The Search

When I was just a young man
and lived in Bethlehem 

I craved a setting bold, grand, 

alive – Jerusalem! 

I left the town of David; 

the city wasn’t far. 

I thought the Temple splendid, 

the town a grand bazaar. 

I thought “How true to my luck” 

that soon as I had gone 

from east there came a show such 

as few had come upon. 

And then King Herod’s army 

was marched into the town. 

They wrote a bloody history 

by cutting children down. 

It’s power, glory, mystery, 

to soar above the heights, 

to be a part of history 

that I’ve sought all my life. 

Jerusalem was central 

to those of Israel 

but life was uneventful, 

its glory old and pale.


Now boats and men from far lands 

sailed into Antioch. 

And those who walked in its sands 

would know what’s new, what’s hot. 

I left the Holy City 

one year at Pentecost 

with pilgrims hot and gritty, 

yet happier than most. 

They spoke of dead men rising, 

of ghosts that came on wind. 

I mused about my missing 

encountering their friend. 

It’s power, glory, mystery, 

to soar above the heights, 

to be a part of history 

that I’ve sought all my life. 

Well, Antioch was booming 

but not so much as Rome. 

I soon found myself fuming 

to make that city home. 

I left the sandy seashore 

and sailed for Seven Hills. 

This time I knew I was sure 

and Rome my thoughts did fill. 

Some on the boat were sailing 

to Cypress and to Crete. 

The tale that they were telling 

seemed strange, beyond belief. 

A ranting man from Tarsus 

spoke of a group of Jews, 

said one had come to reach us, 

no matter what our views. 

It’s power, glory, mystery, 

to soar above the heights, 

to be a part of history 

that I’ve sought all my life. 

And now I am an old man, 

a denizen of Rome, 

I earn what little I can 

but still my mind does roam. 

My work is guarding prisoners 

and one’s a man I’ve known. 

We once were fellow travelers, 

for Paul has come to Rome. 

The ranting now makes more sense, 

but maybe it’s just me. 

He speaks of love, repentance, 

of peace that makes men free. 

It seems that I was looking 

for what I failed to see, 

that miracles were breaking; 

that history called to me. 

It’s power, glory, mystery, 

to soar above the heights, 

that God’s brought into history. 

God’s sought me all my life. 

The Greatest Creation

Cling to the thought that, in God's hands, the dark past is the greatest possession you have – the key to life and happiness for others. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 124) 

Humiliation, shame, rage —
hurling dung on the hopes of family,
treacherous dealing with friends,
debauchery, self-contempt.
My pain, my agony, my hopelessness.
Talk about magic, about being born again.
How deep is God's grace to go so far
in rescuing me as to give such scum value,
but even more, to make it priceless! 

The Walkers of the Path

Others walked first

before; some still walking.

Others moved on

crowned with glory,

honor.

Some walk with us,

share the pain,

speak some truth

just what we need here,

now.

Others follow where we lead

even when we feel we’re bumbling,

stumbling, needing leading,

but we lead

hopefully in the right

direction.

Thanks, God, for the folks around,

for choosing the right ones

to lead us, to walk with us,

and to teach us with our own

words when they seek our

help.

Wasted Words

The LORD was with Samuel as he grew up, and he let none of Samuel’s words fall to the ground. (1 Samuel 3:19 NIV)

Words fall to the ground,
those meant for me to hear,
left to languish, wither, die.
I sit, planning my own words
as others speak, leaving wasted
words I should have heard.

Hope from Hurt

A scar is a healing. After an injury, a scar is what makes you whole."– China Miéville

A scar makes you whole
like a life of miserable addiction
makes you a mentor to others
following the path. A scar
heals, more substantial than before,
a reminder, a memento,
like an amulet holding hope
of promised mojo,
moxie made substance.

Scars come from hurt.
If we can hold to conviction
of HP wanting good,
bringing rectitude when we trust,
injury can be welcome.

Barriers

And when the barriers don't give way with a gentle push, we should consider it a clue that we are off course. (Each Day a New Beginning, Aug. 13)

I've never much liked
the program motto,
"Easy does it." Simplistic,
not too realistic, just silly.

Aw, but barriers. Lovable.
Simple barriers, clear, defined.
What pride to conquer them,
what progress to delineate
their extent, calculate a course
to circumvent them, pass them.

