't explain it simply, you don't understand it well enough. ~ Albert Einstein

Analysis, pretentiousness, statistics
all obfuscate, prevaricate, befog, confuse.
Erudite statements convey no knowledge
except the obnoxiousness of the peacock's
condescension.

Damaged psyches need no belittling yet hear
only the superior attitude, not the words,
no matter how intelligent, how articulate.
We've been lectured, commanded, dominated
long enough.

We come for help, for hope, for life and love.
Understanding, wordless hugs, examples
spoken in first person, shown by deeds
hold profound truth, convey the depths braggarts
only dream of.

Who Am I to Blame?

And if your hours are empty now, who am I to blame ~ lyrics "Goodbye Again" by John Denver

Why didn't I hear this song years ago?
Why didn't I know I wasn't to blame,
couldn't fill his hours, couldn't give him peace,
couldn't make it right. Why didn't I know
the brokenness could only be cobbled
by him? Why couldn't I bolt from the cage?
Countless people told me, years ago,
to leave, that I wasn't broken, to go.
I knew in my heart, years ago,
he never had been, never would be,
comforted by anything I might do.
I knew. I heard the song. But I couldn't
hear.

Let Me Be that Swallow

The Russians say that the first swallow of spring won’t make the weather for the whole season, but it can mark the turn toward a warmer climate. I tried to be that swallow. ~ John Denver

I have something the whole world needs,
or at least a major part. Yet folks
will never hear unless I set the message out
for one and all to see. A Super Bowl ad?
I'm a few million short. A quarter Houston
paper page, three thousand – each!
A single billboard, just one month, 2K.
I can't buy success, can't work hard enough —
there's just one me. All I can do is be willing,
do my best, and let God run all the show.

Amends, Amen

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." ~ Maya Angelou 

I shamed you, scorned you, hurled barbed words
because I felt so scorned, so worthless, so wrong.
I meant no harm. How could I? I was thinking
only of myself. You weren't a worthy being,
just someone handy to share my miseries, imposed.

I've found a way to feel loved, worthy, all right.
It feels so good, so right. Too late to take away
the hurt I've done, I shower you with acceptance,
with encouragement, with kind words. I can't change
how you feel about me, just how I treat you. With love.

Dancing Alone

Dance with the one that brung you
and you dance alone. (misheard song lyric)

I got here all by myself,
doing just fine – for the most part.
I'm respected, admired.
I keep people laughing,
the life of the party.
Just a little advice, guidance
in the addiction, but for the rest
I'll dance the dance I know.

I sit here among you, see love
but dismiss it in case it comes
with strings. I sit here lonely
longing to feel the love, to share —
if I give up control, you say,
it would be mine. I dance alone,
then, now. I don't have to?
Could I dance with you?

But I'm Not a Hammer

To a hammer, everything is a nail. ~ Ron Denham

I know how this works.
You just need to do it this way
since I've discovered the solution.
Who cares if you started
from a different place?
What difference does it make
if what you want
is not what I desire?
I know how to do this,
and I'll show you.
Here, let me do it for you.
Where are you going?
Come back!
You're welcome here,
welcome home!
Why didn't she stay!!!?

Where Was I When I Needed Me?

Feelings, fears, insecurity tormented me
constantly, paralyzing me. I craved power,
control, at least a foot in and found it,
I thought, in comfort induced, in food
like loving arms cradling me, soothing me,
assuring me. Enfolded in pastries, I gazed
dully as the world moved around me.
Sedated, drugged by surfeit, I couldn't move,
didn't care. What once comforted
turned on me, mocked me, belittled me
as it proliferated my flesh, locking me in,
denying power – out of control. As life
trekked by, kicking dirt in my face,
numbed feelings couldn't bar the pain.
I needed help, the me that used to be,
but she no longer was. Then, when I knew
I couldn't do anything, a hand reached out,
then more and more, pulling me up,
hugging me, loving me
until I could love myself.
Then I know, I couldn't be there for me,
but I could be for others, and powerlessness
allowed me to soar.

Solitude

Lonely oppresses
gripping my heart
choking my breath
pushing me back
to blank
to empty
to worthless
self-loathing
doubt.
Lonely and solitude
share nothing
nothing connecting
only the hope
that step by step
I recover from lonely —
I reach solitude.

