Stranger Danger

I talk to crowds easily, lead meetings naturally
but one-on-one clam up. Small-talk left to me
soon peters out, fizzles, yields to silence.
So I don't talk to strangers. End of discussion,
silence swells. It's God's will.
Isn't it? He made nature, it's my makeup.
And if it's not? Moses turned him down,
said he wasn't eloquent. Isaiah's unclean lips,
purified, answered, "Here am I, send me."
I don't want to red-rover run through – or to – the line of strangers.
But I'm not at the wheel.
God, remove my fear, show me what to be,
and if you wish, send me.

Kindling

Tiny twigs, leaves, even paper
useless trash, small with trivial use
fuel ignited instantly, vanishing in seconds
leaving a legacy of fire for warmth
for cooking, for making memories
on which to build a life.
Little words, said carelessly
shared as background for larger thoughts
snippets of understanding, nuggets of hope
incorporated into a life not open to big
incapable of grandiose concepts
a tentative flame of possible
a flicker of recovery
fodder for building a life afire

A Minor Detail

As we go through the day we pause, when agitated or doubtful, and ask for the right thought or action. ~ Alcoholics Anonymous, page 87.

A pregnant pause, a break in conversation,
a normal element of dialogue, of interaction.
An ellipsis in life...
Who cares what others think? It's not my business
what anyone perceives, but likely folk —
those few who actually notice —
assume searching for a proper word,
putting thoughts in order, pondering
the brilliance of the words just heard —
these account for the moment's silence.
We know, though. We understand
a connection to surrender, recollection of role,
of Whose will controls, of awaiting power
to act in sync. The time of a deep breath,
a minor detail. What a difference, though,
in relationships, in serenity, in living
recovering lives.

Love Me to Death

Aunt Laura, I know how good your pie is,
and yes, I've always eagerly eaten it
and come back for more.
But it's not on my food plan, and no,
I won't even taste, and actually you're wrong —
a little bite  could kill me. 

Grandma, I'm not skin an bones.
You told me five weeks ago, "You're getting fat,
you need to watch that weight!"
While I'm flattered, Doc Brown disagrees,
wants me to lose fifty pounds.

And you, my dear husband, you're right —
I disagree with you more often these days.
I lived in a food fog all these years,
and clear thinking unnerves me
as the emotions I tamped down with food
spew forth. I'm working through them,
and while I will still speak the truth
I hope you'll love me until I can speak truth with love.

I'm scared you see the changes in me
while at the same time elated you ratify my truth.
I've found a new home, a family of choice,
people who know me as I've never known myself.
But you, family of my heart,
my flesh and bone, I cherish your love,
your concern, your involvement,
I ask you, though, please —
Don't love me to death. 

For You

1. Why do you write haiku?
For you.
I can remember Zen Master Seung Sahn answering the question "Why do you sit?" with those two words. I gave his response an unspoken one word – "jerk." It took me decades to grasp his meaning.
Originally, I wrote haiku as poetic reminders of "epiphanies" for me. As I kept studying haiku, I realised the finest haiku re-created the "epiphanies" in the reader.
So, to answer your question again:
For you. ~ Hortensia Anderson

For you I compose
recovery poems each day
drawing you to this site

Truth be told of course
they're gifted to Eagle Wings
hopefully selling

Evening and dawn
I search for bits of wisdom
transformed to verse

Dawn to dark I ponder
snatching phrases, noting learning
sound intelligence

Recovery grows
pulling me upward deeper
expanding spirit

Gaining quiet peace
living promises fulfilled
ebulliently

To keep recovery
pass it on serenity shared
daily poems – for you

Substance of Things Hoped For

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. ~ Hebrews 11:1 (KJV)

My life is trash, a rubbish heap of broken promises,
devoid of hope, worthless shards of possibility.
But I sit in a meeting, hear stories like mine,
see lives worth living, sense hope from hopelessness.
Then I come back just because I sense a kinship,
feel accepted. And little by slow hope nudges in.
The stories reveal pattern, assume form, substance.
Could it be, might it happen that mine could be one?
And incrementally I come to believe some power
evident in these rooms might find buried in me
a life worth living.