Should barriers be simple
meaning flimsy, insubstantial?
Is that really the test? If easy does it
pushing past a barrier means
the path is God's, not mine,
and he's running the traps
ahead of me... How easy is
that?

In Witness Whereof

Sign the bottom line, commit yourself.

End equivocation, dare to stand

for you, for your life, for peace and hope.

Pledge your life, your liberty, your sacred

honor. Only by daring to lose do we begin

to win a life beyond our wildest dreams.

Grounded

Bed was welcome, sleep instantaneous,
warnings the air mattress might leak irrelevant.
Offers to clear my things from the surface
dismissed with "I sleep with electronics
covering the bed." Caution they'd be on top
intrigued. Who would anticipate that/?

Refreshed, I woke wrapped in mattress,
bedding, computer nudging me to write.
The morning wrapped its arms around,
welcoming me to life, to love, to possibility.

What Illuminates Your Soul?

Funny. I come to bed tomorrow,
ready to collapse but haven't readied
"tomorrow's" post. I scan through to find
drafts, ideas saved for rumination,
thoughts to finish.
"What Illuminates Your Soul?"
just a question, a title, no more —
some thought from some tidbit
saved here since May.
What did it mean then?
I don't know, just a phrase pulling me,
somewhere I needed to wander.
Today it takes me back
from the last few hours'
revising websites, struggling
with technology. Instead,
I relive lunch with Becky
and authors Sioux Roslawski
and Linda O'Connell,
then meeting Justo Herrera.
It reminds me of a story Linda shared,
and brings me back to truth
both that my soul is illuminated
and that working to serve
my best purpose on Earth
is what reveals the light.

Human Cravings

Your cravings as a human animal do not become a prayer just because it is God whom you must ask to attend to them. (Dag Hammarskjöld)

God's not there to do my bidding.
I'm here to do God's bidding.
I don't have to give in to cravings, to urges.
I can seek his will —
which has nothing to do with my yens —
and the power to carry that out.

Gratitude and Hope

The more we find fault with life, the more fault we are guaranteed to find. Negative attitudes attract negative experiences.... (Karen Casey, Each Day a New Beginning, August 8)

Compulsive overeating
and hope
are not compatible.
Sour thoughts
and joy
don't cohabitate.
Each day is its own
odyssey
or tribulation.
I choose 600 miles
of joy.

Odyssey

This is the how and why of it. First of all, we had to quit playing God. It didn't work. Next, we decided that hereafter in this drama of life, God was going to be our Director. He is the Principal; we are His agents. He is the Father, and we are His children. Most good ideas are simple, and this concept was the keystone of the new and triumphant arch through which we passed to freedom. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 62)

I have lessons to learn,
growth to experience.
I'd rather know what lessons,
guide the growth. I cannot.
I set out, ready to learn,
ready to grow, ready to drive
thousands of miles,
not alone, just nobody else
visible. Only voices
on the radio,
in the iPod,
in my head.
And you, my friends,
my cloud of witnesses.

Honest!

I don't stay honest 'cause I am  honest... I have to just act honest. I'm not kind. I just act kind. (Peggy M.)

I have the trappings of a great life,
but I'm in it. And I can screw it up
just by doing what comes naturally.
I know I'm a fake, that I can't do
any of this stuff, but I also know
how it works, how all I need do
is get out of the way,
hand over the reins,
let God run the show,
and obey.

At the Door

One foot in the room,

I stare at recovery,

at peace, longing for

joy lighting their faces. 

I haven't done so badly —

self-sufficient, quick, 

able to talk out of scraps.

"Half measures" they call it 

like they can read my mind.

Surrender they ask for, 

to some nebulous god.

If I slough off my old life,

what have I lost? 

Okay. I turn my back on 

crushed dreams,

step forward, 

willing for the door 

to close

me in.

A Cloud of Witnesses - Two Big Books and Us

This blog was begun as a way to build a following potentially for the book A Cloud of Witnesses - Two Big Books and Us  by Barbara B. Rollins with OAStepper. For three months virtually every day there's been the promised "tad of poetry every day, recovery on the go." The book is nearing completion. The publication date shows to be August 6, 2011, but it won't happen any more than The Harsh and The Heart made it's July 4th appearance date. (August 6 is a significant day for a major player in my own Cloud of Witnesses.) But the book will come soon. Here's a taste of what it will be like.