Fog

The fog comes on little cat feet. ~ Carl Sandburg

Earth and sky meld as fog swallows
the mountain. Evening-slanted light
turns roads to haunted forest paths,
draping the next curve, the markings,
in chiffon. Cars creep through patches
like meringue as drivers scan for wildlife.
Fear cannot quail trust the road continues,
faith in pavement extending past sight.
To fail to advance means danger,
more than creeping on, for others forge ahead,
following, straining to see, discerning the course.
Life's fogs call for caution, care in choosing,
need to question where the path lies —
but faith in guidance, in Power,
means moving through, inching on,
the next right move, the next right step,
sight unseen, in trust.

Absolute Knowledge

The list of things which we absolutely know is not a long one, and we have not the luck to add a fresh one to it often, but I recognized that I had added one to mine this day. I knew, now, that it isn't safe to sit in judgment upon another person's illusion when you are not on the inside. While you are thinking it is a dream, he may be knowing it is a planet. ~ Mark Twain

"I know." My quick answer brings a grin
to the sage woman's eyes. Mostly it's true,
but it's head knowledge, cerebral, not applied.
She nudges me wisely, and I cut her off
with the right words, but she knows.
She knows my head knows, but sees through
the bravado. Knows my heart quails
at the thought, shies away from action
of the internal, transformative type. I heal,
become whole, as I risk past head knowing,
as I find utter truths, cleansing complete,
as absolute knowledge takes root.

Sponsorship

Spring, 1970, a critique from a kid,
8th grader, spoke Tex-Mex at home
and I'd tried to teach him Spanish II.
I'd aimed to start tough, in charge,
the teacher, the leader — but failed
miserably at first, then learned.
"I'd hate to have you next year."
What a compliment! A teacher
should pilot, steer, not grab the tail
yelling stop, turn, I'm in charge!
A teacher's not there as a chum.
Pleasing people isn't my job
when I've been asked to guide.
Loving, nurturing, shepherding,
but not pleasing.

Remembering

I never ever want back
in the hell at the end, the bottom
of the barrel. But you know,
there was a time, back before,
when life seemed grand,
when freedom and happiness
reigned, my actions led to
serenity washing over me, to peace.
I could fix anything for anybody,
never felt useless, never pitied myself,
feared nothing at all. Nothing baffled me.

I'd go back there if I could,
but I'm not blind. I know the hell came
from what I perceived as heaven.
I'm halfway through these steps,
and I think what I'm looking for
really might come true - and last!

Out There...

Life begins at the end of your comfort zone. ~ Neale Donald Walsch

Stretching the boundary,
hoping comfort acts like
balloon rubber, loosens,
adjusts, accepts as normal
what was way past.
Walking into fear, inexplicable,
irrational, yet real, potent,
robust. Inexplicable because
irrational. I know that.
Beyond a reasonable doubt.
So I walk into life
at the end of my comfort zone.

Enemies

You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something in your life. ~ Winston Churchill

I don't want enemies
but what matters most
is that nobody's mine,
that the hatred, resentment,
anger, energy's not mine.
I don't want enemies
but it's not my concern.
I'm protected from contagious
hatred, from succumbing
to your spider's web
of manipulation.
I choose not to play,
and what you think of me
is none of my business.

Our Favorite Sins

It's always your favorite sins
that do you in. ~ (Matraca Berg and Deana Carter, 
lyrics of "You and Tequila" sung by Kenny Chesney)

Oh, yes! I'm entirely ready —
take away my defects of character!
Here, this one! And that. And oh, yes,
the other. Yes, I'm fully prepared
for You to take them.

My shortcomings, I'm afraid, will make
a piddly pile. I simply don't have the bounty
of most my colleagues. And these few
are only lightly used, you'll see. But yes,
you're welcome to them all, the paltry pittance.

What do you mean, there's more?
I beg to differ, that's the lot!
What? Arrogance? Not me!
My comments, my advice are my gift,
my service to my fellows less pure.
You couldn't deprive them, could you?
Who would guide their recovery,
how would they find their own?
You want me to have what would benefit,
what would be useful to you and my fellows!
I'd give up anything that stands in the way,
but you can't want that!

Q.E.D.

