Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 1

HOLD CARD



My bottom pulled my hold card to the table top. I turned it over and found I have a bit of value. Each time I turned over my will, my value increased. After many spins, the face cards appear; I’m the Jack, the Queen, the King. I revel in the time and practice it has taken to get here. I play my hand and take my chances. I have been privileged to pair with wonderful sober partners who turn themselves over and transform before my eyes. The years raise the ante and I play close to my chest. The stakes are high and if I turn in the wrong direction, I can be the Joker once again.


Smell your meals before you eat them.
*
Leap Day

When winter is almost at an end it becomes beautiful;
a theoretical thing, which though it may hurt you,
can not hurt you for long,
therefore is safely appreciated by mere mortals.
You don't have to beg for God's own protection,


Time has become a friend and winter only a show.
I will soon wake from this chilling fright,
will in fact thaw from it in short order
and needn’t fret though chilblains
still catch at me now and then.

I can stand at the window
admiring frost and ice formed lace;
intricate patterns whose beauty will soon be lost to me,

Put away in favor of crocus and daffodil.
The terrible loveliness of soon to pass trauma
is not lost on my hyper-vigilance
I grasp it, I just can’t seem to let it rest.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 2



THE MEAL


Home cooking is the key. I want to order in, have my life delivered to the door. The takeout menus entice me. From three courses on china to burgers handed through sliding windows, it all sounds good and I request all for take home. But this is not the way. I must light the flame and chop the veg. I can’t have a life prepared by others. I can share recipes and suggestions; this is help not displacement. I can stand and cook with others and together make the feast. I cannot sit and wait to be served. I stand at the range while the sauce simmers and it comes clear; I am my own meal.


Nothingness won’t necessarily consume you but it does block the view.


*
TWC


I wake early and watch the lazy rain
fall in slow fat random drops.
I view it with silent awe,
only part of my recently somnolent mind bewildered.

Dawn advances toward me and I register a new concept:
snow, it is snow; the sky had been,
too dark to allow me to see the white,
all I could comprehend was the fall.

The lighter the sky becomes
the more the precipitation behaves like snowfall.
I muse this to my sponsor and she laughed,
“Well, we all misname things in the dark,
Sweetie, lighten up and give yourself a break.”




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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 5

TRANSITIONS


During the months of winter, the trees stand tall and leafless---static in their appearance, frozen in direction. The insurgence of spring brings to life the truth. The buds and flowers show the draw of their owners---the pull of life from the earth and sky. Other trees have begun to restore the gifts so graciously given. These leafless giants open themselves as home and sustenance to the surrounding community---returning favors and flavors, coming to terms with wholeness. Celebrations of all I have call for me to give it all back, even during the time when we all look the same.


Always step out of the spotlight before it burns you.
*




Pinocchio as a Girl



I should be painting today
instead of reframing the future,
an unnecessary and ephemeral job at best.
Kind of like lassoing an unborn colt,
I try to put a rope around something that cannot get away.

Outcome hasn’t much to do with foregone conclusion
and wouldn’t I be better mixing colors and wetting brushes
than cutting slices from a pie in the sky?

But tomorrow seems more spacious than this crowded present
and I con myself into believing this is a harmless trip to the fair.
I lose my light, my thought, my sight with these thieving sojourns;
leaving me to creak around because all that is left is wood.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 6

STREET SIGNS

Hanging out on the corner of Disillusion Boulevard and Grief Road, then returning to that special spot on Despair Avenue, was my daily routine. I made the circle and never looked far afield. Widening my circuit allowed me to find Anticipation Place and Hopeful Terrace. I pushed my search and found roads, whose existence I never fathomed, intersecting, creating areas of intrigue. Optimism Court interfacing with Realization Way is the fairest of my finds, but many a fine street corner has me lurking, catching stray sunshine and encouragement. I make my home wherever the hospitality is available and return less often to the dark and stifling places of the past. Happiness is where you find it. Just make sure to read the signs.


Exponential growth is a little thing that affects you in a big way.
*
A Good Ship

Recently my life has taken on a surreal quality.
I stand in front of myself
as if I were a business to be run
or a project to be undertaken.

The intensity, uncertainty and drama
seem to be on the wane.
There are choices to be made
and outcomes to be determined.

This is all work and numbers,
nothing at risk below the skin.
My heart is secure, true love its protector,
faith its inborn light.

I am docked in safety harbor;
the waves may rock me,
but my anchor holds me fast.

.

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 7

K-TURNS


I do not believe in a universe that makes complete sense. I often find myself trapped because the things I pull into no longer feel firm. I attempt K-turns in alleys far too narrow for the maneuver. I can’t back myself through the passages I plunged into willingly. My faith doesn’t compute in reverse and I find this disconcerting. I may walk into the face of fire but find it impossible to turn my back on the flames. Today, a one-way faith is fine as long as I am moving forward.


Allow talents to unfold like spring leaves.
*


The Little Black Dress


The holes in my pockets cause me to feel naked.
Though it is an inside pocket
and no one can see I still feel exposed,

My thinking changed and for that matter chained,
one link looped through the next.
I start with a hole in my pocket
so I know I can’t stay in this dress all day.

I know I will need the storage later as time wears on
but I can’t change now
and I don’t want to waste time putting on my tights.

My legs are cold. I fly from room to room.
I gather my keys, but forget my phone.
I am bare legged and unreachable,
overexposed due to a hole in my pocket.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 8

THE SHINY THING
The starling stands with the candy wrapper in its beak; the cellophane flexes in the breeze. Here is my life. I have the shiny thing in my possession. What do I do? Do I give up my intended tasks to attempt dominance or control of the shiny thing? Do I release this thing of intrigue and beauty? I am drawn to the shimmer and sparkle but shudder at the price. The world is filled with shiny things. I can enjoy them but leave them where they lay.


Play the tune but change the lyrics.

*
More Than a Fedora

I have no explanations only expletives,
I wish I had something to say
that you wished to hear,
but that is not current events;

Foul humored broadcasts are what fill the air this day.
Bad temper is tempting,
but I can no longer be satisfied in this way
nor is this a performance that you care to witness.

I will play FCC to my ruminations
curtailing this colorful darkness for my benefit
and the clearing of the air.

I have never shied from dramatic vocabulary
and I do not now,
but throwing out words is waste
and I am learning to conserve.

I don’t have to leak my power
I can cover my head
and close my mouth.





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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 9



ROLES


“You don’t have to give up playing God because it was a bad thing to do," said my sponsor in her most gentle voice. “You have to give it up because it doesn’t work. In a world seemingly spinning out of control, you, brave child, stepped up to the plate and took a swing. That is heroic, not demonic, but impractical nevertheless. You have to be your own full-time job even when it feels like there are other jobs left unfilled. You don’t have to run around finding the feet that fit those empty shoes, either. Maybe those empty shoes are just bait for a bad trap. Keep on your journey and I think you will come to a place where the work is being accomplished by a surprising cast of characters. You will be free to stick to the role ahead of you.”


Taste your thoughts carefully and spit out the rancid ones.
*

Out Standing in My Field

Trying to remove expectations is like trying to unseed a field;
it is damn near impossible until something crops up,
though when it does I must act swiftly lest things take root.

Tedious as it is weeding the fields
of unreasonable expectancy saves me from
so much frustration later on.

I don’t recognize it
but expectations are like little dictators forever ruling me,
leaving no room for God or direction,
not to mention flexibility or change.

Tap roots dive for the vein
and my life depends on fleet elimination of unsuitable desire.
I can want. I can strive.
I can not leave expectations to grow in my garden.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 10

THE 24 HOUR GOD

Matching a loving God to the horrors of my past has proved impossible for me. Projecting a connection to an all-powerful God of the ever-foreshortening future seems implausible. In today, I see a nurturing God. Not an all purpose God, not a God who serves all. In my life, there is a God I trust today. Each morning, when I wake, it is a pleasant surprise to find a God. Not an expansive God, not a God to fit the continuum, but a nice neat God who fits right in this 24.


Lift your fingers to your scars and feel the gratitude.

*
Box-a-week Tao


I am going through so many changes
surrounding the cleaning out and getting rid of process.
The flat sided panic that I experience
while even attempting the smallest disposal seems impossible.

I would deny it if I didn't have the repetition
of this experiment to prove it as fact.
I have now moved into the part of the illness
where I compulsively clean the things that I have emptied
in order to avoid facing the next step, the next box, the next mess.

This is a two part trap:
Part 1. If cleaning can absorb all the time
I will not be able to do anything else.

Part 2. If I can't keep it clean enough
then I have an excuse to give up
and not empty the next space.

I am trying to keep moving without being mean to myself.
Because mean is worse than mess.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 11



ON-COMING

Anticipation of the approaching traffic consumes. The tiny spec grows and develops into the arriving vehicle. 50 miles per and the rapid succession of the coming and those leaving eats quickly at my heart. The pain seers me. Why are these who travel from the direction of my destination passing me by? For miles and miles, they appear to be greeters. The breeze created by their passing chaps my face and I question my goals. How can so many abandon my objective? But flee it they do. My hunger does not diminish and I press on. Of course if we all went this way, we might tip the globe. Maybe that’s what they fear.


Smile with your eyes, laugh with your hands, rest your heart, ease your mind.

*


Be That Girl

I have tried to protect the investment I made in the past
by selling the soul of my future.
I arrived self-possessed, a winning girl,
but I slid the self from the scene leaving me simply possessed.

I gained everything then lost it a piece at a time
starting with the parts nearest my heart.
I must draw the shards together once more
and mend this lovely crystal.

The art of living is insured by my action
not by grasping at slivers in terror
of what slips from my fingers.

I am what I have inviolate
and all else comes to fruition when I am pleased;
when I am myself.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 12



MY SOBER HEART

The heart I have today is not the heart I have had all my life. Cells age and are replaced. I slough off what I can no longer use and rejuvenate with fresh layers. My sobriety is the same. Past step work is revamped and approached in innovative ways. Yesterday's prayers are replaced with today’s; today’s meditations will be dispelled by tomorrow’s. The function remains the same but it is constructed with brand new work. Service I render is always for my sobriety but I work to strengthen various quadrants. My heart is not as young as it used to be and vigorous action remakes it new each day. I rebuild my sober heart continually because forever and today I have the mind of an alcoholic.


