The Gift

Our culture gifts solitude

not for meditation, yet

our purpose, we choose.

Emotions, resentment,

chaos flare, ensnare.

Retreat! Find sanctuary

to regroup, to connect,

to redirect. Nobody need

know if you flush as you leave.

Letter of Resignation

Just resign from the debating society and quit bothering yourself with such deep questions as to whether it was the hen or the egg that came first. Again I say, all you need is an open mind. (Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions [Alcoholics Anonymous], page 26)

I herein tender my resignation
from this most honorable and
prestigeous society. While I admit
I've drawn great pleasure,
bickering eloquently, propounding
postulates, reasoning  pros and cons,
picking apart others' hypotheses
to support my own theorems.
I know I'll miss it, but I've chosen
an easier, better path. Now I need not know
all the nuances. Now I need only
an open mind and the willingness
that a power greater than I
should fill it.

Every Day

 Every day is a day when we must carry the vision of God's will into all of our activities. (Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 85)

Most days should be enough.
When is every single one needed?

hen is consensus insufficient?
Ninety-five is a darned good grade.
So why EVERY day?
How come into ALL activities?
Doesn't the Big Book say
progress, not perfection?
Good enough is good enough,
isn't it? After all, I only commit to today,
not forever and ever. Just one day.
Just today. Just this day. Tomorrow's
beyond my control. I can't tell you
what I'll do then. Today. One day,
not all of them. But the problem is,
I can't take today off. But just today.
Every day.

Who Wants Recovery?

Perhaps you are not acquainted with any drinkers who want to recover. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 89)

Who wouldn't want recovery?
How could anybody learn of the Steps
and turn away, give up the chance offered,
remain in insanity, in the sickness, addicted,
hopeless, powerless, lost?
How would they come into the rooms,
feel the love, sense the joy, know something's there
and turn away? Would anybody say no?
Most not vocally. They just walk with their feet,
speak with actions, turn away to rely on self,
to stay there stumbling, refusing to claim
grace dappling through the rooms. 

inadequate

One computer gasping,
hijacked by service provider wanting
to help but without functional links
or phone number. Another, brand new,
trying to go to the same page and freezing
the app. Poem due. I resort to telephone texting
through fears and confusion... Nobody said
service of daily poems was easy or all would go well. 
Ineptness on computers is not inadequacy as a person.
Commitments don't have to be easy. Even sharing
fears and misplaced convictions of inadequacy
serves a purpose and says something meant to be heard. 
I just show up and do what I can. 
Thank goodness I'm not in charge of results.

A Christmas Poem

Why write a Christmas poem?
After two thousand years
the subject’s saturated,
glorious songs by
Handel, Wesley, the bigs.
Besides, why me? I’ve
decked no tree these last few years.
Writing checks passes for giving
and keeps me out of malls.
It’s Christmas Eve – I sit
with my computer. But earlier
I went to church, sang carols,
felt “in.” And I care.
In a grinchy kind of way.
I’m thankful. For computer
peaceful nights, for people
I care enough to write
checks to. For an account
that doesn’t cringe.
For God’s love, as much tonight
as last night, last month, a week from
Tuesday. I’m glad earlier years
torn between competing parents
have passed, dissipated, ended.
I’m glad for hope for peace on
earth for me, for others, for
people who let go and let God
grant us glory. For the Word
that’s God who gives us words.
For Grace. Thanks, God.

Immanuel

Immanuel or Emmanuel or Imanu'el (Hebrew עִמָּנוּאֵל "God [is] with us" consists of two Hebrew words: אֵל (’El, meaning 'God') and עִמָּנוּ (ʻImmānū, meaning 'with us')

God with us,
the god of our understanding,
the god inside of us, all around us,
maker and creator and sustainer
of all things, God with us.

Hope with us,
hope when despair seems to point
the only direction, where  hopeless,
helpless, unable to — despite all efforts.
Hope for life beyond our wildest dreams,
for promises fulfilled, for life-filling hope.

Love with us,
love for us when we feel least lovable,
love in the eyes and words of folks just met,
love and acceptance without taking a step
toward the behavior that might, we hope,
justify the courage to express.

Peace with us,
peace on earth, good will to men,
deserving and rotten to the core,
people of all shapes and sizes, of all groups,
peace in hearts and lives
that knew none, that lurched
without god, without love, without peace
until every attribute of God chose to live among us.