Q.E.D. is an initialism of the Latin phrase quod erat demonstrandum, which translates as "which was to be demonstrated." The phrase is traditionally placed in its abbreviated form at the end of a mathematical proof or philosophical argument when what was specified in the enunciation — and in the setting-out — has been exactly restated as the conclusion of the demonstration. The abbreviation thus signals the completion of the proof. (Wikipedia)

Step 1 - "Admitted we were powerless
over alcohol – that our lives had become
unmanageable." Or food, drugs, gambling,
the list goes on. The first's a given,
most the time, or you couldn't have brought us
kicking and screaming through these doors.
The second? Our whole lives? Of course not!
Look at us. You'll find educated, intelligent,
successful folk, for the most part, and others were —
except for that one problem that eclipsed the rest.
Still, it's just the one thing, the addiction.

So we start, amid wise veterans who accept us,
nod wisely, then chip away, never criticizing,
just describing how they had such an issue,
like ours, and it went away when...
They prod us through the steps, guiding,
not telling, until we find ourselves tethered
like sheep by faith in a shepherd until we see past
the person to the Power they trail. As we slough off
baggage, even inadequate gods, like pioneers
lightening the load – as we grow, trust and faith
in our own pioneering picture of Power grants
confidence, purpose. We reach a peak
beyond any hopes or dreams of the past,
seeing more beyond, more glorious yet.
Looking back, we see shattered shreds
of unmanageable lives, replaced by a Manager,
magnificent and intimate. And we see.
Q.E.D.

Open-Hand Slap in the Face

I wonder if we either hear what we hear to meet a need (something fitting an insecurity), or (if we are clear and willing), hear what can help heal us. It's a slap in the face, then, if we will receive it, as well as an open hand, offered to help. ~ Maureen Gibbons, M.D.

Reading the same devotional books
year after year, time after time —
how do the messages seem brand new?
This morning, For Today,
yesterday's goal reached, the pinnacle —
but looking up from the top, beyond
goes on and up. More lessons await,
those for today. Let me be clear, willing,
but if You need my attention,
feel free to slap my face to lift me
beyond dreams, beyond the best.

Fish Up a Tree

Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid. ~ Albert Einstein

I've always known I'm smart.
Empirical evidence doesn't lie.
I've always known I was stupid.
Feelings, emotions, guilt,
inferiority complexes —
they all lie!

Examine the Moment

Walk along a beach,
pebbles and sand blend,
stretch as carpet.
Examine a pebble, colors cascade,
tiny world replete with hills.
Let sand run through fingers,
marvel at still smaller globes
and imagine the not only unseen
but unseeable molecules and atoms,
more miniscule orbs.
Experience the day,
hours and minutes blend,
stretch as tapestry.
Examine an hour, a minute,
a second, and stand
in awe.

Subject to Change

Our perspective on change is subject to change. ~ Vernetta Howell

Grant me the serenity to accept
what I cannot change.
Well, that doesn't leave much
since I'm in charge of the world, huh?
But then again, my track record...
doesn't seem like much I've managed
to change. So, I'll skip playing god,
let them run their own lives —
into the gutter, of course,
they never would listen.
All I can change is me,
and while I don't need much,
I could use a bit of polish.
Why am I here? Just the little problem,
the consumption's a tad out of control.
It's not like I haven't managed
the rest pretty darned well.
The fear? How do you know I'm afraid?
The guilt? I'm not guilty!
I've done some things,
but it's not my fault, nothing for guilt.
I'm just up tight because they don't
understand. What sensitive person
wouldn't feel the tension in my place?
You think I can change that?? Really?
No? You said I could! Oh. God.
Yeah, sure. I've tried that. He ignores me.
I haven't let him? Bull. I implored him!
What do you mean surrender?
Give up? Absolutely not!
What are you, some kind of cult?
Just tell me the secret of being calm,
happy, smiling for real, not practiced.
What can I do to change?

More What Will Be Revealed?

Denial means "Don't even know I am lying." With the Big Book saying, "More will be revealed," I keep wondering what other lies I'm telling and don't know yet. (Paraphrased. Anne B)

I deny I deny anything!
I've lied to myself and to others
so often, so naturally, all my life
it seems, or at least the life until now.
But I'm not now! I'm brutally honest
about myself, I share deeply in group,
even answered a question honestly,
the dreaded, "How much do you weigh?"
And I tell my sponsor everything I think
she wants to hear.