Time your thinking so it can fire your mind.



*
No Stone Left Behind


An anchor attaches at the lower extremities stabilizing me,
an albatross is the thing weighing me down from the top,
it tips me, throws me to the ground.

I must remember to choose ferrous instruments
over long necked birds.
Often it’s not the amount of drag, but where it’s affixed.

There are so many variables,
so much to think through, yet I often react
and pick up what seems as harmless as a flock of sea gulls

And turns out to be worse than an iron maiden.
Leaving not tern unstoned is bad,
but do I really have the time to do it the other way around?


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[Canela]

Thank you for posting this everyday. I don't always read it but then I wonder why not? I am a 12 stepper, and tonight I got home from my candlelight meeting so happy to be sober. I am grateful to be able to say that. Everytime I go to my home group I feel reenergized and strengthened up. Tonight was no different.

Thank you for posting the daily reflections. I am glad to be here.

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 13



QUEEN’S COUNTENANCE


I know the 7 P’s of preparation. I set the table for those I know. The unexpected arrive clothed in time and tradition. They seat themselves at the table with the naked. They become mute. We prattle and pose, rarely glimpsing the goals sitting at the unset seats. What we need to become is far from what we are. I can not even call it other. It is within when we make room and ether when we won’t. I can wait and try but the juice is deep with the pulp. I get myself in line for the future and wait for the clothes offered by my guests. I sit the emperor and rise the queen.


Hear the sweetness in your own voice; taste the salt in your own tears.
*

Madame Alexander


I am, too naïve;
if you show me kindness I will believe you,
follow you, obey you, so, I have rules.

These rules do not protect me,
but they do make a box for me to seal myself inside.
Where I will ship myself, stack myself, hide myself,
well, that I do not know.

I pull the flaps down
and pray not to have to make any real decisions.
I fold my arms and close my mind

Believing I could never adequately open it enough
to safely live in the world outside of this closet.
Here I sit wondering what to write on this label
in order to be left alone

All the while longing for true love
a thing never given to a quivering china doll
shut up in a carton at the bottom of a wardrobe.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 14



THE LONG VIEW

The long view requires an enduring embrace of the past. It requires a great love of people, the race and individuals. I cannot see what we do and flee. I can own what happened, what happens and what is to come if only so I can ratchet improvement into my own behavior. I can see and feel and change, cringe if I must, but go on. The horizon is there to set the stage. It hangs there long and low. It stands guard for the life there is to live. I will view it and use it as my gauge. Keeping perspective is the key. I know it for what it is and that makes me, me. The short sight and the long view. My open arms hold it all; my sight brings it all into my heart.


Floss between the permanent ideas in your mind.


*
Life Events in Burlap

Two left feet in a gunnysack allows no forward motion
and creates only a windmill that screws us into the ground.
There is more perspective, front and back, more view,
but nothing to do with it, nowhere to go.

We are better off as book ends than this awkward foolish pairing.
You go your way and I go mine works fine if we are cut lose,
if any one person can be free of any other.

You offer to change your perspective if I change mine.
I smile, almost laugh at the idea of two right feet in a gunnysack
and no improvement in sight.

This is not grade school, not field day,
I must turn to you or you to me and nothing else,
no fair is fair, no turn taking.

Because my past is not your future
and your future is not my past.
Face forward on both accounts and then we run the race.




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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 15



BRATZLAV


If all the world is a narrow bridge, I must broaden my mind. If all the doors close to the passage of a hallway, I must exit through the window. Never again can I stay and shelter in a small and confining refuge. A womb is a place to come out of; it is never a place of return. I am not to seek over- exposure but I must ever widen the gate. The brave face I show is the gift of a tight world owning me for far too long. Fear is never meant to be larger than life and the world should never collapse around the sweetness of a smile. Today carries us. Tomorrow draws us. The world is a bridge.


Carpet the memories that echo shame in your mind.
*



Underoos



Why is it that I store undies I never wear
in my panty drawer and leave no room for my favorites?
Why is it that I have things in cupboards
that have not seen the light of day in years,
but they are kept as sacred?

I don’t use my storage for me
it is saved for obligation to inherited obsession.
I live on the fringes of the only life I have;

I didn’t question this.
didn’t see it for what it really is.
I don’t live in my skin only my head.
I don’t enjoy today only plan for tomorrow.

After years at this address it is time for me to move in.
The mortgage is more than paid;
it is time to spend my inheritance.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 16

MAIL

I form my query, fold my mind and mail it off to God with a stamp of approval from my sponsor. The questions sent are of no great interest but the responses are a spellbinding group. What is returned unopened is a wide array. The circuitous route taken by some is a charm of elucidation. I rub my fingertip over the intact seals and marvel at the travels of the wax. I mourn over the defunked gods and their public relations organizations. Slow is my resolve to pore over the replies. I get easily caught in lackings and shy from true contact. The equations embedded in my heart read the letters and sing the notes; these songs are just for me. I know them like my name. I turn the envelope and see how old the postmark is.


Remember your comfort needs a life of its own.
*

Pearly Whites

Reaction is a separation, a polarization;
it cuts you from me and God from we.

Response is a connection, an inclusion;
threading a line from you to me
and stitching God into our pockets.

I realize now that any positive connection
is an instantaneous link to my Higher Power
and can’t help but bring us closer.

Tiny feet carry beauty and kindness;
tiny teeth tear the fabric of the world to bits.

I must let my footwork conduct my life’s work
and seal my lips and reserve the dentistry.

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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 18



STRONG WORDS

Serious language, deep language, real language helps me by grounding me. I don’t have to be nice for company when I can just tell the truth. I needn’t have guests with virgin ears or unrealistic expectations, and I no longer pander to such foolishness. I know the layered meanings of my words and value the intensity of a large vocabulary. I am not intimidated by prudish co-conspirators who stare down pointed noses at powerful utterances. Weak words make poor boundaries and breed victims. I will not be trapped by niceties; I will speak clearly out of necessity.


Allow your integrity to increase the value of your truth.

*
Martinizing


The price of upkeep scares me, it daunts me even.
I pay the initial cost, I have bitten that bullet
of required outlay; the continued charges for maintenance
push my face in the mud until my ears clog.

Avoiding the need of perpetual responsibility
to things, relationships, life, doesn’t change the reality,
rather it embeds in my skin a slick denial and an indignant retort
to the drycleaners and shoe-shiners of the world.

Waste and want play tag inside a misunderstanding
of what is required of me; of what life requires in general.
I must make quietude, draw a map
and find my way to this psychic change;

Unfortunately all the little voices scream
“Yes, you paid the price to see the show,
but you don’t make enough to stay!”


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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 19



URBAN LANDSCAPE


“I am taking this giraffe to the penthouse. Do you suggest the elevator or the stairs?”
“Why do you choose these complicated tasks to fill your days?” asks my sponsor.
“You think this is beyond my abilities?”
“I didn’t say that. I do believe either you or the giraffe is likely to get bent out of shape. But that is only the most obvious of observations.”
“What if I told you being disproportionate is both of our natural states?" I asked.
“I know that, too. My darling little lamb, you may be a contrast to the multitude, but why make it harder? Why not a ranch with cathedral ceilings? Bay doors even?”
“You are taking out the spirit of adventure,” I say.
“Baby, you may have confused frustration with excitement,” says my sponsor.
“Yes, but you have forgotten the view.”


Put three buttons on a shelf.
*


NaCl


I work arithmetic instead of telling you to stop.
I make a light remark and never take a stand
until I have worked the numbers
and believe that the weight of suffering is on my side.

I store in the cellar the salt I found in my wounds
and label it, with names, dates and corresponding critique,
all waiting, hoping, I will never need to disclose them,
but keeping them accounted for just in case things go badly.

I believe there is no chance for error with silence
and no wrong when I have backup in the basement,
but I need to table the salt and risk my reality.

You can’t hurt me worse than I do
when I pour old salt and create new wounds.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 20


STRETCHING

Stretching is not equivalent to change. Limbering is nice and warms the muscles, body and soul. Over-reaching, over-compensation is trauma; it distorts the symmetry and breeds erroneous thinking. Extension beyond the bounds sets me up for a fall. I misinterpret touching with fingertips with a firm and able grasp. I don’t step forward because I believe I have a hand on things, failing to see how this is different from an embrace. The sinew tears and the fabric of my life is destroyed. I lean forward but I go nowhere.


Open an old letter and read it with a fresh mind.

*
Inspection

My disease paid a discourtesy call on my bourgeoning sobriety.
Peeked in to look for cracks in my foundation,
weaknesses to exploit.

I recognized the patch job I had toyed with
would have made the easiest of targets for this eroding thug.
I am ever so grateful that I cleaned off all the bricks
and made new mortar.

Built on bedrock my re-laid block
will withstand the indignity of the pounding prodding sickness
which used to inhabit this once dilapidated space.

I can keep the villain at bay
and live my cozy life thanks to a true level
and the handsome turn of my trowel.


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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 21


CHOICE

Growth is my decision. I don’t need conflict or catastrophe to bring me to change. I choose each day come what may, to roll out the refuse. I am not tempted to leave it in to rot just because the sun is shining. Good days are good times to improve. How could integrity be retarded by joy? I am not punished into recovery. I will never accept a Higher Power who set up a system like that and I give wide berth to people who claim their Higher Power did. My bottom may have been an inducement to start but choice keeps me coming back.


Smile in the mirror and look into your eyes.


*
Balustrade

Just because you appeared from the dark
doesn’t make you a wizard.
Just because you make the world safe for mankind
doesn’t make you Hercules,
nor does your power and foresight make you his father.

Your resourcefulness and guile doesn’t make you Ulysses.
And just because you spend so much time
strapped upon that cross doesn’t make you,
well, we all know the rest of that refrain.

Human is what you are whether I see that in you or not.
Human is a blessing even if it feels to me a curse.
I need the superhuman strength you seem to offer
but I must live in the world of what is real.

I want to be stolen away to the safety of your lair
and not live on my feet and fight for my life.
I have to stop wishing to be your captive
and work harder at simply being your friend.

If I can let you down off your pedestal perhaps
I could then climb down off mine.