Keeping Up Appearances

Outward appearances are not inward reality at all. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 48)

Actors, all, we've disguised
the pain, played the role,
lied until we believed the script —
almost. Not quite, not completely.
We bought in to others' acts,
assumed only we didn't fit our skin,
didn't belong, weren't worthy.
Then we found honesty, found our fellows,
found the truth. Then we saw the beauty,
looking past facade to essence.

Prayer Is Not Logical

Logic is great stuff. We liked it. We still like it. It is not by chance we were given the power to reason, to examine the evidence of our senses, and to draw conclusions. That is one of man's magnificent attributes. We agnostically inclined would not feel satisfied with a proposal which does not lend itself to reasonable approach and interpretation. Hence we are at pains to tell why we think our present faith is reasonable, why we think it more sane and logical to believe than not to believe, why we say our former thinking was soft and mushy when we threw up our hands in doubt and said, "We don't know." (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 53)

Sam Paisley Richards was a faith healer,
born as Shiloh's guns echoed, as his mother
worried then grieved for her brother
Sam Paisley Ray, and memorialized his death
with Sam. Does it make sense Sam could heal a mule —
by telephone, no less? No.

                                          Can I argue my own faith
measurable by logic? Reasonable? Nope.
Instead, I horde it, protect it, refuse to describe it
unless you'll understand. Sure, I'm analytical enough
to know I can't discern if you'll accept it, amply practical
to grasp that means it remains interred.

Common sense belies effect of influence
on omnipotence, on omniscience. Sanity says God
was busy with other issues. Even in the Great Depression
with New Deal telephones, the mule would have been
distraction. Still, Sam asked God to heal the mule,
to staunch the blood. And watches on both ends
of the line confirmed God's grace came
at the speed of that sound.

                                          Prayer is not logical,
rational, explainable. Prayer just is. So, is it reasonable
to think great-granddaddy Richards passed the gift
by blood? Did that blood staunch or flow?

Feeling the Feelings

There is evidence of a correlation between how much one can feel and how one can heal. (Rebuilding, page 54)

How long ago since I last answered the question
"How do you feel about blank" with his name,
his attitude? A while, but not long enough.
I'm feeling these days. Sometimes guilty,
sometimes lonely, sometimes bored,
sometimes filled with the anticipation
for the project, can't wait to find the hammer
so I can start, so I can create. Then the pieces
weren't there, built-in wait, readymade frustration —
do I go to the office building at bedtime,
carrying boxes from an empty building
to a waiting car, inviting people to believe
they might be valuable to somebody but me?
And I'd have felt bereft, I would have grieved
to lose the images of great-great-great-grands,
to let my history vanish. I'd have felt more feelings
than any poor snook who took my treasure
to find absolutely no value. Me? I've found
a cache of gold. I've found my feelings.

Group Conscience

I also enjoy debate more than I ever believed I would now that I am in recovery and don't have my self-worth invested in the outcome. I love a good conversation more than anything, which includes emails. So when you read my emails, no matter the topic, I am probably bouncing up and down in my seat with a goofy grin on my face because I have grown to love that as part of the process of the group conscience. (quote from an email)

A camel evolving from a committee
assembling a horse? Not here.
Why does group conscience work
in recovery and not in "real" life?
Could it be we learn to really listen?
How about a habit of truth telling,
an attitude of acceptance of our fellows?
When we've faced internal demons,
found a way to sanity,
why would we defend positions
that fade into insignificance
in the broader scheme?

However Useless

However useless or destructive the old may be, it is given up with difficulty. (For Today, page 211)

The old can be pretty darned destructive.
Why would you cling on, chug on, hope on
when it's like sitting in the bottom of a Dumpster?
Face-saving? Other-rescuing? Refusing defeat.
The old has nothing I want, my needs demand STOP!
The old is past. I'm moving on. God help me
when I drag the old with me...

Dependency

He who is being carried does not realize how far the town is. (Nigerian proverb) 

Dependency is soft and cushy and makes it unnecessary for me to know how far the town is. (For Today, page 209)

Little girls should be seen, not heard.
Women, obey your husbands.
A woman's place is in the house.
Born to serve.

Live to please. 

Wife for life.
Who needs to have an opinion 

when you've got your man?
Slippers, cold beer, newspaper. 

Which would you like me 

to fetch you first, dear?

Woman in her greatest perfection 

was made to serve and obey man.

She respects him, obeys his commands, 

has no wishes of her own, 

no ill-feeling, no resentment, 

and always tries to make him happy.