Brash!

"I offer myself to Thee."
Humph. I prayed to be ready,
to be willing to do it,
to learn to market my product,
to put it out for the world to see,
to actually tell the world it's there.
So God created a conversation
with someone who's walked
the path I yearn for ready, willing
to mentor me. One next bold step,
totally doable, but OH SO BRASH.
Oh, okay! I offer myself to Thee,
I guess.

A Glimmer

Deep in the darkest recesses of the jungle called my mind a glimmer of a thought peeks cautiously out from under a log. There are scary beasts in the jungle, but that little thought will survive! ~ Diggy Bell

Murkiness entombed in gloom,
I hover inside, trembling,
craving anonymity, oblivion —
apathetic, without strength to budge,
to wonder what else exists.
Somewhere beyond, brilliance expands,
finally so tremendous a tinge,
a glimmer penetrates my leaden vault
troubling, agitating, an irritant
that cannot be ignored.
Persistent, steadfast, patient,
the glimmer becomes the norm,
acceptable, tolerable, all right.
Acceptance nourishes, brightens
the presence, enlightens without,
within, until I want to have hope.

Blame It on Them

Blame it on your mom —

how could she have expected

excellence, acknowledgedwith a nod, while disappointments
stood center stage, emphasized?

Blame it on your dad —
how could he have travelled
every week, leaving you without
day-to-day companionship, leaving
you to be disciplined by Mom?

Blame it on the profs —
how could they have failed
to see your merit, to catch the gems
of genius in the late-night term paper,
how could they focus on the lapses?

Blame it on them —
you've practiced for years, omitting
thinking how they were right, seeing only
burning resentment. Blame it on them —
or accept responsibility and heal.

Mother, May I?

A child's game, great fun.
A way of life, codependent.
People pleasing run awry
relinquishing identity,
becoming an adjunct.
Daddy, may I?
Husband, may I?
My child, do you mind if I
correct you, discipline you?
Mother, May I?
One giant step, okay,
crabwalk three seconds, okay,
may I have my own opinion,
not okay.

Inherent Power

INHERENT POWER. An authority possessed without its being derived from another. It is a right, ability or faculty of doing a thing, without receiving that right, ability or faculty from another. (A Law Dictionary, Adapted to the Constitution and Laws of the United States. By John Bouvier. Published 1856.)

A court should
use inherent power
cautiously, responsibly,
when justice requires —
a trump card, a lifeboat
to reach right results,
an equalizer.

I come powerless, out of control,
without recourse or hope
and find a Power, yield,
cradled and comforted
as fears assail. I'm led
gently, Step by Step
to sanity, to peace, to joy.
As I grasp who's in charge
and my own place,
suddenly I find power in me —
inherent power to use
cautiously, responsibly,
when justice requires,
when I ask to understand
my role and for power
to carry that out.

The Cost to the Jailer

One of the most expensive things the Commissioners Court has to deal with is the cost of keeping people in jail. ~ Hon. Margaret Keliher 

When I try to limit your impact on my life
by holding you at bay, by resenting you,
by talking to others of your betrayal,
by recruiting folk to “my side,”
I hold at least one of us imprisoned,
and she is me. I cannot restrain you,
stop your perfidy. And when I try
my hands, my life, are filled with the struggle.
When I choose to accept I cannot change you,
when I keep my eyes on my side of the street,
when I have courage to change what I can — me —
I am freed from the prison of resentment
while you, untangled from my strings,
might choose to change what you could.

That NIMBY Mentality

NIMBY: Not in my backyard.

Write a list of people, institutions, and principles
I resent? Oh, yeah! That ream of paper
won’t cut it. I can tell you how this whole world
could run, oh so much better. The hateful,
vicious people all around, how selfish, how base!
Why am I angry? I’m hurt! On so many levels —
my self-esteem is crushed, I’m damaged financially,
I’m stymied in attaining my goal, my ideal,
my relationship with others is shattered,
even in the bedroom! My whole life is screwed up
because of these people, institutions, principles.
The world and its people are often quite wrong.
And it continues, ad nausem, an infinitum.
I know sometimes I messed up, made it worse,
and guilt joins the anger, so I resent everybody,
especially me.