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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 22



SOOT


I diligently work to remove the soot, the residue from the last time I tried to hot wire my brain. When I attempted the short circuit of my safety-thinking, I caught my life on fire and the flames, though brief, were spectacular. Electric fires are very jarring, the burning insulation toxic. It leaves bare, stuttering lines crossing and recrossing. My stable base, the method I once used to keep sane, is shot. All because I wanted to go joy riding in my thoughts. Suspended reality sounds so good but always bursts into flame, leaving me with soot removal as a hobby.


Add all the numbers of your phone number.

*
The Delano’s


Indifference is the backbone of power.
It is a state of faithlessness,
not infidelity but rank apathy,
saving every ounce of ardor for the prize you seek.

I thought I was the prize and I am;
I’m just no longer yours.
Cast aside for the leviathan and the miscreants
I wonder what I could have done to hold your attention

The answer is nothing.
Nothing could be done.
Blinded by the ambition of heroism
the struggle is the goal

No gem no matter its brilliance
can check your drive toward a place in the epic narrative.
Tis the hero’s lament to save every life except your own.




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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 24



CLOCKS


When the clock stops, I wind it up or replace the battery. I have to; time doesn’t end because the arms grow slow. The device wears down but the day is not over. Even if my internal metronome is bollixed, the planets keep revolving. I can’t step off the world; it doesn’t stop turning for me. I don’t always have to keep my head up but I must always go on. There is no going back. I can only remember yesterday. I can’t return to it though it’s so close the flowers are still fresh. Sometimes I struggle to keep my hands off of the past. Those are the days I secure my future and wind the clocks.


Create a map to your own happiness.
*


Princess No More

Decent is less obvious than accent
and so it is with dethroning;
those who put you upon the gilt alter with much aplomb
feel no qualm in taking you down
with not as much as a word or a grunt.

The wind has changed and your reign is over,
the poor startled girl is suddenly in the street.
For a scepter is not a club and why fight for a throne,
which is proven to be nothing more than a straight backed chair
once separated from its right relationships.

The horror of unexpected common status
is for the young bride an issue of safety and trust
not of ego or presumption.
Who is she without the Prince, the Knight,
she is Princess No More.




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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 25



TROJAN PERSON


I feel confused by the difference between love and war. The intensity and rush are too much for my frazzled and betrayed emotions to sort out. I feel like a Trojan person. I have all these children holed up inside and they are waiting for peace and safety so they can come out and sleep. For a time I allowed them to leave for bathroom breaks, one at a time. This was not a workable solution. When these tykes would have a look around, they started to set fires and break hearts. Each child makes life a battleground, fights and claws her way across the living landscape. I must heal my insides from the center of my thoughts, not send fragments of me to blend with the unfamiliar and hostile world. Only when I can stand together with my mind and heart safe within my being will I see a way to make love on my own and leave war alone.


Shuffle your vocabulary.
*


ROUSs

Time passes, I clock it and count it
and use its passage to construct a defense
or accusation depending on my need.

I use the calendar to condemn you
because my feelings do not have sufficient leverage
for my mental calculations.

To prize disappointment from this scene
I watch the water-clock waiting for adequate drops
to lift the flood gate and free me
from your unfulfilled promise and my unrealized hope.

How long is too long to stand in a quagmire?
Why do I feel the need for permission
to leave the quicksand?


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[LeftWriteFemme]

May 31



SPACE


I stand behind the podium and talk about the event horizon, which brought me into these rooms. My audience: other unwitting astronauts whose lives, like mine, were deconstructed by the Black Hole of addiction. Though the time and place may be different, the physics of compulsion and allergy are precise and repetitive. Nodding heads affirm my calculations to be accurate with the vectors and trajectories of their own experience. I conclude, with the gratitude of a reassembled life, and pray, with gravity, for my feet to stay on the ground.


Toast your bread with satisfaction.
*





The Attention Tax


Paying attention is the price exacted for living in this society.
A taxation which is like a leach;
it takes the life force, diverts my brain waves,
claims the water rights to my river of thought.

What is left I use to wash off what I can,
never quite managing to feel clean or clear.
I sit in the mud puddle
still unsure if I understand what just happened;
harboring a dark fear of the wave to come.


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[LeftWriteFemme]

June 1

SEASONAL EXPECTATIONS

If I am out of sync with the way the world turns, I can be nothing but disappointed. I arrive with ice skates on the hottest summer day and grieve the loss of spring. I shiver in my sandals and ponder the need for a windshield scraper, the autumn leaves so long past. I must orchestrate my moods and movements with the evolution and revolution about me. I will learn to sing with the doves in the morning and the coyotes, come the moon. I can spin with the stars. I can grow with the grass. I don’t need to counter- balance life. If I learn to bend with the tides, it all comes around again.


If moles can make hills you can move mountains

*
Soul Chiggers


If you can seed apprehension deeply in a generation,
you can reap disillusionment for a hundred years.
Bent foresight twists hindsight.

Admiring ignorance, signs death’s warrant.
Evil splintered to a thousand slivers
burrows under the skin without killing their host.

Death delayed spreads destruction along with melancholy;
a septic contagion if ever there was one.
How do we fight this systemic blight?

It is embedded in the water,
the air, the mind, and try what I might;
I can’t seem to live without any of these.

Chiggers of the soul feed and breed
no matter how I scratch and chew.
I am raw, but still infested.

How do I kill what is in me
without killing the me?



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 2

MYTHIC ADULT


My mythic adult is seen by the crowds around me; never is the charade exposed. Close inspection has been suspended so we can keep each other’s secrets. Circulating through the crowd, these children are impoverished from carrying this load of pretense. Dropping this burden is a risk far too great. Exposure invites attack. Stand tall; act brave. Unreasonable expectations are the water that moves the wheel, the power that generates this ongoing play. Hamlet is dead, yet I reprise the part daily. Daily I watch my fellows do the same. I mimic a ghost I never knew in life. Did it ever live? Or is it only a mythic adult?


Plant some things for their flower and others for their fruit.
*

Head Wringing

I have my say, though my fear is
that I constantly repeat myself;
very much the way a crow calls the same thing endlessly,
but it all has different meanings to the crow.

I would offer code keys to my readers
if I could lay my hands on one.
My mind whispers that the soothing
people get from my work is like the calm
induced by chanting monks.

Possibly it is more the actor’s trick of reading repetitive lines
each time putting the emphasis on a different word;
a way of squeezing all the juice from nonsense.

I jot ideas swearing these lines are to be found somewhere
in my previous work, perhaps whole pages are redundant.
Finally I stop this fight reminding myself I have but one voice
and what I accuse myself of as similarity might merely be my style.






.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 3

NO GOLD STARS

I look at my chart, then my chest; there are no gold stars. I long for the affirmation of my great and seemingly endless struggle. I watch the movements of those with shiny shoes and hope to be awarded with the gummed insignia. When I hang by a thread, I desire the corroboration of foil cutouts to assure me I have done right; I have stayed alive. Punishment I fear less than lack of consolation. But, no one truly knows my bravery and if I want these paper emblems, I can just go and buy my own.

Count unhatched chickens but don’t place them on the menu.


*
The Hope Diamond

My guess is
the same god that wants me stupid
also wants me to suffer.
I ask myself what could be all powerful about that?

I wonder is God like a friend or a lover?
I carefully chose my friends
whereas my lover found me
against my greatest plans and well thought rules.

And if this is to be like marriage,
may I file for divorce if things go astray?
Or am I stuck with this match,
like I am stuck with my deformed ear
there underneath hat or fringe of hair?

I never thought of my relationship with God
like a necklace I could take on and off at will,
though the more I study it seems this beautiful thing
enhances my beauty if all is right
and will strangle me if it gets hung up.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 4



FREQUENTLY


When my daydream gets so threadbare I no longer use it, I must turn to other sources. When I cannot conjure on my own and elucidation makes me cross eyed, I must turn to HP. I have puttered and prolonged the way to naming this legendary and fabulous enigma. I drew out even longer any desire for close association with the same. I have milled with the millstone and surfed in the whirlpool, dragged my feet and thrown a fit, but this only stalled the inevitable result. Naming and interaction is the need and now is the time. I have a Higher Power and I choose to call it Frequently.



Dreams grow wings if you let them.
*



Eggshells and Bethlehem

A stable is a place to keep a horse
and in fairytales a place to birth a baby,
but stable is the story I told myself about you.

Solid, a model of strength
and here you are a tripod,
upright only if the pressure is evenly applied.

I blame myself for lopsided need
and try to find a way to keep this coupling standing.
Stripped down to minor contact
I wonder if you actually remember me
and then I wonder if I remember myself.

This is what is at stake, this is the trophy I lose
when I fall for you and you fall down.
Where is the girl I worked so hard to create?

Broken eggshells litter the nest
and I look for the chick I used to be.
I fear losing you,
I cry at the thought of losing us,
I die at the loss of me.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 5

DOLL

“Why is your face all red?” asked my sponsor.
“I didn’t get my way,” I responded.
“And this crimson appearance is the result?”
“You see that it is. I was very careful about what I wanted and worked hard to be reasonable.”
“And Baby, you were. You did nothing wrong. Your ego was in check and you kept your expectations in proportion.” said my sponsor.
“Then why didn’t it work out my way?”
“I only have a sad and simple answer for you. The result had nothing to do with you, your wants, expectations or desires. The whole experience boils down to only one thing: It was not that type of party, Doll.”
“Oh.”



Promise yourself tears like rain and smiles like sunshine.

*




Discussions with my Disease


“You’re not the girl I used to know.”
“Not the girl you used to love is what you mean?”

“You’re different is all I mean to say.”
“The rest you leave there to rot, unsaid?”

“Something has happened to you.”
“Is it something that you do not like?”

“I don’t know who you are anymore.”
“Or is it that you never knew?”

“One false move could break us up.”
“All your moves are false
why will one more cause such change?”



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 8



THREE ROOSTERS


The three roosters come to the meeting to hear themselves crow. The membership purely spectators in the longest, lowest, loudest sobriety competition. Those of us in the fray are like picked-on-puppies who learn slowly not to put our heads up to spare our eyes and hearts. The same noise comes repeatedly. Suspicion is never aroused; the heads nod at all the right places, orchestrated for ego and nothing else. The meeting is closed with a momentary prayer for the still suffering in and out of the room. I pray that will be enough.