Rocking

...rocking my inner child, swaying from side to side. ~ Sharon D.

I'm the child in the bassinet, content,
talking to the large doll peeking over.
The chubby child who ran with the boy called,
"Red Rover, Red Rover, let Fat Domino come over"
and failed to break the line, blinded by tears.
The little girl who hated dolls, asked for firetrucks.
The new kid in town, fourth grade, when everybody
knew everybody else and I couldn't remember names.
But I'm also Mother and Grandmom.
I know how to comfort the child
give hugs she'd like to have gotten way back when
and we can comfort each other, we two.

 

Honestly

Honesty: The complete absence of the intent to deceive. (Definition heard in rooms of recovery)

The truth, the whole truth,
nothing but the truth? Sure.
I swear.
Nothing I say will not be true.
Whole? Have you Googled any subject?
It's an impossible standard,
I'll have to pick and choose.
Nothing but truth? You bet.
It's not my fault if I say my truth
in words you'll hear your way,
if I use my facility with phrasing
and command of language
to mislead your comprehension.
But no, it's a talent I developed,
practiced, perfected for years.
But now, no. I'll communicate
clearly, unambiguously.
I'd rather please you,
save myself from your disapproval
but I won't. What you think of me
is none of my business,
but what I know of what I've done
is.

 

Can't Accept

I can accept failure, everyone fails at something. But I can't accept not trying. ~ Michael Jordan

When you walk into the rooms of recovery
they talk about simple, admit it's not easy,
say it's "twelve simple steps" then begin such as
"searching and fearless moral inventory,"
ego-deflation in depth, lose yourself to find yourself,
just do the next right thing, surrender.
I'll never get it, can't hope to understand it.
I just want to quit, to run away, to hide.
But I've been there, done that, know the pain.
Here I look around, see folks with hope,
with peace. I can't imagine getting this
but I guess I'll stick around to see.
I can't accept not giving it a try. 

 

Resolute

I resolve to make no resolution,

to avoid disgrace of failure

when the year's a few weeks old.

Lose weight, keep a clean house,

gossip less, enjoy more — oh, yes,

I yearn for these. Five hundred miles run

a few at at time; piles of worthy books

made mine, internalized; to be a person I admire

when ads on billboards again entreat

a list of goals — buy here, use this...

Yes, I'll tackle these, my heart's desire,

but just for now, only today,

repeated day by day

as calendar pages expire.

Hurt People Hurt People

Domineering, authoritative, take charge folk they are
but mean, spiteful, vindictive as well.
You're seldom near them without suffering hurt,
more often psychic or emotional then physical.
Lying – suffering – on the virtual gurney
it's hard to sense weakness in the bully.
Truth be told, though, her hurt's deeper, more devastating
than yours. She'd mock you, pillory you with invective,
to prevent your sensing what she can't accept.
She's a wounded animal, life-lacerated,
reverting to survival skills honed, polished,
to disguise her scars, to draw first blood
so you'll never grasp

hurt people hurt people. 

Mostly Sunny

Living on the edge of the desert
decades on end, I remember a sojourn
in Tennessee where it seemed to rain daily.
Lovely! Delightful! A thing to be savored.
Few there shared my glee.
Days of baking sun, centennial temperature,
oppressive heat... Waiting for heat-induced clouds
to pour blessed cooling, welcome rain.
When will we learn to be content whatsoever?
How do we recognize commonplace blessings,
the joys of ordinary? How do we make gratitude
habitual?

Noah's Dove

There I'd have nowhere comfortable to put my feet — like the dove on Noah's ark. ~ Josh C
Forty days later Noah opened a window to send out a raven, but it kept flying around until the water had dried up. Noah wanted to find out if the water had gone down, and he sent out a dove. Deep water was still everywhere, and the dove could not find a place to land. So it flew back to the boat. Noah held out his hand and helped it back in. ~ Genesis 8:6-9 (CEV)

Waking up to a new world,
one bearing no apparent resemblance
to the one I've known, wandering,
without landmarks, uncharted.
A new nightmare of an old reality.
Finding a floating box of a boat,
incongruous and awkward,
one where nobody would choose to go
but the only option in a drowning world,
finding there the hand of friendship,
acceptance, understanding
welcoming me home.