Daddy

Sam R. Breedlove, June 22, 1915 - December 24, 2008

Honor, integrity, work ethic.
"Very good supper, Mrs. B."
Grace before every meal.
I cried that my younger sister
was about to marry and at 23
it seemed I never world.
Dumbfounded, at a loss for words,
hugs and comfort worked, treasured.
"Don't be sorry, don't do it."
"There's nothing new and improved." 

Lover letters from Africa, India,

"censored by Sam."
Sunday School Superintendent,
song leader, soloist, mayor,
draftsman, engineer,
traveling salesman.
"When I yell 'Suzy' everybody
better come." Did he ever yell Suzy?
"Skinamarink a dink-a-dink,
skinamarink ado."
Love for "Trumpeters' Holiday,"
bassos profundo. Ugly women
who sing best. If a pickup
on a country road pulls way right
they're turning left. A book with
an extra, always. I learned
a few months ago
the funeral home built a room
so "Sam" could sing for funerals
without washing off tinshop-grime.
Daddy's "Lord's Prayer"
(aka Hoffmeister's)
A life well lived, well loved.
When we all get to heaven,
what a day of rejoicing
that will be.
(the victo_ry)

Power

Being powerful is like being a lady. If you have to tell people you are, you aren't. ~ Margaret Thatcher

Power I seek fails miserably,
makes me unhappy even if I should reach
the intended mark. Power bestowed on me
by others, which comes through a power
greater than me, can be a blessing to all.
Statesmen and politicians share little
other than titles. It's true, though,
at levels far short of international status.
When I'm in charge, pride ascends.
When I'm the tool, blessings mount.

What Kind of Example?

I can be a living example or a dying example of how the program works. (Voices of Recovery, page 16)

Sometimes I'm an eagle, others a grackle.
Sometimes my life is marvelous,
a magnet for others, a delight for me,
wondrous in richness and depth.
Other times, I go through the motions,
or don't, finding an excuse, an "emergency"
that wouldn't meet the Webster's definition,
just bad planning on my part. My willingness
gone, I find myself praying - if at all -
not for willingness but for willingness to be
willing.  Stinking thinking creeps in,
tricking me to self-reliance, to minimal effort,
too close to the riptide, daring destiny.
But when I come to meetings anyway,
especially when I'd rather not,
the tide turns, and I'm glad I came,
and grateful to each who shares
salvation and recovery
reminding me
what I want to choose. 

"Where Everybody Knows Your Name"

The esprit de corps we sought in addiction,
in all-you-can-eat buffets, in bars, in casinos,
claimed to be there, masqueraded as staying there,
but lied. It was a farce, a bait-and-switch, a mockery
laughing at us from the depths of our loneliness,
the desolation that echoed through the chambers
of out-of-control lives. False fronts, pretending at cheer,
acting as jovial, hid despair. Camaraderie, the real kind,
resides elsewhere. I looked among the right people,
but too early, before they escaped, before they gave up —
before they admitted powerlessness to find strength,
to find promises worth standing on, to find recovery
where everybody knows your name, where each one cares,
where they're always glad you came. 

A Total Liability

... self-confidence was no good whatever; in fact it was a total liability. (The Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous, page 23)

Easy response is, "I'm okay."
Funny. It's been my mantra
so many years, since "I'm fine"
from the oxygen tent,
my five-year-old confidence
speaking out. Was it really
self confidence? Or people
pleasing. I know the answer.
I know the importance.
Self-confidence takes
a back seat in me
to just about everything.
Good thing. God thing.
I'm not in charge. I don't need
confidence in me.
Just in the boss
and in me, willingness
to not be it. 

Bankrupt

No other kind of bankruptcy is like this one. Alcohol, now become the rapacious creditor, bleeds us of all self-sufficiency and  all will to resist its demands. Once this stark fact is accepted, our bankruptcy as going human concerns is complete. (Twelve Steps and Twleve Traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous, page 21)

Greedy creditor, the addiction,
coming at us like a bird of prey,
draining the life-blood, the will,
the give a care. Demanding —
even threatening —
like a bookie snubbed, scorned,
rebuffed. Tenacious, doggedly
snatching at self-respect,
at pretensions of sufficiency,
siphoning any shred of dignity.
Only in retrospect can extenuating
aspect sneak in, building footing
for bedrock despair. Powerless.
Life beyond control. 

