Sometimes I Want to Talk about ME!

I'm a grown-up, an adult, worthy.
I know we've long had routines,
those I'm asking to change.
But I'm not asking permission.
Maybe I am, but I'm trying not to,
for that's the routine I want most
to change.
I've always sought your approval,
and still I'd welcome it,
longing all the while to believe it's given.
I probably have it, from you,
but your disease speaks so loudly
I can't hear you,
can't feel warmth through
your gruffness, your attempts
to puff you up, shrinking me.

I've come to accept your illness,
your fears disguised as contempt,
as arrogance, as strength.
I'm now accepting my health,
my diminished fears, my foolishness
in believing your bravado.
I cannot hate you, though I despise
your illness, your cruel acts.

I started out saying I want to talk of me.
It's not true. Those arguments are past.
I just want to be me, recovered, sane,
following God's plan for my life
one day at a time.

You're welcome to walk with me, fearless.

The People In This Room

They’re an odd lot, the bunch 

of folk who’ll meet here tonight. 

We’d let them have the room free 

but they insist on paying rent. 

It’s my job to set up for events, 

but they insist on doing it, 

say moving chairs, cleaning up, 

means service, keeps them on track. 

And I meant that “odd” part in the odd lot. 

Who’d ever pick these folk as friends? 

The cars outside go from rattletraps to posh, 

and you wouldn’t believe the fellow who 

rides with the one who drives a Porsche, 

I swear he’s some bum off the street! 

You can’t help but like them all, 

even the obnoxious ones. They’re so open, 

honest, full of hope. They’ll sit and 

say the same things they said last week 

and those before, and get so jazzed up over it. 

They’re an odd lot. Their coming here, 

though, somehow makes my week complete. 

Helping Out

What can I do to help you?
How can I make life easier,
appease your beast, quiet your fears?
If I wait on you, serve you
in your easy chair, meet your needs --
your perceived needs -- I can't address
the monstrous ones, the fears.
But if I comfort you, assure you,
hide the fearful? Surely that helps.
Who does it help? If I ignore my needs,
you think as little of me
as I think in my fears,
when your every wish comes first
before my basic requirements.
Perhaps you look stronger that way,
with me as your servant, but we both know
it's a lie.
My helping out serves neither you
nor me when my kindness hides
the elephant in the room.

Out There

I want to stay in here,
safe, protected, unnoticed.
I want to shrink from view,
to kind of hover, observe life
from above, remote, apart.
I don't want you to see me.

How do you serve, apart?
How do you allow
your higher power
any power, alone?
How to you have any fun,
any joie de vivre, shrunk?
You don't.

God's Here

Yes, I know, it's not just you and me,
God's here, too. Somehow
he doesn't bother me as much as you.
That's wierd. I understand. But still...
I want you to like me. I guess I start
at the beginning? I used to take Bubba's 
candy and toy cars. The kindergarten teacher 
caught me scratching tables.
In second grade I hit a little girl.
What? You want more? Oh. Just different.
The exact nature of our wrongs?
I'm scared all the time. I'm always into me,
not you, not him, not God. I hide my head 
in mindless games, an ostrich in the sand,
and hurry to anything that promises oblivion
when, unprepared, I fall face-flat to floor.
Simple things I didn't do haunt me 
so I wreck a friendship when she can't recall
my wrong, just knows I avoid her. I lie and cheat
to duck the blame, defame a saint to feel
less odious, to blunt the pain. It's who I am,
the best I've managed yet, abjectly miserable.
So there, you see, I thank you for your time
and kindness to me. I know you hate me now.
You what? How could you love me at all,
much less more? Yes, I feel your love. And God's.

The Recovery Waltz

As I dance the recovery waltz
to the beat of the one two three pause
I bemoan such a meaningless life
freed from lust, from addiction at last.
I keep digging for meaning and sense
as I see what I am on my own,
pick a god spec'ly crafted for me 
and decide to let him take the lead.
Is this all, I don't want to begrudge 
the recovery I've found which is vast
but the hope that they promised evades
earnest search, strands my soul, leaves me lost.
As I look to Step Four I'm aghast,
lacking strength for the strenuous task.
I sit hopeless, bereft, and adrift
I see pain, living hurts once again.
I can't stand, can't endure, I am sure.
So I'm hopelessly stuck in the waltz,
one two three one two three, woe is me.