For she must be in subjection to man 

(of whom she has taken her origin), 

as well in habit as in service.

Choose a profession - teaching or nursing -

so you can move 

where your husband's job requires.

Sure, rules have changed. Sort of.

But I got the old edition, 

the '50s Donna-Reed-perfect-wife variety.

I can't say it was cushy, living that way.

But the art of decision-making

certainly atrophied. 

I am responsible for me. 

For accepting my despicable actions,

disdaining attitudes. For admitting

the true nature of my acts. For releasing

character defects. For righting wrongs.

For the next right step.

God help me!

God, help me?

Change

One feels that something more than human power is needed to produce the essential psychic change. (Alcoholics Anonymous, Doctor's Opinion)

Nine days is a long time.
I returned today as asked
to run an errand,
an old chore of mine.
I mused that time brings change,
perhaps even there.
I'd tried to cause that change
before, by self-sacrificing,
by groveling, by going beyond
as well as by yelling and tantrums.
Still, things can change in nine days
that didn't change in the decades past.
But they didn't. Human power,
mine or his, can't cause the change.
Nine days can't work miracles.
I'm powerless over him.
I can't manage him in person or with hope.
I believe a power greater than me – or him —
can restore him to sanity, but the decision
to let it happen
is his.

Unclench Your Fist

What do I have clenched in my fist?
Fear. Need to control, urge to direct the show.
Compulsion to rescue, to know best,
to fix, even from afar.
What else do I cling to?
Hope, abstinence, recovery,
love, freedom from bitterness,
release from imprisonment.
How do I pick and choose what to keep,
how do I rid myself of the dregs
and keep the treasure?
I'm not in charge. I can't fix even that.
I just unclench the fist,
release what doesn't bless me,
and trust the universe, the good,
the god to preserve the bouquet,
to sustain the blessings.

Inward Realities

It is being constantly revealed, as mankind studies the material world, that outward appearances are not inward reality at all. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 48)

He's talking about atoms, molecules
scurrying around in steel girders.
Yep, outward solid as a rock.
Inside, buzzing, busy, almost random.
What does my outside look like?
Confident. Competent. Complete.
On the inside? All too often, chaotic,
incompetence, incomplete, or so it seems
when I stand in my fear. When aligned,
though, with Confidence, Competence,
Completeness usually just known as "God,"
the world still doesn't see what's real.
The real me is that fear, that trembling.
But – Thank God! – the God in me,
the puller of the strings, shines through

What Could We Have Done Better?

When we retire at night, we constructively review our day. Were we resentful, selfish, dishonest or afraid? Do we owe an apology? Have we kept something to ourselves which should be discussed with another person at once? Were we kind and loving toward all? What could we have done better? Were we thinking of ourselves most of the time? Or were we thinking of what we could do for others, of what we could pack into the stream of life? (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 87)

Recriminations come easily
but there's a softer, gentler way.
I don't have to flagellate myself
for slips yesterday or ten years past.
I can examine, analyze, critique —
gently, as I would for another —
and make today what I would have had
yesterday to be.

Chopped

Sometimes the way to get what you wanted is to chop off what you always held onto as though your life depended on it. (My interpretation of the moral of Tangled.)

The magic, healing hair
people coveted, craved,
would capture Rapunzel
for should she ever leave
the protection of the tower
spawned her abduction,
her isolation, her lack of love,
held her captive to the lies.

The magic, healing hair
her captor coveted, craved,
would kill for —
she'd no use for
but to save what she loved
and couldn't keep.
Yet chopped off,
deprived of value, the loss
granted wishes to all she'd met
and healed her world.

Good ideas

Most good ideas are simple. (Alcoholics Anonymous, 5th chapter)

Sons of Guns episode —
exploding arrows, thousand-yard
AK machine gun,
"never done" before.
Never thought of before? Why not?
Why do we plod on day after day
doing the same thing, expecting repetition,
not even thinking of easier, simpler.
Could it be we don't trust God
to be able to innovate
like a gun maker on TV?