Dove Arc Icon by Maria Kirby

 

Maximum Service

 At the moment we are trying to put our lives in order. But this is not an end in itself. Our real purpose is to fit ourselves to be of maximum service to God and the people about us. (Alcoholics Anonymous, page 77)

It's not about me. Even my recovery —
it's not about me. What can I do to serve?
How can I help you, God?
What would you have me be?
My brothers and sisters, family of choice,
I offer my hand, my heart, my words, my past.
My family of birth and affiliation, my life is yours
not to change, not to pull me from program,
but to be of maximum service, for hope to spring
from change, from growth.
My brothers and sisters I've not yet met,
I serve by working the program,
keeping meetings going, holding out the promises
with results to speak of potential peace
here for the taking. For each of you,
it's all about you until you can find
it's not about you. 

The Parking Spot

I know it's not a big deal,
should be minor frustration.
You needed a space, it was empty
though marked for my apartment.
You took my space. There were others,
I parked closer to my door.
But it's two nights in a row
you've used my spot. It's no big deal.
But you don't know the history,
how I owned half of a garage
and parked outside, how I tried
from time to time to claim my right
and, rebuffed, gave up but never let go
the hurt. I own the right to a covered spot
and my car's under starry sky.
Childishly I taped a note, beyond need
to have you see. No, taped all four sides,
you'll pause, peeved. Remember, though,
it's no big deal
even when it feels immense. 

Pass the Crap or Past the Crap

Bound by blood and history
the family gathers, a festive day,
calendar-dictated reunion time.
Sibling rivalries decades old
make one-upsmanship
an octogenarian pastime,
while simple comments, innocent,
press buttons to trigger fireworks.
Decision time, and one must lead
to end the senseless charade.
What will you do as you sit to dine?
Do you pass the crap with platters
or at long last move past the crap?

 

Take This Cup

Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.” ~ Mattbew 26:39 (NIV)

Thanks, but I'd rather not.
God, you know I told you this morning,
"Your will, not mine be done;"
but couldn't we discuss this first?
This plan of yours – it's just not me...
It's not the next right thing, I'm pretty sure.
I'd feel so out there, so visible,
so exposed. I need to stand behind lines,
to support the brave, the public folk.
My fears shriek at the very thought,
and can't you feel my trembling knees?
So, let's scale this one back, if you please.
What do you mean, you don't please?
You can't make me, can't insist.
"...offer myself to Thee, to build with me,
to do with me as Thou wilt..."
I know, but this? How could you?
How could I? With you? For real.
Okay, I guess, but truth be told,
I'd rather not.

Choices

Sometimes choices are easy,
natural, the only real option
or at least kind of harmless,
no adverse consequences,
a matter of preference.
Sometimes choices are awful
where "none of the above"
resonates. An issue of weighing,
comparing. Sometimes, though,
it's not really a decision between equals,
sames, appropriate picks.
I well know the pull to take the old
tried-and-true, the comfortable way
but understand sanity, recovery, serenity
mandates another path.

Volume Control

Constant auditory input all around,
we selectively let in some, ignore the rest,
mute some, open all the stops for few.

The committee, though, inside my head...
it's not so easy to tune it, choose to hear,
opt out. Shame on you! What's he thinking?
Do I look stupid to them all? The other voices,
though, seem to grow stronger, to blare over
the embarrassment, the fear, the anger.
What she thinks is none of my business.
Easy does it, one Step at a time.
Not my will but Yours.And over time, the new guy crescendoes,
singing harmony with program thoughts.
Are these extravagant promises? We think not. 
They are being fulfilled among us — 
sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. 
They will always materialize if we work for them.

quotation from  Alcoholics Anonymous, page 84.

Unloved

I loathe myself, my life.
I want to die, just lie here and cease.
How can anyone feel anything for me but hate,
pity, disgust?

Hope hovers, waiting for surrender,
wanting to be found.