Tour your past but leave at closing time.

*

Abraxas



I was waiting for a magic person
and then you appeared.
I was dazzled;
I was under your spell.

In an attempt to prove myself
your natural assistant I sawed me in two.
Then I stepped into the vanishing cabinet
and promptly disappeared.

I was not wrong to see the miraculous in you,
but I never looked from your visage once you arrived.
The world around me melted at your entrance
and I flowed down the drain along with it.

I somehow expected a response from you,
but why respond to an empty room?
So, I will plug back into myself and power up.

Power draws power
and I will see if I can draw you once again.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 10



DANCE OF DEATH


Honeyed words pour from painted lips; shades of doubt color my mind. Stained glass eyes look to blank walls and picture the gallery of imagination, attempting to sell it for hard currency. Sirens sing from the throats of mute men; the screams which rise in me fall on deaf ears. Paradox feeds controversy but it needn’t. Evolution from a cesspool is repugnant though progress is steadily made. Inertia is violent if that is from whence it came. Afterbirth is always bloody and humans not always nice. I must live and heal as others climb up and slide down. I must keep the beat and forget the dance of death.


Float your expectations and check for daggers underneath.

*

Dido
Either I can have a bad relationship that I never wanted
or no relationship and the painful isolation of having been lied to,
deceived by someone who, in theory, should have been trustworthy.
You are off to war and I am agape
not having realized until too late that you are a soldier.
The fact is that one of these things will occur;
you will be killed by a machine which cares nothing for you
and sees you as its enemy or destroyed by the organization
that sees you as its own.
Or you will throw yourself on your sword
and keep from bothering anyone else with this task.
There is no scenario where you are the One you promised me you’d be.
No homecoming, no welcoming arms to hold me.
I stand on the sidewalk,
a garbage pail of cold water poured over my shock and dismay.
To my grief you say that you have heard it all before,
so why did you set me up to say it all again?
I am heart stricken and cut in a place to obvious to hide
and too hidden to speak of.
You have no time to talk, no aid to give, no love to spare.
I thought I was yours, but see that I have been swept from your life
by the flood of a large gauge hose and water of questionable origin.
Everything is wet but nothing is clean.
This is an unholy act and I am defeated and living in Carthage

.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 11


BOTTLE THE ACID


My sponsor said to bottle the acid and so I did. I sat back in smug reflection until the plumbing backed up. I grabbed the fast solution and poured it down the drain. My sponsor smiled as I learned the baser things will eat my life away, too. I can never just decant power and expect it to sweep clean the clogged pathways in my recovery. Sloshing caustic medicine into open orifices brought me here. I long for the ease of a liquid resolution. In the end, I must clean the pipes myself. The traps are simpler to cleanse the less I’ve lied. Telling myself I don’t have to get my hands or heart dirty is the biggest lie of all.


Eat lunch with relish.
*


Sanitized
All the water in the well, gone dry, belongs to me.
Such an offer, how could I refuse?
I stand as near the edge as I can get
and try my best to peer, is the goldfish alive?
For you see this is still my best hope,
you, the source are also my wishing well,
more than just survival you are prospect, neigh dream.

You say that what’s left is mine,
but you think of it as incidental, not a need, merely a want.
Someplace deep, beyond where you admit,
you know that life is dependent on desire,
but will play mine off as casual
when it becomes inconvenient to your drives and blindness.

Eunuchs do not immediately perish,
but you must confess they do not live.
I stand here a lock to which there is no longer a key
and whether I am open or closed it doesn’t matter
for the partnership of change is desecrated
and I do not care for a waterless solution.





.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 12

THE WORM


Because there is never enough punishment for those who inflict hurt, I punish myself. Only I can tell if the depth of the pain is a match; only I can judge when enough is enough. This is the turn of the drunken worm who lives in my brain. The belief that what began in pain must end there, too. Even now in recovery, I persist in hurting myself a thousand tiny ways. setting trap after trap to catch the perpetrators, I make my heart a mine field, a place unfit for me to live. I must sober the worm and let myself off the hook.


Dip intentions into action and let them firm up.

*
Circular Needles

I react badly when I find a loose thread
because I never know what might be unraveling.
I have knit my heart out;
have dropped an occasional stitch to be sure.

Unbeknown to me these little holes in my logic
wait for the stress of overextension
to run through the length of my life, untying earnest work.

If I could catch these unsecured thoughts
before it all goes too far ,
I might have a chance to hook back into the main fabric
and prevent this unfurling of collateral.

When the cord is cut and the line flaps freely real panic ensues.
Even if capture of both ends is possible,
knots are awkward, unseemly and gauche.

I was planning a seamless life, smooth and beyond reproach.
My fear of reprisal flares
before the ever-burning coals of abject self-doubt
have a chance to be felt.

This banked inferno generates the things which bake and fry my nerves,
burn my threads and disintegrate my mantle.
I need to put out the fire before I re-knit my world.




.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 13

OPEN WINDOWS



I roll down the window in the rain hoping reality will soak in with the droplets. I tilt up my face as I leave the car and let the water shower my features. The downpour is the jolt to living for which I have prayed. I stand on my lawn and rinse the day out of my hair; I clear my brain in the fresh rainwater. The driving rain pounds the house and trees but I feel massaged and cared for. My skin, reflexive, teaches my mind to absorb and hydrate. I turn my thoughts to Greater Powers. Even if the doors have been closed, I can open the windows and let the rain come in.


Soap the windows on some of your ideas so you can work in privacy.
*


Down to the Watership


The immoderate champions immoderation;
the glutton recommends consumption,
more often than not a drunk will pour you a drink

It is part of the social norm to conform
to the addiction of the day.
If we are all high we laugh at each other’s jokes
and there is less finger pointing about the mess.

When we are all in this together we sink or we swim,
but we mustn’t look around.
Like the rabbits who cannot ask, “Where?”

We try to look at ease with dying
and contented with our lot.
More must be better
for we can’t survive on less than what we’ve got.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 14



RED ROSES


From tight green buds come beautiful red roses. From small verdant places I blossom, too. I open to richness unexpected and fullness unbelieved. I look at laundry crumpled, never anticipating the look of clean sheets blowing on the line. Doors I perceive as blocked by vast boulders are thrown open by willingness. Who I am today is no one I recognize; I didn’t see myself coming. I write though I can’t spell. I love though my heart is broken. I think though my mind is warped and I trust though the amulet is long shattered. Promise is not a laid out plan but the continuum of change. I can fight it or let it carry me where it goes.



Smile at similes.
*


What I Heard Through the Snow

The commentator’s voice fades in and out
as the reception is lost and found
among the static of my drive home.

In here is a pattern, a connect the dots matrix;
I try to feel my way too
as I weave past the slow and stubborn traffic.

Like a call from the wilderness
distorted through a storm, my frantic thoughts obscure,
sometimes distort the content, the intent,
the soul of a message I so desperately need.

Broadcast warnings, safety suggestions,
help and hope are torn to slivers
and rewoven in my careworn brain.

The distraction of the road allows the subliminal heart beat
to tattoo in my ear then my chest, all the way to my toes,
bodily acceptance overpowers my relentless mind
and clarity is achieved, no matter the drifts.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 15



IN THE MEADOW


Being the only tree in the meadow often leaves me feeling lonely. I tell myself of the camaraderie I imagine in the forest. These images are more poetic than real. I believe in community and support; I think of the woods as this place apart from the complications of my exposed life. I shrug off the very real competition and struggle from sharing every inch of root space and the search for each square of sunlight. There is much joy in being an individual. An eco-system of diversity allows me to fully develop. I can spread my branches and my roots. I can offer shelter to those in need of my reaching and my shadow; tender flowers and tired birds find me a haven. I have unique abilities in this field. Space can feel lonely but it is full of possibilities.


Press up against your iron will.
*

Poe-etiquette


Cosmic questions cross the sky,
I wonder but don’t ask why
I pitch the tent, but don’t stay the night

I borrow money and don’t pay the rent
I sooth myself but can’t be content
I earn my keep though it is all been spent

The real true meanings are pushed away,
Has ready tragedy come to stay
Forever darkness, no more light of day
Cheerful greeting left to lay

All the poets bring their knives
For blood letting’s become their prize
Here I sit and tend the boat

Rocking dingy out to moor
I play the Raven, black and poor
I dare not speak it but in my mind sing
“Never more”

.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 16

THE BEAR

Living with my disease is like having a sleeping bear in the house. I knew it was there, could hear it snore. I never felt comfortable or able to turn my back on it and get on with my life. I felt under certain threat. Fearing the bear would wake when my attention was elsewhere, I proceeded to poke my sleeping bear with a stick. I prodded it to wakefulness; in retrospect, it is clear I was unprepared for a wakeful bear, even with my full attention fixed on this brute. The bear, which is my disease, roamed about the house and made forays out into the world. I had no plan or tool for these events. Finding a legion of people who had worked out living arrangements with their bears, I happily joined their ranks. My bear wakes and sleeps at its will but I am no longer afraid or unskilled at handling this creature. Today I am so grateful for the bear in my life and would never want a life without it. I live in a world filled with bears and would be at a loss as to how to exist if not for the practice and success with the bear that is my own.


Draw a picture of time.
*

Limen


Do you leave when it is time to go
or are you the type who exits early?
Does departure time find you lingering
trying to squeeze out one more minute
rooted in this spot?

Are you the kind of person who loves the street,
but avoids the parade?
Can you bear to go, bear to stay,
bear to think that the world exists beyond this door?

Do you move with the other sheep
when all the crowd says, “Baa.”
Are you fleet with a sky full of clouds obeying the breeze,
flaunting the tides?

Do you change with the seasons
or are you passed from hand to hand,
living your life in the snow of a globe?

My life is my life,
but the most vital evidence of how I live it
is what I do on thresholds.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 17


BOUQUET

I love the flowers in my garden. Their upkeep is my solemn trust. With my shears, I must cut, clear and swift, the runners that detract from their health and structure. When fruiting is heavy, I must spare the stalk and choose what stays and what needs to be taken. I am scrupulous in my observation of form and function. The bucolic scene thrives; the pageant of color sweeps the rows. I bend to nurture and stretch to prune. I pay over-much attention to the plucking and forget I need to bring the blooms home.


