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.