Maybe others have the remorse, made mistakes
like mine. They could even think I’m more wrong
than they! Could they be right? Have I been selfish,
dishonest, self-seeking? Has my fear controlled?
If all I can change is my backyard, what’s in it?
What did I do to make this mess?

Oh. Now I see!

Honest to God

"You can't pray a lie." ~ Mark Twain

I'm good at lying, you know, God.
Sometimes it just pours out, fears
bred in from years of reactions to
inconvenient truths, to my own will,
to not-the-expected. I can convince
most anyone, especially me sometimes.
I'm good at justifying, you know.
So, God, I'm counting on you to convict me,
to jerk my leash. Help me to be honest,
God. To you. To me. To all.

Desperation

Diet's didn't work,

the weight lurked, 

ruled, oppressed.

Overeaters Anonymous?

You've got to be kidding.

People sitting in a circle,

reading, talking, 

chanting rituals.

No diets, no reporting, 

no plans to follow.

Just talk about insanity,

some higher power,

resentments, fear,

face people harmed.

What changes is life!

Weight loss is a byproduct.

Perspective

Does he think nobody cares
if he comes or doesn't?
Does he believe others too busy
to want him there?
Does he resent feeling an outsider?
Can he come to understand
he's the hole in the pictures,
absence triggering recollection
of decades of a crater in lives?

Resentment!

You! How could you!!!
It's bad enough when I'm
the bunt of your acts.
You, so kind to strangers,
so acerbic to me, how could you
treat her that way as my surrogate?
Resentment roils. I want to wallow,
to keen, to shriek.
"Resentment is infinitely grave,"
the book says. Yeah. I'd like to use
the term with a shovel
instead of a furrowed brow.
"We found that it is fatal."
Okay by me! But the book means me,
fatal to me. I wouldn't give you the satisfaction.
"The grouch and the brainstorm
were not for us." Poison, it calls resentment.
Like taking it and waiting for the other to die.
How could you?! 
Because you hurt. Because resentment
roils outside of me. Just because.
It's not my business. I wish for you
what I want. Peace. Serenity. Love.
Freedom from resentment's fist.

(Quotations are from page 66 of Alcoholics Anonymous.)

Spaces in the Truth

So what's the truth?

The witness swears to tell it,

the whole of it, nothing but it,

yet lawyers seldom allow

whole truth, only censored truth.

Say what you mean,

mean what you say,

don't say it mean. 

That's saying the truth,

but sometimes not the whole

of it. Whose truth can you tell?

"You do not have permission

to tell anything you heard today."

If she owns the truth, is it hers

to hold? Is it wholly hers?

If she's mine, is part of her truth

mine? 

Being Taught

Personally, I'm always ready to learn, although I do not always like being taught. ~ Winston Churchill

Ready, set, go!
If I have to hold my nose
to swallow the medicine,
let me really be ready —
not just claim to be.
Here I am, teach me.

Surprise!

We may not be able to determine which course to take. Here we ask God for inspiration, an intuitive thought or a decision. We relax and take it easy. We don't struggle. We are often surprised how the right answers come after we have tried this for a while. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 86)

Surprises linger in memory
year after year. The package
under the 1977 Christmas tree
I knew was a gag – but it wasn't.
That good rejection letter, personal,
from a BIG time editor. A phone call
from another. Serendipity soars!
That first surprise prayer answer
from God, August, 1969.
Who wouldn't want more?

Just the Hug

They are restless, irritable and discontented, unless they can again experience the sense of ease and comfort which comes at once by taking a few drinks - drinks which they see others taking with impunity. (Alcoholics Anonymous, "The Doctor's Opinion")

Powerless, I lie imploring power.
Loving arms lift me, hug me,
dry me, feed my empty stomach,
speak soft words, wrap me warmly,
hold me as I fall asleep, content
in the loving hug.

Powerless, I scurry to meet my needs,
buy prizes, eat things, seek out crowds
seeming to have the illusive answers.
Powerlessness expands as I repeat
and find the same results for repeated acts.
Then I learn, it's not the food, not the things,
not the pacifiers I try. I'm looking
for the hug.