Finding the Why

"He who has a WHY to live can bear with almost any HOW."  (Alphonse Nietzsche)

Why do I live?
Why do I live?
Why do I live?
The answer feels like
it's supposed to be,
"I live to serve my God
and my fellows."
Isn't that what we're taught?
And that's not wrong, surely.
But then again, there's that other rule —
the one that says to love our fellows
as we love ourselves. Of course
we love our fellows. That's why and how
we serve them. Even the unlovable
among them. Yes, we should love
our fellows as we love ourselves.
JOY – Jesus, others, you. I'm last.
But if that's the order, am I blowing
the other – not the other person,
the other rule, the second-most big one.
The one implying I love me.
I can't do that. I'm unlovable.
Oh. Yeah. I'm supposed to love
the unlovable. Even when she's me.
How am I to live?

Little by Slow

Piles and boxes and bags,
no order but random
both as to inside and out,
gathered in haste, grabbed
blindly, the only rule I had some claim.
Books piled in a corner,
tumbling, in the way of the
building of a bookcase there.
But an evening of work, and books —
somewhat sorted – fill it.
Recovery's like that. A single issue
fades enough to see myriad others
waiting, lurking, scheming.
But working with others, writing,
being willing, and unmanageable
becomes managed, then little by slow,
defect after defect, fear after fear,
chaos yields to serenity.

I Did It When I Could

I guess it's a rule you should walk
by 12 months, maybe 18, certainly
before a second birthday.
Bills are due when they're due
but can be paid after that
with consequences.
Mother couldn't imagine getting up
without immediately brushing teeth
but teeth didn't dissolve

before breakfast.
All kinds of folk have opinions —
they've told me for years how to live.
I guess they were right.
But even if I couldn't, didn't, wouldn't
I did it when I could.

Gratitude

Friends who care
Neat pieces not seen for years
appearing in drawers to empty.
The opportunity to figure out just what
my choice in decor is looking for shower curtains
in Target.
A kind moving man who knows
how the patio lock should work
and thinks to tell me to report it.
The amazing realization "he" may not need
my rescuing and might just thrive
without me.

Separated

An end and a beginning,
a death and a life.
Small-town mores,
family values – and taboos —
yell no!, demand perseverance.
Still, another path exists,
a frightful one, a path that feels
like failure, like not-good-enough.
Yet I know I've tried for years,
I've sacrificed my self-esteem
on the alter of pleasing, of expectations.
The marriage is dead and cannot live.
I'm not like pharaoh's wives,
required to be buried with the corpse.

Rock Bottom

Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.  (J.K. Rowling)

Cling to the thought that, in God's hands, the dark past is the greatest possession you have – the key to life and happiness for others. With it you can avert death and misery for them. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 124)

"They" talk of the need to hit bottom —
rock bottom – the lowest of the low
to really make the connection,
to see as unmanageable the whole life,
not just the addiction; more than powerless.
Actually feeling less than human or at least
most humans. Yet sometimes, perchance,
my rock bottom may suffice for you,
for you may see in my story your own path,
not yet so dark, so rock bottom.
Sometimes my rock bottom can be
a foundation for me
and for you.

Pride in Feeling Less Than

...alcoholics develop a kind of compensatory pride in feeling not enough...you have to have enough security to admit how insecure you are. (Clancy I)

Look at me, how good I am.
I've let you belittle me for years,
and took it, stoic, shooting the bird
out of your sight; occasionally
shouting back, when you invited me
to "Go to Hell!", "I live there!"
I've accepted your dished-out guilt,
adopted it, owned it.
I've tried to be good enough,
kind enough, subservient for you.

Look at me, how good I am.
What you think of me is none
of my business. I think I have worth
and I will do what's necessary
to live it.

Vague Senses

I vaguely sensed I was not being any too smart, but felt reassured as I was taking the whiskey on a full stomach. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 36)

Unfocused, imprecise thoughts,
a mind meandering, exploring
rabbit trails, drifting, blown
willy-nilly all over the place.
So, is vague always bad?
Nope. Not always. Heck,
this poem is vague, unfocused.
But it's a recovery poem,
that's what it claims, "A tad
of poetry every day,
recovery on the go."
Is unfocused recovery okay?
Nope.

Haiku

the rooms teeming with

hurting folk, disillusioned,

share peace not one had

What's Required

It’s not enough that we do our best; sometimes we have to do what’s required. – Winston Churchill

Who would have thought
our "best" could be a cop-out?
But it can. It's that level we claim
as doable, as ours, as a goal.
When it's not as good as good,
though, when it falls short,
it's not good enough. It's not
what's required. It's playing God.
I know what I'm capable of,
and I agree to do that much. 
You, God, be with me, help me,
assist me in meeting my goal
even if it's not what you 
would have me do, what you know
to be my best.
It's a failure to really pray
for knowledge of his will,
and power to carry it out.