Thanks for Coming

I remember that day, your first,
'cause it could have been my last.
I got laid off that day, wanted bad
to go back out, to look to my old
comforts, the ones that don't work.
I knew I needed the meeting, but fought
it every step, stopped on the porch,
self and God teeter-tottering doubt.
Then I saw you, fighting the fly
and yourself, saw the pain of being outside
looking in, knew I never again wanted
 to be where you were, that inside 
was where you belonged--as did I.
Hand in hand, each for the other, we find hope
health and meaning. Together in the meeting.

Finished

I've finished the steps,read through the book,
inventoried, made amends,
found the promises fulfilled.
I'm finished! I who never
finished anything, have finally
finished something that matters.
Really matters.

Sure, I'll sponsor you.
I finished the steps.
What does powerless mean?
We can't control the obsession,
willpower doesn't work. We can't
manage any part of our lives.
Here's what I used to do that's powerless...
Am I still? Not really, but then there's...

Oh, well, I guess I finished the steps.
The first time.

That's Recovery

NOBODY can make you look stupid.
If you can hold your head high,
take your own inventory
and nobody else's,
love,
but don't assume others
will make healthy choices,
and know you're worthy
and a real contributor
to the mental health
of all with whom you interact,
that's health,
that's serenity,
that's recovery.

Choose None, Choose All

"We had to fearlessly face the proposition that either God is everything or else He is nothing. God either is, or he isn't. What's our choice to be?" (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 53)

Yes or no, black or white,
no gray maybes. Is God 
everything? That includes -- 
well, everything. 
Is God a mosquito? 
a nuclear missile? nasty Nancy?
What happened to the old bearded guy
peeking over clouds? 
To Christ on the cross?
That too gets into everything. 
Anything's part of everything. 
 
Can anything be nothing?
Can a thing, no matter what,
be not a thing, not anything?
Can an object one cannot or
does not name be a not-object,
a nothing? 
 
This idea, that notion -- 
not the same thing.
It's not my thing.
I'm not a thing.
All living things.
What's not a thing?
What's no thing?
What's nothing?
 
Psalms says God's ever-present,
we'll not fear though earth gives way 
and mountains fall into the sea's heart,
when waters foam and roar 
so mountains quake. That's not nothing. 
We'll not fear? I fear. We'll fearlessly face?
I fear. Do I fear God's nothing? 
Nothing's nothing. God's not nothing.
I'm not afraid of nothing.
I fear. Do I fear God's everything? 
I'd fear more if he were not.

Not God

God's in you not like a blueberry 
in a muffin but like the ocean 
in a wave. God's not in the universe; 
the universe is in god. If god's 
your co-pilot, you're in the wrong seat.
Don't go to god with a list of things 
to fix, his marching orders. Report for duty
ready to hear him give your orders for today.
You can't keep the hair on your head from
falling out; he can hold worlds and stay
their course. If you don't like the god you met
in church or synagogue or at the mosque,
toss him out. God's out there, everywhere, 
anywhere, not in the air but the air itself. Toss 
out your inadequate god and meet the real thing
but most of all understand that you're not god.

Seeking Sanity

This is stupid, these people insane.
See the list on the wall? The god they understand
seems not to be hitting the mark,
restoring them to sanity. It's a nuthouse.

The doctor's an idiot to think they can help me.
Psycho babble. No, not quite. Theo babble maybe.
A herd of lemmings chanting the chants, 
clinging together, hugging, holding on like rats
on the deck of a sinking ship.

They talk of what they've got,
expect me to want it.
They're pleasant enough, nice to me
but what do they have I want?
Still there's something I can't quite name,
some air, a breath of hope maybe.
What is it they have I want?

Incredulous Love

I love you.
You know I didn't always --
hated, loathed, despised --
never ever expected love
to enter in.
I can't dispute
you deserve the wrath.
I let you sabotage my life
to shambles yet clung
to you as my only hope --
such a dope I was -- and you.
Your ugly face remains the same
but changed expansively
to something fair,
near radiant at times.
We've blossomed, you and I,
my mirror image.
I stand before you, humble,
calm, amazed to love you.