About Recovery (A Sestina)

She'd hit bottom and recovering
must come. In the clinic detox section
she fought back demons and faced the dilemma —
telling the kids. Maybe fascinating
stories of a handsome baron or about
Turks needing services she could volunteer?

No! Lies were out. But should she volunteer
the truth? She'd hid it, always. Recovering
from drugs was not enough. Her kids knew about
her "medications" though she'd tried to section
her life to protect them. Fascinating
how young they'd grasped her life's dilemma.

She'd lost a husband to the dilemma,
knifed him for suggesting she volunteer
for treatment. So he'd left. Fascinating
now how right his leaving seemed. Recovering
in the cold, sanitary detox section
clarified what past and future were about.

The truth be told, she didn't mind about
him. But their sons were ten and twelve, a dilemma.
She should be sitting in the cheering section
of Mark's softball game and ought to volunteer
for Joe's field trip. But she lay recovering,
safe. And clarity was fascinating.

How could she bask in clarity, fascinating
or not, and not do anything about
the boys? What was the use of recovering
without them. She had more than one dilemma.
Without them she might as well volunteer
for permanent residence in detox section.

But she couldn't stay on in this section.
Watching drunks and druggies wasn't fascinating
but disgusting. She'd better serve to volunteer
once through, but she must do something about
the boys. How could she call her sons a dilemma
and say the same about her own recovering?

The detox section was for her sons, about
them, not some fascinating abstract dilemma.
For them she'd volunteer to push on, recovering.

Camaraderie, Joyousness and Democracy Pervade

We are average Americans. All sections of this country and many of its occupations are represented, as well as many political, economic, social, and religious backgrounds. We are people who normally would not mix. But there exists among us a fellowship, a friendliness, and an understanding which is indescribably wonderful. We are like the passengers of a great liner the moment after rescue from shipwreck when camaraderie, joyousness and democracy pervade the vessel from steerage to Captain's table. Unlike the feelings of the ship's passengers, however, our joy in escape from disaster does not subside as we go our individual ways. The feeling of having shared in a common peril is one element in the powerful cement which binds us. But that in itself would never have held us together as we are now joined. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 17)

We are average Americans
of every state, of every bent,
from homeless to aristocrat,
from child to centenarian
who came together ten years ago,
resolute, united, affirming
and affirmed. We have learned
when people face fear head-on,
when duty, others, necessity
replaces our ego-centric norm,
we who are powerless
become powerful through the
process and love happens.

May God bless the victims, their family, the first responders, the laborers long afterward, and the armed services. God bless America.

In Loving Arms

God's child. That's me.
I know God loves me —
the Bible tells me that
even if you can't find
a verse to show a child
just where the Bible
tells us so, that Jesus does.
What does it mean
to be loved by God?
I understand better today,
holding grandsons
in my loving arms.

Spiritual Awakening

"Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of working these Steps..." (Step 12)

Ask an outsider about the Steps,
they'll talk of sobriety, abstinence,
cessation of addiction.
Ask an insider – someone who stayed —
that's peripheral, a benefit. "The result"
is a daily walk with the power of the universe,
with serenity, with peace, with joy –
awakening to life!

Carry the Vision!

Every day is a day when we must carry the vision of God's will into all of our activities. "How can I best serve Thee – Thy will (not mine) be done." These are thoughts which must go with us constantly. We can exercise our will power along this line all we wish. It is the proper use of the will. ~ (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 85)

Carry the vision?
What happened to carry the message?
Does one trump the other?
If so, wouldn't the message trump the vision?
No. If we don't have the vision
we don't have the message
and then we don't have what anybody wants
and we're not asked to lead, to guide,
to mentor. And without the vision,
it's good we're not asked. Instead,
we should seek those who carry the vision
and catch the spark once more.

Where I Live

Where I live is inside of me,
and it's mine! All mine,
my birthright.
Life is my birthright, one I disclaimed, renounced for years. I live inside of me where life is, and from this day forward I intend each day to answer "Present!" to life's role call.

What Comes Next?

I don't know what Step I'm on —
I've worked through them all,
but they don't feel done, finished.
So, where do I start? How do I grab
the rope, catch the train,
how do I find my rhythm?
It's not like I need to start over.