Living Up To My Potential

I developed the reputation of never quite working up to my potential. (Alcoholics Anonymous, 4th edition, page 502)

"Potential." Winston Churchill
thought not strength, not intelligence,
but continuous effort was the "potential"
unlocking key. Helen Keller dismissed
being only one, looked not at inability
to do everything, focused on ability
to do something,
resolved never to fail to do what she could
just because she couldn't do it all.

Potential. I've got it. I've squandered it,
I guess, these long years, nudged the fame,
the success I might have grasped. Potential.
It sticks around. Tomorrow is a turning point.
Tomorrow, I will turn. Tomorrow I will explore
the paths I've evaded. Tomorrow I'll work hard
to do the next right thing time after time after time.

"Prison. What a wonderful life it is."

I did all the things that were suggested for me not to do... Now willing to listen and take suggestions, I have found that the process of discovering who I really am begins with knowing who I really don’t want to be. And although the disease of alcoholism inside of me is like gravity, just waiting to pull me down, A.A. and the Twelve Steps are like the power that causes an airplane to become airborne: It only works when the pilot is doing the right things to make it work. ("Safe Haven" from Alcoholics Anonymous, page 452 of 4^th Edition)

He does grab your attention —
prison equals wonderful life and all.
You might expect him to want to dissolve
into the cell wall, wait out the duration,
spend the time reading program materials,
growing, learning, becoming, shedding fears.
No, he had to work to put his work here,
to share his story, his path to Recovery.
Lends credibility to the claim of doing
those disfavored actions, the un-suggested.
Now, as opposed to then, to before;
now meaning after accepting Recovery,
suggestions are for listening, for taking,
for doing. Suggestions followed
mean process blossoming, discovery
happening, knowing what? "Who I don't
want to be?"

                        It's a start.
It's the start, knowing who not to be.
Admitted powerless, life unmanageable,
who I don't want to be. Not a cure,
not transmogrification. The addiction stays,
waiting to pull me down, gravity personified.
Yet I have a plane, a way out, an instruction manual
fondly dubbed "The Big Book."

Lost Legs

We are like men who have lost their legs; they never grow new ones. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 30.)

Acceptance. Giving up
those oughta, coulda, shouldas.
I'll never have the long fingers
that would have made it easier
to play "Smile" when Daddy
led singing at Rotary faster
than I could play it. But I could
practice enough to play piano
again – and my Rotary club
doesn't sing "Smile" and needs
a pianist. I'll never be a "normal eater"
but I can follow a food plan today.

Powerless

Powerless.
A while ago
I'd have despaired,
hopeless to see
what I've grasped.
Funny how much
power, what victory
floods my life
now, now that
I'm powerless.

Cumulating Self-Esteem

If you think you're ugly just remember that the people who gave you that skewed sense of beauty by which you are gauging yourself aren't worth your time anyway. (Facebook status)

I came to the rooms deficient
in self-esteem, unable to vocalize
my thoughts, my feelings,
slavishly parroting my "authority,"
the person who willingly usurped
my id, my me, my will.

I found in the rooms lovers,
loving the covert me,
seeing thoughts, feelings,
a me worth being, worth knowing,
worth finding; loving
the nascent id, the psyche until
I could see, could feel, could be.

I learned in the room to love,
freed from resenting forces, people,
who stripped the soul from my child within.
I found in the room others sharing my lack,
my insecurities, my doubt.
I learned in the room not to blame
but to love them, bringing full circle
the love that led me to own
my me.

Pink?

Why's the cloud pink? 

What makes that the color

of delirious early recovery

or achieving the groove again?

When are clouds pink? At sunset!

Well, maybe at dawn sometimes.

Is that the connection, beginning,

looking toward the full glory?

"Paragon" defines pink as a noun.

Embodiment? Embodiment of a cloud?

That's all wet. "Elite" comes up.

Not a characteristic we seek, recovering.

In the pink. As good as it gets.

But pink clouds come first, before.

Drip Drip Drip

I sit in a waiting room,
fear-ridden for my ineptitude.
Jerry says the oil is leaking
but the man says it's full —
after asking if I'd checked levels,
year of the Altima – and I asked
if there was something inside to open the hood.

So I wait in my fear and my damaged self-esteem.
How full is full? Appearance counts little
when the breach is new. Skipping reading,
loosely walking the path, dilly-dallying in program...
the reservoir looks full, but it's not if it's not.