Allow a dark worldview to illuminate a lightness of spirit.
*


Tea Totaler


My alcoholism was anonymous
even while I was active.
My destruction was internal,
outside evidence kept to a minimum.

It is easy to understand why so many
from my past as well as my present
are shocked to see me a member
in good standing for a club they never saw
me pay the price to join.

But cost doesn’t always advertise in the public square.
I know the score, the numbers etched upon my soul.
I need to be well even if you didn’t know, I am sick.

I take the medicine;
offer a smile to those who think it prophylactic
and keep upon my path.

Just because you didn’t know the contents of my bottle
doesn’t mean I didn’t earn the tag on my tea.




.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 18



CLONING DAYS


The novelty of sobriety causing sweet days wore to gauze and I attempted control. I cut, pasted and sutured elements of good living in an effort to make 24 hours of personal perfection. I was so sure I could replicate these jewel like days. I would make perfect spheres, everything round and even, one after another like a string of pearls. The more I tried the harder God laughed. Days are their own planets; Saturn is different from Mars and today will have just as little to do with tomorrow if I let it all work out. Perfection is a thing, which is born to live, not a thing I can craft in a dish or a test tube. Life must will-out or chaos will prevail.



Take two words and make a seesaw in your mind.
*



Who is Who

Remake the bed for the restless child in you
who sleeps better if attention is paid to the small kindnesses.
Placating her saves you the sound of her plaintive cry.

If you teach yourself
or allow yourself to grow fond of her, this child you,
these simple chores will seem light, refreshing, natural.

If you fight her she will grow strong
and you will grow weak.
Don’t resist nature.
Don’t resist your nature.

Take a hug to share
as you would take an apple divided
on a walk in the woods with a companion.

Share emotional embraces,
let your thoughts surround her
when you make plans and do deals.

If you treat her as if she is the best of you,
you will become the best of her.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 19



THE LANDING


Risers and runners lift from where I stand. Here I make my decision. I climb and face the challenges of my life. Each new test returns me to this square; the steps ascend in every direction. No matter how many times I have scaled this set of twelve, I must start anew with even the slightest change of direction. Like facets on a diamond’s base, the flights emerge from the tiny base and hold the world of possibilities within their meticulous surface. I look into these precious mirrors to see who I am and where to go, though none of this would be possible without a place to stand.



Chart the constellation of your features.

*

In the Beginning is the End

I wonder if the road would show the reflection
of its end would I walk down it still.
I always decide that I wouldn't want to miss anything,
not even the most painful things,
yet this may simply be a flaw in my upbringing.
An overvaluing of survival.

What of you?
If the knowledge of beginning and end
were within your grasp would you begin?
Would you flee the end?
This end or every end?

Or is it the beginning that you fear?
And why not, for doesn’t every beginning
hold within it every end?




.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 20

THE PALMIST


Last night I had a silly dream. I was in a tent at a carnival and the woman across the table held my hand so dear, looked into my eyes and said, “Today you will go to a meeting that will save your life.” I thanked her and left full of anticipation. When I awoke, I was filled with the same strong sensation. I rose, washed and left for the meeting with anticipation. I paid close attention to the coffee maker, those setting up chairs with me, and the newcomer. I listened carefully to the speakers and the sound of the group’s voice closing in prayer. Nothing out of the ordinary happened… other than my realization that every meeting saves my life.


Believe in contradiction.

*
Notice

I put myself on the auction block
and wait to see how high a rate
I will have to pay to become slave to my illusions.

I have worked so ardently to free myself
from past enslavements and here I stand naked on this block,
selling myself and hoping I will fetch a price.

Poisonous pedagogy is atomized, contained in every breath,
I don’t know how to live apart from it
and thus I stand waiting to be bought.

It no longer matters how I got up here the first time
for who cares that slaves enslave.
All that matters is that there seems no safe way off this block
or out of this web, or down this street;

The world seems a bad neighborhood everywhere I turn.
Yet I must admit that standing here affords a view
I would not have if I were buying.

If I am a slave I can have hope of someday being free,
if I am a owner what hope might there be?



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 21



FABULOUS


“I don’t care what else is on the inventory. You still have to take responsibility for fabulous,” said my sponsor with a determined look on her face.
“But you don’t understand. The other things on the list make it impossible for me to be fabulous. You just can’t see how incapable I truly am,” I say as I collapse into a pathetic heap in the overstuffed chair.
“What you don’t comprehend is that fabulous is not affected by your other little grumbling. You can’t tarnish fabulous; it doesn’t wear away with burden or neglect. This is why no matter how far you bury it, or misname it, or even flatly deny it, fabulous shines like a beacon and you end up with every Todd, Nick and Martha on your doorstep expecting you to be who you are and let them warm in the glow. So, my cherub, you can fight it or live with it, but fabulous is here to stay.”
And this ladies and gentlemen is how my sponsor wins all the arguments.



Pour a rainbow into your dreams.
*



Do Not Enter

Putting all the mess
securely behind that door is no protection.
If the keys are changed will I be able to open it?

If the locks retumbled will I crack the combination?
Like a demon sealed within a womb
emergence is inevitable either upon this mortal plain
or cellularly encoded and reborn at a later date.

Prison is what holds captive the innocent,
evil is always at liberty.
Walling off my parts and pieces
severs limbs and destroys thinking.

Loads of cheesecloth is what I need; filter and refilter,
catching all debris. Putting the toxic things
to better use and making myself free.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 22


INVENTORY

“When you say ‘self’ who ever do you mean?” asked my sponsor. “Do you mean the lovely velvet child or the facade you built to show others?”
“Well, I wish I could answer you, I do,” my reply.
“I see the shrine you construct in your sobriety. I love that you made it. When you talk about ridding yourself of ‘self’ I doubt you mean this edifice. Do you speak of some creature in the past? Do you know of whom you speak? Are you parroting then assuming this thing exists solely for you to now dispose of it?”
“I thought ‘self’ was self-evident,” I feebly interject.
“I want names and locations. If you only suspect some of these entities please provide me with a full accounting of your suspicions. I also want, to the best of your ability, the origin of these individuals. I am unwilling to cosign their disposal without a proper bookkeeping. I see by the bright look on your face I have made myself clear,” she said with conviction.
“So, this is what you meant by self inventory,” I say and sigh.


Draw a maze of exit from a dilemma.
*


The Tide in Texas

I cannot tell you of my pain,
how the liars took me off my land,
how my heart lay shattered all around,
how I’m so foolish and left in town.

I cannot show you the big red ball,
which to me is a shame
or how it bobs and sways or how the tail of it hangs
out of reach and taunts me all the day.

But growing up to face the facts
and finding my strong legs
has put me to another tact
and sucks the mud away.

Sharing my disappointment and my grief
is like adding ballast to the boats.
It lifts us all instead of sinking me.
Not much of a price to pay.




.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 25

ALONE IN A NEW WAY


I am restored. I have my sanity like a spring coat. I am not sure I need it but it’s nice to have nevertheless. I prayed for this state of reason believing it would give me entry to a world where I was a late arrival. Much to my chagrin I have found myself obscenely early to a party I am no longer sure will ever take place. I stand in the entrance hall and practice new dance steps. I search the space for prospective partners but rarely see anyone who is swaying to the same beat. I am grateful for my sanity even if I have to enjoy it alone.


Write a sassy letter and let it dance.
*


I am Not an Island

Upon finding myself alive
I decided to throw my life back into the sea.
I was not living on this dry and sandy shore.

The baking sun does nothing to improve me.
I was belched forth onto the beach,
but never belonged there.

I tried to see myself as evolving,
tried desperately to sprout some legs.
Sucked air through my gills and attempted to sing.

I am not ready for this today.
Perhaps this is my future,
the way the current will carry me that I cannot tell.

I do know I need the water on my scales
and pressure in my lungs right now.
I do not know what tomorrow brings

Or what I am capable of
just that I will not fault myself
for not having been born a dove.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 26



ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE


Just because the crows fly away when I arrive doesn’t mean they are afraid, but they might be. The obvious answers are usually the correct ones; I must leave room for the unlikely answers, too. Sometimes a spade is a shovel and a gofer is occasionally a retriever. The world is a wonderful and fearful place where possibilities are endless if I am willing to allow the light to strike these sheltered doubts. Any day, anywhere, an alcoholic can stay drunk or get sober.


Practice your game face so you don’t have to play a game.
*

Chock Full of Nuts


I am not a coffee maker.
I come from a long line of non-coffee drinkers
and I don’t drink it myself.

I made the coffee for my home group once
and was asked not to do it again.
This is when I realized my service talents
must lay elsewhere, and they do.

I am a good sponsor for those who want what I have
or at least want to attempt what I am trying to get toward.
I am a good representative.
I can carry the wishes of my group to the district.

I am learning to share my story and carry the message
and hope to do it well.
So, my question to you is
to what service do you most naturally bend?



.

[cathexis]

Have been a friend of Bill W. for about 8 years if anyone needs to get
something off their chest. Been there from alcohol to heroin and from
prostitution to being a RN for 30 years then disability. You could say I've been through a thing or two.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 27



RECLAMATION ARTIST


I stand over the refuse can and peer in; I drive slowly past the piles of curbside discards. I have so much trouble accepting there is no reclaiming most of this ever-growing mass. There must be an alternate plan but I can’t see it yet. I surround myself with hopeful stacks and wishful trinkets. I want to make a new world from the old, save past relationships and make them somehow fresh. I don’t want to drown. I fear I can’t think fast enough to keep the wave from breaking over us all. I will maintain an open mind and be grateful my life was retrieved from the dustbin. I’ll steal peeks at what has been put out for lost. I was once lost, too.


Read your favorite book one page a day.

*


When I rise up and when I lay down

In order to be happy with you
I have to learn to be happy without you.
I gasp at the pain of it

I desperately wish that the above statement were not true,
but alas, you are gone in a way that I can never reclaim you
and to hold on to what of you is still tentatively available
I must release my frightened grasp.

A wisp of smoke is not the bonfire of our past,
but it is what remains and I breathe it in as best I can.
Immediately I realize I am holding on again.

I breathe you out, let you go.
I want to run screaming throwing you from my bonds,
yet another of my attempts at control.

So, now it’s time to pray.
Not a prayer to get my way, not a prayer to make you stay,
not a prayer to make you gone, just a prayer to live on my own.