Oh. It's not a Step I need,
but a step. The next right step,
the next right thing. Read
the literature, call someone,
do some service, quit hiding
from my fears. The next right step
is to step in the right
direction.

Easy Burden

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. ~ Matthew 11:28-30 (NIV)

Whistle while you work
and the whistling may be harder
than the work. Like Paul,
learn to be content in what you do
and find your joy where you are.
Work is easier in good company
and God's good company.

Becoming Who I Was

We take a piece of information that makes no sense to us and we make that a part of who we are. (Lynda B, paraphrased)

You said it, I shook my head
internally, yielding to worthier
knowledge, you so certain
and I so diffident even when
it felt wrong. But I've been told
and gospel it becomes.
You tell me face north to park,
I do it year by year. You begin to
park in that lot – southbound.
Windshield wipers, flushing toilet,
unlocked doors, how many edicts
did I adopt, still seeing no sense?
I'm powerless, living unmanaged life,
when I control or yield to you.
You failed as my higher power,
as did I. Now I choose One
who works.

What they think of me...

Assumptions run rampant, not the way I'm thinking, though — not from them about me. I sit among a few dozen alcoholics, most if not all clean and sober, some for decades. But those that aren't, or are but can't follow guidance on silence, on anonymity... what if they know me, jump conclusions to wrong logical guess? Do I get the chance to say I'm not one of you? Does it matter? Does my need to justify say I have greater need to be here than they?

Standing on Promises?

I grew up singing - or playing

accompaniment to - the old hymn

"Standing on the Promises."

Youthful, I believed I stood there,

secure in the faith, in the promises,

in belief. Knocked down by life,

despairing grabbing hold again

of the childish faith I'd known,

I found promises spelled out, 

offer made, prediction of finding them

halfway along the path. One day, I trust,

I'll live them, stand staunchly entrenched

in new happiness, freedom, accepting my past.

I'll bask in peace, serene, self-seeking

a distant memory. Yes, one day I'll

take my stand there, but for now, I'll not claim

to stand on them, only to cling to them.

Potent Impotence

1. We admitted we were powerless over food — that our lives had become unmanageable.
2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 59)

Powerless: impotent.
Potent: sane, useful, empowered.
Impotence yells, mad as hell
while powerless slumps down,
gives up. Impotent embarrasses,
makes it personal while powerless
demands a social program.
No matter which way we react
to our impotent powerlessness,
the Power is the same,
the Potent Power.

Shell, Rebel, Love

In the shell stage, one does what one should do; in the rebel stage, what one should not do; and in the love stage, what one wants to do. Many times behavior in the love stage will be similar to behavior in the shell stage, but the motivation behind it is entirely different. Instead of trying to please someone else, the person is trying to please her- or himself. ~ Rebuilding – When Your Relationship Ends by Fisher and Alberti, page 157.

The good West Texas girl mastered "should"
though parents and sisters would often add,
like "You shouldn't wear stripes and prints,"
"You can do better than that," and "Are you going
to pick that up?" The rebel grew in her and she
mixed taboo colors, refused to "act like a lady"
or get "there" on time. And when shoulds
clashed with shrugs, guilt led to respite in food,
comfortable, accepting food. Food became clever
rebellion; she showed them. Finally, honesty wriggled
to surface, took hold with help from loving others
whose shoulds and shrugs reflected hers.
They loved her, modeled recovery, and loved away
the shoulds and shrugs, leaving understanding
with love.

Enough Dying Today

Just existing makes dying look easy.
But maybe tomorrow. I've done enough dying today. (The Gatlin Brothers)

I've died enough for a lifetime,
have hurt, agonized, cried.
I've murdered my self,
on a people-pleasing altar,
dived head-first from a cliff
for somebody nodded that way.

I've done enough dying today
ignoring the time I did have,
looking backward or forward
to phantom, illusive times,
living then, avoiding now.

Living scared me to inverse,
anything but feeling and love.
I'm ready to try something different,
to live in the moment today.
I'd like to experience emotion —
I've done enough dying today.