Wildness of God

Sometimes it is the wildness of God, the untamable energies of the divine within creation, that the creatures alert us to. (Christ of the Celts, J. Philip Newell, p. 34)

I need a wild god!
I long to slough off
the formal, the trite,
the straitjacket tight
constraints. I want
a dancing god,
a rapscallion,
a co-conspirator,
a giggling god.
I need a life-loving
audacious god.
Joy to the world! 

Imitation

I’m no model lady. A model’s just an imitation of the real thing. ~ Mae West

Sincere flattery,
so they say.
She admires me,
wants what I have —
but not in the right way,
the recovery way.
She wants my life
and not like the folk who say
I wish I had his car
and he had something better.
Like a copy-cat game,
a mimic, an echo.
How do I stay on my street side
if she’s on it with me?
How do I evict her
from my life?
Am I selfish to think this,
she’s obsessing on me?
But my gut sees imitation.
Not purposeful, maybe,
but real. Give me back my life.
God’s telling me it’s not my job
to tell the world the truth.
It’s my job to be the truth.
Who wouldn’t want what I have?

What Is Forgiveness?

What does forgiveness mean?

Not forgetting – short answer, but more.
Forgiveness is understanding another
as flawed human. It's assessing
actions that addressed his needs,
even if meeting those needs stomped on mine
and my feelings, my financial security,
my self-esteem, my personal relations – on me.
Forgiveness is understanding our fellow folk
as human. If she's wronged me, I can see

she didn't act because of me, but her – her needs.

And forgiveness doesn't mean putting yourself
out there again, vulnerable, to open a way
to be wronged again by the same person
doing the same thing – or even other things.

Don't try to be a bosom buddy.

But let her go, drop the resentment,
the obsession, the anger.  Don't imprison
yourself by waiting for her contrition.

You need your wings, unclipped.

Who Knows?

But in their hearts they really do not know why they do it. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 23)

You’ve got a question?
Then I’ve got an answer.
Doesn’t matter if I know
the answer, just matters
that you don’t know
that I don’t know. I know
I’m lying, I know I’m fake,
I know I don’t know,
but you can’t know
that I don’t know.

You want an answer?
That’s a different matter.
I don’t know the answer,
and in those times
my head’s right, at the moment
I’m living in recovery,
I’ll even admit I don’t know
the answer, have no special
knowledge, that I’m along
for the ride. But then, maybe,
my mouth will keep talking,
speak wisdom not from me,
and we’ll know.

God Speaks

I know when God's telling me somethig because it pisses me off. (Anonymous)

God's voice to some comes solfly,
comfort personified - or so I'm told.
But then again,
when he's ready for me
to change a long-treasured part of me,
a habit lived past usefulness,
he can irritate like sand in a shoe,
like a hangnail, like chalk screeching.
Maybe a still small voice worked
for Elijah. But  me, I get a violin
in need of tuning. 

No Spectators!

Recovery doesn't happen
to people on the sidelines.
Arm-chair quarterbacks
must get up, work Steps,
participate. Halfway
trying won't even get
a grade of 50 but a big
flat zero. 

Smashed Delusions

We learned that we had to fully concede to our innermost selves that we were alcoholics. This is the first step in recovery. The delusion that we are like other people, or presently may be, has to be smashed. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 30)

It's really not that I'm not like other people.
That's the myth I lived with most my life,
until I figured out how many of us
have  the same fears, the same insecurities.
The idea everybody else knew what was going on,
had the secrets I wasn't in on —
that part was false. No, the delusion
I can't cling to isn't that. It's about the behaviors
with comfort, or where I thought comfort could be found.
There, I'm different. I can't eat what others can.
And I can't fool myself into thinking I can when...
whatever the when may be.
But I'm not deprived. Because had I not had the addiction,
I'd never have found the joy of letting it go.

Chargined

I said I would, I meant I would,
I remembered the wrong day,
I didn't. Disdain, self-loathing,
disgust, vexation, humiliation,
mortified. I'm so sorry.
An honest mistake, I'd forgive others.
How can I learn to forgive me? 