God help me please to live my life,
Please guide me away from strife.
I am lost and cannot find my way,
Father, hold me till the light of day.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 29



HEAT EXCHANGE



I stand in the shower and let the water run. The water carries away my temperature in exchange for its own. I leave the enclosure restored. Mentally, a meeting does this for me. I change hot topics for more moderate positions, cold indifference for warm regard. Stepping into a group of my fellows carts off my excess ego and flushes my pride. Isolation is taken and camaraderie left in its place. I am always changed by standing amid the rush of sober minds and faithful service. Balance comes from proximity and willingness. Everything is reduced to letting myself get wet.


Measure your growth on a doorpost.

*
Exercising Futility


Asking the confused for explanation
is like asking a blind man the color of the sea.
It isn’t that he couldn’t tell you,
but how could you be sure?

To exercise futility is more than just a game
or the words to a song
your mother sings when lost or far away.

To take the fish out of water
and train it on a bike is meaner than I need to be,
but isn’t it my right?

Just to do things because they can be done
or try them because they can’t
is more the worse for everyday a tragedy in pants.

Puzzle out the little things and practice when you can,
for putting on the frazzled mind
is cruel to the poor sweet-hearted sot.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

June 30



SMOG


When I burn out, the smoke affects everyone in the surrounding area. I forget to keep my wick trimmed and lamp full; I empty out and my light grows dim. I am responsible for maintenance and upkeep. If I don’t protect my own radiance I will lose it and the darkness will be felt throughout the neighborhood. I can’t risk the death of illumination or incur smoldering haze. Fortification of my sobriety is a simple task if I make proper use of resources. When I turn energy to obligation I am distracted and separated from my source, then the source I am to others is extinguished. I can only light the darkness where I am; I can’t illuminate someone else’s path. Nor should I pollute the way with smoke and vapor due to a lapse in my spiritual condition.


Place the period then write to it.
*





From Mind to Pen to Paper

What a relief to have exteriorized all the swirl of thought,
which normally swarms my mind,
waiting to take the stage and run through their numbers.

Then like deciphering a code
I was able to cross out all the irrelevant and redundant information,
leaving me with a clear answer.

Once there standing on its own;
it was obvious and easily explained
how two plus three is five.

I just love anything that can be explained all on one hand
and there it was tidy and neatly fitted in the nest of my palm,
easy to grasp hold of with my fingers or my mind.





.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 2


CURRENCY OF FEAR


Fear pays the way for my disease to enter. Once inside fear seats itself front and center. Fear is the currency that allows entry to the far reaches. The coinage is ancient and steeped in tradition. There is no time or place that hasn’t been moneyed with fear and its derivatives. I can’t hide from it so my job must be to educate fear. Fear is real and has a place as protector and warning. But fear expands with ignorance and devalues the purpose of caution. Fear cannot buy safety, though I can use it to pay the toll across the bridge to balance.



Speckle your tongue with new words.
*

Origins


At the root of it all is darkness.
The place from which I grow,
the structure that holds me fiercely upright,
is pressed on all sides by dirt.

When I get right down to it the ethereal leaves
and twigs, even the branches, do not exist,
except for my foundation in the composted death
and recycled life; the ground.

For is it God who rains down from the heavens
light and water or is God truly living
at the center of the earth,
warming my toes and securing me to what is real.






.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 3

LIBERTY HOPE?



If you had to choose, would it be liberty or hope? Liberty is highly recommended, but without hope, how would you know you were at liberty? Transversely if you have no liberty, how could you have hope? Removal of liberty removes the possibility of hope. So, why ask for a choice to be made? Well, that’s the joy of liberty. I am free to ask anything and you are free to imagine anything and hope for more.


Plan a diet for your fears.
*

Tyler’s Truth


The snow is dying,
pouring itself into the creeks and riverbeds.
sacrificing its crystalline structure and community
for the ubiquitous oneness of liquid.
drawn by the gravitational lure of the ocean.

Unity conquers the frozen individuated whole.
pulled from coast to coast the sun tempts the water’s life,
the sea gives up her soul to the sky
to be reborn as snow once more.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 4

RENTING JOY


I cannot buy happiness. No matter how much money I spend, how hard I work, I can never pay bliss off on lay away. The angles of escape for glee are phenomenal. I see runaway emotions and must concede ownership. When opportunities arise for satisfaction I pay the fare and take the trip. The boat isn’t mine to keep but the tour is forever in my heart. I can’t take it home to bury it in the yard. Like a wild thing I can leave joy where I find it. I never need to cage or bind it. I need to enjoy each measure while the music plays. I remunerate for time in proximity; delight arrives and stays as long as it likes. I linger at the table and enjoy my dessert. Leasing elation is an occasion of celebration. Living moment to moment has given me this chance. So, I take it.


Copy your favorite shape.

*

What is at the Eye of the Storm?


Serenity is the alignment of three knowledges

1. Knowing that I am not without skill, talent, gifts.
2.Knowing that I am not without community,
connection, comfort.
3.Knowing that I am not without God,
whether or not I believe God is able to intervene.

When I am in full or even partial possession of these three
I am safe from storm, or no, drought,
or no, fiery hairy pestilence.

Without this knowledge everything is
storm, drought and pestilence,
no matter what anyone else says or all evidence to the contrary.

I will make my own mess when bereft.
I will pay a large price for ignoring the facts
and the lion’s share of this loss is loss of my serenity



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 5

UTILITY OF EMOTION



I plug into the utility of my emotions. These utilities aid my life as all utilities do. The duel prong of anger serves to light me up and gives me strength to set good boundaries. The four-line clip cord of pain allows me to keep in touch with my Higher Power, my friends, and my fellows. I have nothing to share if I can’t stay real about my pain. Fear is hard to contain and is carefully piped. Explosions of fear can start so easily it’s a good thing its foul odor can be smelled in the air. The coaxial cable of joy screws neatly into the back of my mind and gives me endless delight, color and sound; these are the privileges of sobriety. Emotions are plainly utilitarian but they help me survive and make living into a life.


Touch all the letters in your name.
*

The Biggest Chicken

I love to be mystical,
but the only dragon in my life
is when I let things drag on and on.

Procrastination is the winged beast in my world
and when she is slain the sun comes out
and I can count my blessings and plan for my possibilities.

The deep ditch left by depression
is where the lizard lays; siphoning my time
and sucking clean the bones of my wasted talents.

I have lunged and poked, stabbed her with my steel
and blown holes in her with my revolver,
but not until I sever the tendon with which she holds me
in her grasp do I have any real chance to be rid of her claws.

Once free of her I must be forever vigilant
lest her smothering song lure me back to that evil nest
where I feel as helpless as her egg.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 6

OPTICAL ILLUSION


From the right angle a hatpin can appear taller than the Empire State Building. I can skew my perspective to such an extreme or let my disease do it for me. I can believe myself to be other than I am: the sweetest, kindest------smartest, quickest------smallest, slowest-------lowest, meanest. I can see myself as all this and more as long as I squint with one eye and look at only half of any issue. I can play the parts and act as if these things are true. I can even get others to play along. I can make fantasy fact if I lower the floor. I can die in the basement, many do. I can turn my face from science and be the center of all that spins..…OR….. I can climb the stairs to ground level. I can turn my mind to facts and fractions. Leave my better-than, less-than universe and see the height of everything and stand tall with both my eyes open.


Put a surprise in your pocket.
*


Keeping My Seat


I can sit through this. I can do it,
even when I don’t remember that I want to.
I will get through this no matter how it tweaks me
and I squirm in my seat.

In spite of the unfairness of it all,
I can do what is right, because that is what is best for me.
Acting out or giving up are options that I have.

I like me too much to choose so poorly.
When this is all settled I will still have me
no matter what else I gain or lose.

If I don’t like me anymore I have lost everything,
if I can hold my head up, proud of my behavior
this is the most valuable gain.

Love is only love
if I am still here to feel it,
so I will sit still.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 7

COLD AND FLU SEASON



The spiritual cold and flu season is upon me. I am awash in reaction and confusion. I have been overexposed to the dry thinking and barking orders of the cough so associated with this disability. My eyes swell and blur with my refusal to accept reality. The tickle of discomfort from inhaling disagreeable ideas is small in comparison with the nausea I suffer when I swallow every line of nonsense put forth from my dizzy and congested mind. There is no pill to dissuade my symptoms; I must raise the heat on this inertiac little bug. Parasites breed in the stagnant water of my paralysis. If I move in my sobriety, sweat a little and flush my system, I should be able to shake this insidious germ. Then I can reach my hand out to the people who caught the spiritual flu from me.


Write pretty words on pretty paper.
*


Tooth Fairies and Super Heroes

I never know who the tooth fairy is going to be.
Who might be the one person
who will know CPR in my hour of need.

Which unlikely friend will whisper to me
the secret code to my mental lock.
I have been caught off guard by the power
of the most unlikely wallflowers.

It is important for me not to prejudge,
but even more important to leave space for surprise
and the delightful aptitude of those around me

For that matter from strangers on the street.
it is good for me to remember there is change in my pocket
and a Resuscitation Certificate in my wallet.




.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 8

PASTRY




Like French pastry, sobriety gets richer with each layer. As I investigate these layers I approach the buttery center. The fat seeps through the years, makes boundaries crisp and intimacy velvety. Ingredients, which ordinarily wouldn’t mix, somehow blend and counterpoint one another in a flaky shell. Fruit and nuts improve every bite. Though there are times which are a bit crumbly, most of the structure is strong and the invention skillful. Pastry and sobriety are compositions of strength and brilliance, which are meant to be taken internally.


Juggle solutions.
*


Night Clothes and Bed Clothes

Is there any indulgence
quite like that of clean sleepwear
warm from the laundry?

Pulling on jammies over squeaky clean skin
and the little shutter that goes with tired hedonism
is a pleasure without formed words,
left for grateful sounds and little moans.

Hard work creates more than stability,
more than cash flow, more than mere exhaustion,
hard work changes my mind about delight.