Begin Somewhere

That was growth, but if we wished to grow we had to begin somewhere. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 47)

"Let's start at the very beginning,
a very good place to start."
A-B-C. 1-2-3. Do Re Mi.

First things first. 

Admitted we were powerless.

Recovery is no buffet
but rather a  twelve-course meal,
and we take what is served first,
not saving room for the second,
or fifth, or the demitasse.
We don't recover tomorrow,
have no use for good intentions.
We don't look back on what we missed,
but live in the now. We begin where we are.
A very good place to begin.

A Hundred Forms of Fear

Driven by a hundred forms of fear, self-delusion, self-seeking, and self-pity, we step on the toes of our fellows and they retaliate. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 62)

I didn't mean to do it — whatever it was.
I wasn't thinking about you. Sorry, but it's true.
I'm kind of centered in me, about all the time.
I wish I weren't, but my fears, my insecurities
run rampant, drown out what you say,
eclipse what you do – unless it spikes the fear,
unless it makes me feel like less, which happens,
all the time. I didn't mean to do it, but I did.
I understand, now, why I resent you so, what you did
when I did what I did, and how my selective memories
leave out a rather major cause.

Freedom

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. (U.S. Declaration of Independence)

All are created equal.
I'm not less than or more than,
I'm equal. That means I'm not alone,
not one of a kind, isolated, lonely,
a freak. I'm equal, and so are you
and you and you and you, all united,
all with rights, rights impossible
to lose, that can't be forfeited in divorce,
can't be squandered with drugs,
can't be drowned with booze
or stuffed down with sweets
or chips. No. Instead,
it's self-evident, obvious —
I've got the right to life!
I have the right to be free, to be liberated.
I have the right to pursue Happiness!
And I know the way to find
this impossible dream.
I know the path to freedom
for me!

The New Power Pours In

As we felt new power flow in, as we enjoyed peace of mind, as we discovered we could face life successfully, as we became conscious of His presence, we began to lose our fear of today, tomorrow or the hereafter. We were reborn. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 64)

First, we quit playing God.
Well, do we first need to know we are?
Probably not. I've never found my analytical
proffer meant leading with the strongest card.
So when I'm slipped or shoved out of the way,
when I give up or dare another to prove me wrong,
when somehow God for an instant, a moment
gets hold of the controls without my jerking them away,
then the power flows in. Flow. Move continuously,
a current or stream. Flow is not dribble, not drip,
ooze or seep, but course, stream, swirl, surge.
And that tide brings peace of mind,
consciousness of His presence.
But the flood-tide? the payoff? we lose our fear
of today, of tomorrow, of forever. We're newborn,
fresh, starting over, getting it right this time.
What power is that!

This Chip of a Chapbook

Our hope is that when this chip of a book is launched on the world tide of alcoholism, defeated drinkers will seize upon it, to follow its suggestions. Many, we are sure, will rise to their feet and march on. They will approach still other sick ones and fellowships of Alcoholics Anonymous may spring up in each city and hamlet, havens for those who must find a way out. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 153)

Humility and intelligence
coexist just fine if humility

stands first. So Bill W

said ten years after he wrote

the chip of a book that named

Alcoholics Anonymous

and launched recovery

not just for drunks but for us all.

Intelligence Bill had in spades,

too smart for his own good for years,

yet a scant four years before the launch

he sat, drunk, before the dawn,

about to be launched himself to

existence’s fourth dimension.

These poems are fun, have

told me things about myself

I’d never found. To share them?

Pride says yes. Show them off.

Humility says get behind me, pride.

To share is good, not for your praise

but like Bill’s chip, perhaps these may

touch people’s need and perhaps

become a tool for God to use.

All the Earnestness at Our Command

With all the earnestness at our command, we beg of you to be fearless and thorough from the very start. Some of us have tried to hold on to our old ideas and the result was nil until we let go absolutely. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 58)

So, how do we command earnestness?
Goodness knows I've tried.
I've sought to control people, events,
emotions, results, eating, compulsions,
what you thought of me, and what you
should do, say, be. I'm sure somewhere,
somehow I've tried to command
earnestness. And failed.
So, what earnestness is at my command?
That which comes from giving up,
from letting go, from turning it all over
and from the joy, the peace, the life
that comes from knowing I can command
nothing else.