Hooray for Unhelpful Thoughts

We choose our thoughts. We choose to acquiesce to the feedback we receive from others, feedback that may not serve us well; we choose to remain stuck on past hurts; we choose to worry about the future. This is cause for rejoicing! If we can choose these unhelpful thoughts, we can also choose helpful ones. ~ Karen Casey, Change Your Mind and Your Life Will Follow, p. 103

Hooray for misery.
Hooray for the downs,
for the setbacks,
for the duh days.
Hooray for the steps
seemingly backward,
but we don't go back,
can't go back, thought
sometimes we go wrong,
but it's a new wrong.

Hooray for missteps
for they guide our steps,
our hearts, our will
to the next right step,
to realizing again
I'm powerless,
it's not my fault
I can't pull myself out.

Hooray for wrong decisions
illuminating the right road.

Limits

Limits
God is everything
or nothing.
Nothing? God
can’t be nothing.
Nothing can be
so complex,
so real
and come from
nothing.
God is everything
so he’s in charge.
Of everything.
What does that
leave for me?
Nothing.
Except
everything.

When It's a Planet

I’m learning to let go
when the need to judge
someone else looms large —
to let them be foolish or wise,
right or wrong.

It’s not as easy to let go
when I’m doing as told,
showing up, reporting for duty,
asking to know God’s will,
to have power to carry it out.
I still want to object,
to say that won’t work,
to say I’m not able.
Nope, I’m not. But I’m not
in charge. And I’m just the tool.
If the impossible happens,
it was supposed to.

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. ~ Samuel Clemens, Three Thousand Years Among the Microbes

Madness

I know very well that, as a writer, you should *never* compare yourself to other writers, because that way lies madness. ~ Adrian Bedford

All my life I've surveyed the crowd
though seldom interacting. No,
I stood apart, in my place, assessing
where that was. Life felt like a ladder,
or maybe a series of narrow risers,
slender steps, suitable for one, where people
assembled in preassigned order. I thought
then we each inherently realized the proper rung,
our assigned level. Now I know I played the sorter.
Most remained on levels lower than mine —
those lesser souls, less smart, less educated,
less capable than me – or than my concept of me,
of what I wanted to be, wished to believe myself
to be. Others perched above me, unreachable,
gods to be admired, emulated. These beings
I longed to be, wished to befriend, but, humbled —
or so I would have thought but more probably
humiliated by my thoughts, by my perceived awfulness,
by remaining a lesser in my mind.
Now I live on a level stage, an actor among the cast,
no better, no less, just perhaps more obedient to a power
greater than I. Surely it's true. Writers – and cooks,
drivers, janitors, professors, best-selling authors,
and normal folk – merely need to release the fear,
to grasp the hand of the one, the only one,
on a higher rung, who pulls believers away from
madness.

Wander Me

I read this morning,
a simple sentence,
not nearly so devious
as my drifting mind created.
Who – or what – could, would
wander me? The printed text
spoke only of a straying mind.
Oh, mine has done that
all these years —
I could fly, was a princess, 
lived in turtle shells.
I'm no longer willing for mere thought
to gambol! I would be vagabond,
a voyager, traipsing to hither,
roving to yon. I would saunter toward fear,
vault out of comfort zones,
leapfrog toward ecstasy.

With Narcissus

Narcissus had his issues,

falling in love with himself,

unable to function, self-absorbed —

sad enough, a life wasted.

Sadder still, should Narcissus

bring his entourage - a wife,

mother, sister, children,

demanding they share adulation

of his greatness, entranced

by his reflection, absorbing 

glory, lemming-like, devoted.

Saddest when lemming-like

repetitions steal all independence,

when studying the reflection

of the egotistic narcissist

erases thought, creates

true lemmings.

Faster Horses

"If I had asked people what they wanted, they would have said faster horses." ~ Henry Ford

Okay, God, reporting for duty.
What's your will for me today?
I'd appreciate some help carrying out
my part. And it would sure help
if you'd keep reminding me, God,
just how limited that part is.
Keep me doing the next right thing.
Not piddling because I need to feel sorry
for me a while first, not playing games
because they won't hold them over
another day – if I don't play them,
they'll vanish into cyberspace.
I can't  duck, hide my head in a hole,
'cause the fears have revolted
and want to run rampant.
You've told me, just ask you to remove them,
to show me what you want me to be.
I'd claim it wouldn't work, but I know better.
So. It's the next right thing. Keep plodding along.
And don't plan the results, because then
I'd set the goal too low. Leave that to you,
and maybe you'll give me beyond my wildest dreams
when I'd have settled for a faster horse. 