It allows me to see it in the most obvious,
most subtle of places.
My bed has become haven, hospital, refuge
and I am tucked up in my nest, safely out of my mind.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 9



SHIMMER


The water ruffles over metallic sheen, lap after lap screen the view, and still the gilt reflection shines in my eyes. Hypnotic, the undulance pulls me near. I stand on the edge, gaze, then gawk; I follow the underwater movements and iridescent tremolo. I forget place and time. I lose sight of the facts. Gold isn’t the only thing that shimmers. Sometimes that glint is just a fish. Life is full of fins and fantasy. My sponsor suggests I stop looking for my life in a wishing well.



Think of all beans as magical in some way.

*

Special


Is it the wiring between my ears,
the size of the pump in my chest?
The difference which can be seen
when you look from me to the neighbors?

I know that you feel me to be special.
I feel me to be special, too,
just like you.

Defining that thing, that combination
which unlocks the mundane
is more than just an attempt to point a finger,
it’s a search for that little light.

Close and closer we pull together
and that is special but now I will whisper it,
tell you the secret truth is my ability to play.
Come play with me!


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 11



SPONTANEOUS GENERATION


Dust under the bed turns into bugs. My grandfather believed in these alchemies of myth. I thought myself free from the small witchcrafts of threat. The longer I stay sober, the more real is the insidious nature of my disease. Mental clutter does breed all manner of squirming and chattering vermin. Every intellectual closet I leave uncleaned is a brooding box of contempt, false pride and bloated ego. The synchronism of hatchling defects and nursing grudges, fairy tale thinking and firebrand action, mimic Grandpa’s bedbug rantings. I can never turn my back on unswept philosophy or the dross of assumptions I’ve left waiting in piles. Spiritual house cleaning is all that saves me from the transmigration of blood sucking, life-draining phantasm. Supernatural transformation needn’t plague me if I take right action. The difference between blessings and curses is the direction you are going.



Tiptoe into your heart for a peek.


*
A Year for Me


The world is my mollusk
and I am its pennyweight paragon,
witty girl that I am.

I have spent enough time
surrounded by wet feet and confining shells,
all held at the bottom of the sea.

This is a year for me.
I am going to climb over the rim of my briny brink
and try myself against the fearsome winds of chance.

Although souse is buoyant
I feel strong enough to stand my ground.
Time has come for life, open and raw,
but I shall leave the clams to the casino.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 12

NOUN, VERB, ADJECTIVE


Model Sobriety (mod`el so-bri`i te), n., v., adj., 1. model sobriety acts like clay. Durable and flexible it molds to any situation. 2. model sobriety is like a clotheshorse; everything you put on it fits and looks good. 3. model sobriety is the 24-hour version of a life-long process. 4. model sobriety is a set of axioms with which we interpret truth. 5. model sobriety is what we put in the window for other sufferers to see. 6. model sobriety is the mirror we use to learn what is natural. 7. model sobriety eliminates extremes in behavior and thinking. 8. model sobriety is the mode by which we become a channel. 9. model sobriety is the definition in and of my life. Noun, verb, and adjective.



Write an acrostic poem for a dog.

*

Old Nasty

My addiction is like a Percheron,
bigger and more powerful than I am,
but what I have learned is that if I treat this horse
with due respect and a guiding hand
from my recovery and my Higher Power
I can harness the energy of my illness
and use its’ force to make my life work.

I can never be the master of alcoholism,
but I can see it for what it is;
an overgrown instinct looking for an outlet.

When I am given my way out I take this beast with me
and when I value that partnership we are both safe.
When I have tried to lock it in a stall
and run far from the barn, it kicks my life down.

When I put my head in the yoke willingly,
together we are led and we do the work
which is fulfilling and rich.
I was meant to work in a team,
I am grateful to have a teammate.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 15


THE RAINBOW


“What is with that look of concentration?” asked my sponsor.
“I am trying to see the gray.”
“The gray?” she queried.
“Yes, I heard at the meeting that between black and white there is a lot of gray.”
“Ah. Well, my darling, I don’t want you to have black and white thinking, but what lies between black and white are all the colors, the full spectrum.”
“What am I to do with this information? What do I do with all those colors?” I asked in shock and confusion.
“For right now, just remember that all the colors aren’t blue.”


Set out your clothes and plan their day.
*

Blocks or Points


The decision must be made; would I rather be criticized
for having done something that is imperfect
or be criticized for having done nothing at all.

Disapproval from others is not possible to prevent.
What I do in anticipation of it is in my control.
I can spend life running from trouble,
chasing peace through underachievement.

Or I can step-up knowing that gravity works
always to pull me down
and that this is neither gift nor burden,
it is simply fact.

I must choose when I will stop tripping
over stumbling blocks
and realize them to be turning points.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 16


MAGIC WAND

“Why are you wearing that hat and waving that star studded stick?" I asked my sponsor.
“Isn’t this what you want, a magic wand?” she replied.
“Whatever are you talking about? I don’t want you to play wizard.”
“Don’t you? You thought walking into your first meeting would------poof-----make you all better. When that didn’t work, you held your breath for 90 days. When that also proved a disappointment, you let the air out of your blue face and started the white-knuckle routine for one year. At the end of twelve months, you released your arthritic grip and started scheming for a new sponsor. But the new wicked witch sent you scurrying back to me. Then, it was a relationship with undying love that would break the spell you are under. Now tell me again how you don’t want me to use this magic wand on you?” said my sponsor with aplomb.
“I guess my behavior gave me away. Go ahead, say your incantation.” I closed my eyes and waited for her words.
“Show up and do the work. Keep an open mind,” she said as she waved the cudgel.
“That’s it?" I asked.
“Well, yes, but I have to come back every day,” she grinned.



Set the table for breakfast just before your midnight snack.
*



Rounder


Back again, yes, that I see,
but change is not the same as return.
What I know of you is your past.
I believe the past because I know it.

If there is a new you to meet
that remains to be seen.
Even a chameleon sheds its skin,
though I doubt its intrinsic nature
is altered much in the process.

So flash your smile and wind your words
into the thoughts of those with whom
you have no history.
I’ve been exposed before,
the virus doesn’t conquer me, I am immune.

Once bitten makes me wary
when you come around again.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 17


TIME TABLES


I know the train is coming and I want to read the schedule. I hear rumors that the convoy going to Feelings will arrive in two years. The five-year expedition to Getting My Brains Back seems unlikely but is often commented on in meetings. Excursions to far off destinations such as Functional and Reasonable have me on my feet in gleeful anticipation. Still I wish for a clear mapping of time. I feel I could leave off worrying about the how of it if only I could be sure of the when. This cavalcade of adventure would be so much more palatable with a well written itinerary.


Sell yourself but not short.
*


Horse Play


The sequestered equestrian rides alone through the night;
the wood is as quiet as she.
Passing no one;
speaking not a word,
she slips into the paddock without a nicker or a neigh.

I long to be just as she,
not silent sentinel,
but living a whist fleet life,
a power unto myself.

What stands between are my hurt feelings
and my longing to be loved.
I can’t blame myself for either,
but work to heal and grow.

Nagging need is a pestilence I will be well rid of;
the irredeemable past is luggage for a catalog,
not for hauling on my back.

I will mount up and ride my great round stead,
the night is mine when I am ready
the path is there I know.

.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 18



FAR OFF PLACES


Meetings too near home are unsatisfying to me. On smooth, simple days local meetings are fine; I catch a meeting, just slip it in. On rough days I yearn for an out of town meeting. After these many 24’s I’ve come to realize I need the ride as much as I need the meeting. Like a discontented baby I need more than just a trip around the block. The comfort of taking flight in my car is equaled by arriving at some far off AA. Fresh faces and new-takes-on-old-woes are an antidote to my colicky attitude. The drive back offers me a sense of triumphant homecoming. A good meeting can be had anywhere. Sometimes I just need a change of place or change of pace.


Keep a lock of your own hair.

*


Cicatrix and Love

The mark left by injury is indelible
though it may heal, the consequence remains.
This is also true of love.
I am branded and changed by your affection.

The improvement wrought in me does not leave when you do.
If you stop loving me,
can you no longer remember my name,
my face,
my sigh;

I am better for having had your love if only for a short time.
Good medicine offers lasting results;
the miracle of your love is my health.

The blush in my cheek,
the revitalization I feel is traceable to you,
to the days you held me in your heart
and the nights you held me in your arms.

And though I want you back in my world
the best of you lives on in my life.

.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 19


THE WATER YOU DRINK


“Anyone who has to be dragged to water doesn’t deserve a drink,” said my sponsor.
“What about raising the bottom?” I questioned.
“I’m not talking about that. I am discussing people you try to convince into recovery. The folks you try to accommodate. The ones you attempt to bend reality for. These are the type who will piss in your well. Let me be clear, I am not concerned with the individuals who piss in the pool, which is rude and disgusting but basically not life threatening. When your well is defiled, when the place you draw your drinking water from is used as a chamber pot, your life is at risk. Don’t ever pull your pants down over someone’s fresh water. Don’t let anyone squat with their bare ass over your sobriety.”


Play in your play clothes.
*



Rings of Color against Butterflies

Resistance I can accomplish directly;
impedance requires magnetism from an alternating world.
I can drag my heels and live life in a sandpaper shack
making everything a chore,

What it takes to throw furniture in the path of progress,
slamming doors and turning off the lights
that is more than I can do on my own.

This takes the cooperation of my disease and me,
the monkey-hoop, which is effort and clever repartee.
Look how well we do it, too.

Distracting possibilities, staving off humanity and the humane,
may not sound like much, but it takes up our whole day;
Goodness is such a persistent little grub.
It takes a concerted effort to prevent it from chrysalis
and failing that, still more determination to make sure it doesn’t fly.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 20


IT’S MY PARTY

The party I was throwing for myself in addiction was nothing but a very long wake. There were no smiles, only murmurs of what might have been. I was filled with tears I couldn’t cry and mourned my death as I caused it. When I took off my little black dress and stepped from this shroud, I closed the bar, clicked the switch and the dirge stopped, the funeral ended prematurely. I walked into AA where I learned to be the life of the party.



Make a safe space for your radical tastes.


*

Taking the Field

Humor is an illustration;
a joke an explanation.
I learn far more from the smiles than the jeers.

Laughter carries me; an action,
which tears can’t always accomplish.
It is hard to live with constant descent,
but wit is a quick impassioned friend.