If you walk it works

If you do as we say  
walk our simple path  
bedevilments dissolve
abundance transpires
lives evolve to radiance
as the fifth dimension
of existence homesteads
in your heart and home

Wake-Up Call

Let me in!
I didn't mean to,
I slipped out of the rooms
and the door slammed shut.
Please, please, I didn't mean to
stop, didn't intend to take it back,
to wrest control away, to myself.
It's cold out here! 
I'm scared. The fears
are back, the terror, 
the loneliness. 
The good-old-days aren't here.
I know. I left them in the rooms.
Please, please let me in.
I didn't mean to go back out.
What's that buzz? What's coming?
Oh. OH! Okay. 
Thank God!
God, I offer myself to Thee
to build with me and do with me....
But please, please hold on tight. 

Warning

The Big Book nails it:
a daily reprieve 
contingent
on spiritual maintenance.
Warning:
daily action required.
Warning:
cunning, baffling,
powerful enemy
watches for weakness.
Warning:
lethal results held at bay
contingent on spiritual
maintenance.
Warning:
taking a break
just for today
can
stretch 
forever.
Warning:
reprieve comes
disguised as cure.

Recovery By the Numbers

Two more hours.
Twenty-two down,
two to go. How long
can one day be?
An eternity.

A thirty day chip.
How'd that happen?
Twenty-four hours
at a time. Seven hundred
twenty long hours.

Thirty days, sixty,
ninety, six months
then nine. A year
I'm clean! A bumpy
ride but worth it.

Hard to recall the darkness.
Eighty-seven thousand
six hundred hours
one at a time.
Ten years of recovery. Wow.

Hanging on the Hyphen

I came defeated, demoralized,
victimized by my addiction.
Powerless over my lover
cum stalker, unmanageable
an incongruous understatement,
Step One stood a rock-solid given.
Sure, I'd toss that to any power, 
higher, lower, alien, hostile.
Take it, please! Take the addiction;
my life will bloom again.

So why the other eleven? 
Why the talk of life and will,
of resentment, fear, of amends?
The addiction's gone, thank you 
very much. I'm through.
A hyphen? Yes, I see that. 
Truth be told, it's a dash. So what?
"Denotes a sudden change in 
construction or sentiment" 
or "indicates what's not expected,
not a natural outcome of what's
gone before." OUR LIVES 
have become unmanageable? 
This POWER wants my LIFE?

The Glass Ceiling

In recovery the ceiling 
has nothing to do with race 
gender ethnicity 

In recovery it's up to you 
but try as you may 
you can't break through 

In recovery the ceiling's 
named so all have heard 
fourth dimension of existence 

In recovery it's found 
unexpectedly accidentally 
when least expected 

In recovery surrender's 
never negative 
never bad 

In surrender the higher power 
assumes control bringing us 
to true recovery 
to existence's essence 

Running the Table

Desperation dragged me here -- 
like hope a lottery ticket 
will pay the rent. Lacking better plans, 
this at least was free 
unlike the hoped-on buck. 
Warm smiles, firm handshakes, shocking 
proof of elevated status (above pariahs,) 
even hugs despite my lacking cleanliness-- 
I hung around, nice folk, kind, 
with hope and happiness encamped. 
Catchy saying caught my ears -- and mind. 
Easy does it, meeting makers make it, 
one day at a time. Desperation died 
as puzzle pieces found pairs and clumps 
to paint a portrait of potential. 
And thirty, sixty, ninety days piled up! 

Exasperation tugged at me -- 
like sitting at a blackjack table 
up ten bucks, down by five, dead even. 
Why leave, why stay? Because staying 
staves off desperation. 
Watching newcomers takes me back 
and keeps me here. There must be more. 
I test the water of the steps, braving waves, 
tentatively deeper to buoyancy, to sanity, 
to recovery. 
Two years, three, five, then ten pass by. 

My stool, my place, my table, the chips 
amassed, others cached and cashed. 
Recovery's become my way of life, 
here longer than I stayed out there. 
The promises kept ten times over, 
the forth dimension as familiar as my slippers, 
truthfully beyond any possible wildest dreams. 
Fifteen years, twenty, twenty-five, just markers 
that I've got it all, I've run the table, but more awaits! 
Thank God for a life of recovery!