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.

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.