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.