With Kindness

So he's an irrational, ungrateful #@(%^. Is that judgmental? ;-) I decided that I would kill him. Or kill him with kindness. I chose the latter :-) (Unattributed on purpose)

Oh, that kindness thing. Sigh.

Why should I be kind? I've tried that,

been that, a dishrag of a person,

always in hot water, or all gunky

and needing hot water, wanting it

to have something to let me move

off dead center. I've wiped up messes

others made, no objection, my job,

no reason for thanks,

no expectation of acknowledgement,

doing it while expecting to be ignored,
doing it so I'd be ignored and could smirk
at their helplessness. Ratcheting myself up
by making someone lower, at least
in my eyes. Killing with kindness,

I guess. But the killing tended to be

in the nature of

suicide. 

Concerning Their Success

Life is not a teeter-totter.
When you go up, an equal,
opposite reaction doesn’t happen,
never shoves me down. When we work
together, we can’t feel resentment,
don’t  have to yield stature so another
can shine. Like bedsprings not connected,
my high, your high, both reign supreme,
independent – though together we reach out,
lend the hand of encouragement, banish fear
for love.

Fear develops from our incessant comparisons with others. We think everyone else is better than we are, “has it more together” than we do. And out of our feelings of inadequacy, we consciously or unconsciously wan to undermine them, their confidence, and their capabilities in any activity we share. We think judging them, and in the process hopefully reducing their success, elevates us, at least in our own minds for a few brief moments. (Change Your Mind and Your Life Will Follow, Karen Casey, pp. 55-56)

Dragon Odds

He’s not the dragon closest
to my boat, yet in the water, daring,
waiting, pulling me to gamble,
buy the ticket, play the odds.
He’s in my blood, breathing fire,
intoxicating, pulling, singing
siren songs. He’s who I am,
all or nothing, best or sitting out.
My doppelgänger, he hijacked
my life, bet it all on his – on my —
ability, superiority. Let it ride,
let it ride, sit it out until the crash.
Until, a drowning wreck,
I grasp the saving proffered arm
relieved and powerless.

When We Retire at Night

We constructively review our day.
How many times have I lain in bed
and trounced the ruins I’d made
of a day, wildly swinging blame
at all who’d chanced my way —
especially me.
Recriminations and guilt
consumed me like jackals
devouring a carcass.
We constructively review…
resentment, selfishness, dishonesty,
fears. Just examine them,
an interesting specimen, a species
to be tagged. Then, calmly,
consider positive, corrective,
loving choices – loving to others,
loving to me. Recenter, refocus,
consider others, life’s plan,
knowing tomorrow’s victories
over my difficulties help
those around me. Listen
for wisdom, for guidance,
for sought forgiveness.
Then sleep, rising to serve.

When we retire at night…we ask God’s forgiveness and inquire what corrective measures should be taken. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 86)

My Story

You want to know about how miserable I was
at 300 pounds, how I hated me?
You want to know how I returned to a fast-food place
until a cashier knew what I would order?
You want to know how I’d drive from one
to another to get the exact same thing
I’d finished on the way? Most of you are repulsed
by the questions, gag at the thought.
But if your heart sighs, recognizing kindred,
then I’m here for you, my story is for your ears.
Then you can know the hope, the salvation,
available by choking down the fear, by walking in
to Overeaters Anonymous, to the home
you’ve never known.

The Circuit Speakers

Sometimes I grin about my iPod,
how little music, how much recovery
populates that square inch of comfort
and fills my dreams. Joe and Charlie,
Chuck C, Patti O, Clancy, John A….
They drone on as I sleep, but just
when I rouse they say what I need
just then, just now. I know their stories
and cry each time Kip C shows how low
low is, grin at red-headed “sister”
humor of Angie, ache at deprivation
of “normal” in Artis G’s life.
The wisdom of Chuck C’s business
twelfth-step call, of Lawrie’s
grasp of Holocaust, of Jerry J’s
view of goldfish – these folks
and more come to dwell in my iPod
and shape my recovery.

The Old Days

Sometimes the “good” worms
into my thoughts – no, not thoughts.
My gut, my archival memories,
the illusive patterns perhaps once
a source of pleasure, later compulsion,
habit, obsession – bestowing pain
as a sadistic surrogate for comfort.
The Old Days have value in establishing
credentials, my bonafides.  Otherwise,
they’re useful only as a map
of forbidden territory, a land of horror.

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.