The Drum of the Humdrum

Some days we hear only the drum of the humdrum. ~ Karen Casey (Each Day a New Beginning, Aug. 28)

So what's wrong with extremes?
In Revelation the church at Laodicea
was chided for being neither hot nor cold.
The Big Book talks like it's a good
not to be in danger of excitement,
fear, anger, worry – why excitement?
It's lot's more fun than boring, normal.
Normal scares me. Normal dares me.
But then again, excitement can be tense,
and relaxed is good, sometimes.
But the drum of the humdrum —
catchy tune, it can be. So when I rest
in good hands, maybe excitement does
fit with fear.

Agnostic as to Application

And the entire concept is caught up in a chapter called "We Agnostics" which I never read because I'm not an agnostic, and why bother? It might as well have been "We Ethiopians" or some crap like that. Next. Next. ~ Clint H.

Theology and exegesis help not a twit
to get the whole idea of powerless,
of the need to be restored to sanity.
Analysis and interpretation get in the way
of the simple act of surrender,
of the sudden and profound awakening,
of spiritual experience.
Even if I own the church building
and wrote all the books,
unless I get it – that I'm not god,
that only the real thing can pull me up,
lift me out – I might as well be
agnostic.

Gaelic Gallop

This poem is from Barbara Rollins' unpublished children's book To Dingwall, Y'all set in Dingwall in the Scottish Highlands. The horses are named for historic battles in Scotland. 

Apart.
Alone.
New pony in the paddock.
Bannockburn grazes, gazes,
gauges access to the trough.
The old gelding, Stirling
kowtows to the gray mare, Carham.
Her gamey glance mocks
Bannockburn, apart.

A chequered skipper flutters,
skims his muzzle, flicks away.
Enough! Wrath raging,
Bannockburn vaults, teeth flailing,
snaring vacated molecules.
Carham rests galvanized as
Bannockburn gambols ’round Gael.
Lost youth resurges through aging veins.
Tentative steps stretch to a gallop as
bewildered Stirling lopes behind.
Gaelic ground shudders, shivers, settles
with winded horses gathered at the trough.
Bannockburn grazes, a part.

Icy Fire

Fear consumes
with icy fire,
tendril vapors
clutching souls
with absolute zero.
Glacial fear creeps,
a smoldering floe
encasing mummified
embers glowing dimmer
by half-lives.

On Demand

Who am I?
I'm ready for that
to be revealed.
Grand idea —
I'll drive, travel,
explore, learn,
come home imbued
with knowledge,
insight, discovery,
wisdom.
Who am I?
Not someone able
to direct God's timing
to grant my grand
demand.

Meditation

Meditate. 

Wait. I hesitate, 

I can vacillate, translate, inflate, 

celebrate, masticate, conjugate… 

But meditate? 

When I wake my mind skates 

straight to figure eights. I cannot sate 

the breakneck gait. 

Meditate? 

It’s some mistake. 

Wait. Intake breath, deflate. 

Thoughts abate, calm, sedate. 

God awaits. 

Relate. 

Mosquito Thoughts

Pesky ideas swarm,
though swatted away.
With netting of reading,
closed doors of planning,
mosquito thoughts are
kept at bay with days begun
lived and ended
in program.

We Call Ours Lakes

"We call ours lakes," he said,
a Texas boy now Michigander.
Eleven-hundred miles around,
but lake – fresh-water, even.

Lake Pauline where I grew up
once hosted a power plant
on Wanderer's Creek. Lake Fort
Phantom near my home dwarfs
Pauline – has 29-miles of shore.

Meager expectations limit vision,
predictions, hope. When I plan,
I base projections on past ideas.
When a higher power makes plans
lakes can stretch forever,
eleven hundred miles around.

An Open Heart

She enjoys rain for its wetness, winter for its cold, summer for its heat. She loves rainbows as much for fading as for their brilliance. It is easy for her, she opens her heart and accepts everything. — Morgan Llywelyn

Life moves with ebb and flow like tides,
and holding on destroys balance,
eviscerates what we would preserve.
The Odyssey ends,
not with stunning revelations,
insight into self,
but with peace, with knowledge,
with the words a wise man
spoke to me decades past.
I had dreaded telling him
I would leave, move on,
embrace the next big step.
He honored my contributions
but released me, saying keeping good staff
was hard, letting me know I'd be missed
but replaced. If I have known joy past
future joy awaits. Good people known
will be replaced with friendship's bonds,
new folks for new times, old ties renewed.
Life holds out her arms to me,
a welcome embrace when I accept it all.