Thoughtless conformity is an evil companion
I prefer the company of those who play.
Life is too hard from the sidelines;
I would rather take the field.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 21

SYMPTOMATIC BOUQUET


My bouquet of symptoms took root in alcoholism. I displayed these blossoms to few. I thought I could keep these problem posies to myself. No need to worry, everyone has a bit of manure in their lives; mine will hardly seem strange. Planted in addiction, things grew in a dramatic way. Pruning became unworkable; drastic measures were required. Uprooted and exposed, these virulent stalks created the need for help from better gardeners than I. Thinned and repotted, these character traits have fruited with many a lovely harvest, none of which could have happened had I been left in the family plot.


Make your mind a womb you can return to.
*



Rules

There are rules about breaking rules.
You can do it this way, but must not that way.
Cross this line and you get dragons;
cross that line you get a good natured slap on the wrist.

Beneath the reflective surface of law
I have found many shoals and sandbars;
rocks and outcroppings,
layer upon layer of blue depth I can only partly chart.

I also find inquiries in this matter meet with the
same reaction as asking about: yeti, crop circles,
or what was kept in Uncle Author’s spare room.

Those willing to talk about it I often fear to hear from
and the reluctant to speak I fear to pursue.
You see this investigation is just another thing
from under that sea.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 23

QUICK------SAND!!!


“Don’t ask me how deep the quicksand is,” said my sponsor, “it’s your job to get out of it, not to quantify it.”
“I’m not sure how to get out. Will you come and get me?” I ask her.
“No, Darling. If I get in we will both be down for the count. The only chance we have for me to help you is if I stay out of the morass with my feet planted firmly on solid ground.”
“What if you can’t get me out?” I cry.
“I will go get more help.”
“What if all of AA can’t get me out?”
“Angel, my hope is, that if there was no way out, you wouldn’t even know you were stuck.”


Limit your limits.
*

Before Ophelia

Young women drown themselves before Shakespeare
immortalized, memorialized Ophelia.
But having a poster child changes us.

Cautionary tale or rallying cry,
Ophelia is a hand to hold on dark cold days
when the light is hard to find
and everything seems bent toward destruction.

Not that I think she solved anything
with her despondent act
just that she stands in the familiar frame
I find myself in from time to time.

When I imagine I’ve invented the wheel
it makes it harder to step down and walk.
Ophelia’s fate makes it easier to get off depression’s bus
and find my way back home.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 27


GRAFT


The bottom has been cut out, my underpinnings stripped from me. Budding ambition whittled down, transplanted, saddled onto the rock like stock of other people’s sobriety. Taped to the leg of my sponsor I heal and grow. I splice my thinking with the rich ideas of improved living. I cling to the cleft; divisions made from the people, places and things of my past leave me split, primed for fresh growth and opportunity. Never again do I need return to the sordid acquisition of power or control. There is no gain when I am bolted to position and influence. Graft is graft for good or bad. I don’t have to grow where I was planted.


Subtract your assets from your defects.

*
Un-imbedded

This week I have decided to be braver
about where I invest my time, not all of it mind you
but a portion of my diligent yet strangely unproductive time.

I have to say I am realizing that I hide
in pretty much every area of my life
and that is no way to live
and a really bad example to offer.

The worst thing about hiding is it doesn't keep me safe;
it just subjects me to different evils.
It reminds me of that poor reporter
who was imbedded in a tank.

He died from not moving, his blood pooling and dehydration,
so the tank kept him from getting his head shot off,
but killed him in a different way,
so in the end he wasn't safe and neither am I.

I believe in prudence as a good policy, I do,
but there is much that could make me
stronger, happier, better,
if I lift my head a bit and reach out my hand.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 29



2 CHAIRS

Math is the language that moves closest to the speed of my brain. The language of recovery slows my thinking so I am more than numbers and clicks. I need not race my mind in an effort to win. I am my prize; the victory is mine if I can embrace who I am. I can use numbers to figure whether I am more or less, but owning who I am must be given to the talk of the soul and heart. My nashamah is not an astral projection to be theorized but the seat of my emotions. The only way to discover myself is through deep and loving conversation, so I had best pull up two chairs.


Play colors like music.
*

The Regulator


Face to face the clock stares me down.
I nearly dare the mismatched hands
to beat me at my part.
Their never-ending round-house
drops me to the ground.

My foot work is no equal for eternity.
Fancy days and star lit nights distract me
from the fight I’m losing,
directing my thoughts to what I gain.

If I turn with the hours,
dwelling in the moments,
the clock and I are friends,
no more mad-dogging, no time to lose.

Time is with me till the end,
it is not the death of me;
it’s the time of my life.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 30


DEFINITIONS


I am close to my Higher Power but I have no words to describe It. I have found it best to say nothing unless asked. When I do speak, it is always about the path I took or the way I held my face. I know the things that changed, and the wind that blew. This is not the sketch most people seek. My skin is brown and my smile broad; this is not from over-exposure to beams of light. Closeness warms me. I glow from standing near. I know the face and form is different for every day; I must not stop for definitions.


Taste silence and smell the words.
*




The Acts of Hope

I cover my head when I pray
in hopes that God wants me sheltered.
I attend meetings to keep alive the hope
that sobriety is the end of isolation.

I talk to the people in my network
hoping I have something helpful to share.
I sit down to the blank page with hopes
that HP still chooses to collaborate with me.

I pick up my paintbrush filled with hope
that color is still my friend.
I inhale air along with hope that each breath
is worth the effort and I am worthy of this life.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 31

MY BABIES


Too often I have abandoned the infants of my creativity to doorways and charities. Having little patience I did not raise them to their intended station. Joyful parentage need not stop at the cutting of the cord. Downplaying the importance of each birth, I would leave beauty and art to be foundlings and the province of others. I can share the guardianship of these precious gifts and be more than a brood mare for cunning and craft. I have neglected things apparent for the promise of each new conception. Overpopulation weakens the body of my work and leaves my portfolio listless and immature.


Touch your finger with your nose.
*

Charmed by Snow


Warm weather snow falls in fat full flakes;
I am living in a world of dreams and sweet peas.
Sudden dustings sparkle and surprise
leaving as quickly as they came;
yet the world is kinder now.

Beauty is an ambush of the heart.
My breath alters, accelerates,
speeding me to a smile, an illustration of joy.

Crows walk the edge of the hedgerow,
prattling on as they do;
snow to their ankles and food on their minds.
I drive over the mountains
discovering myself as the recipient,
the receiver of all this great gift, this life.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 1

GAME PLAYING

My Higher Power doesn’t play me like a board game, doesn’t monopolize my time or put me in jeopardy. My trouble is my own. I pursue trivia at my discretion. I take or reject risk at will. I scrabble my thoughts and am sorry when I make mistakes but don’t expect to live in a candyland. When I stick my hand in the mouse trap, or fall down the shoots and need to climb the ladders, I know the game may not be over, but it is far too late to play let’s make a deal.


Keep a game with you.

*
Porcellano


Some days I feel like a porcelain doll;
hard head, hard hands, hard feet
and everywhere else is soft, gormless.

I feel useless and act out my feelings,
stumbling through a day of pointless inactivity.
I know that I belong on a shelf
or propped upon the pillows of a bed,
not fine enough for curio or collection,
merely someone of marginal decorative value.

I have gotten away from the meaning of me,
the thrum of God’s intentions
and am trapped in this world of elaboration;
everything is embellished and nothing is real.

It is time to put my foot down.
To feel the earth solid and right;
to catch my mind and take it out
of its greasy spin from what is descent.

I am not a China doll
and it is time to walk away
from these purloined thoughts

.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 5



STUBBORN


When the donkey won’t move forward it’s time to stop running. No need to make an ass of myself through force or coercion. The dumb animal may be mute but its actions speak. Reluctance is a warning. If my animal nature is balking, listening not shoving is the preferred course. Super intelligence can’t best good horse sense. I must stand with my intuition; that creature depends on my survival for life.



Balance your shoe with your foot.
*

What are We Fighting For

Instead of competition for dominance
we would benefit from cooperation for survival.
The struggle to become the very best destroyers in the world
very well might make us postmortem champions.

Why is it that the lions don’t work to eradicate hyenas?
They could, but they don’t.
Why not, is the ever present question on my mind.

I have no answer as to why we strive to conquer.
A thousand platitudes come to mind,
but nothing fast or tight, nothing that holds water.
So, the question remains; why are we hell bent?



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 7

PRESTO!

Just because I own pointy boots doesn’t mean I can corral the cows. I have in my possession many things of subtle intent, but they can’t just transform me. The wings from Halloween don’t make me an angel. The Big Book on the shelf won’t sober me up. Nothing holds the magic to change me. I can only change with help. Action, action and more action is the magician's sleight of hand. It slides my hand from glass to grace. I don’t need to pull a rabbit from my hat.


Play with your oatmeal.

*

I Beg

The embarrassment of need
is a haunting guest who will not leave.
I turn in a tight circle trying to find a way
to detach this wart and move gracefully
from the site of devastation.

But it looms large
and overshadows today’s possibilities
and robs tomorrows gold.
What I cannot do for myself,
the magic I cannot yet perform,
stands between me and contentment.

It stands there wearing your face;
touching my mind with your fingertips.
I pray that you are not the answer
for I cannot depend on you.

I think of you and the little bell rings
and I am hungry.
Desire is a gift, desiring you is the burden
whose shadow I cannot escape.

I close my eyes to the light you emit;
I cannot close my heart, all that’s left is pleading;
please come home and fill me or leave
and lock the door and let me grieve in peace.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 8

PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS


There is a penny in the bathtub. I wonder who stood in there with loose change. Possibly confusing it for a wishing well, the penny was tossed in. The stories I could tell the hopes that tantalize my mind, elves and leprechauns, dreamers and optimists all trundle through my thinking. When I don’t know the answer, I can now at least look for the best, the sweetest thoughts. I don’t run to the dark and threatening disasters. I have lost the lease to my personal black cloud, the one that used to follow wherever I went. I can smile now and think of pennies from heaven. The first drop landed in my tub.


Think of what a spider and a whale have in common.
*

Stand- Hear


The spins and pirouettes I have preformed
in an attempt to avoid facing the music,
were impressive but futile and ultimately
delayed the beauty possible for me in this life.

When I stop my running and turn on my heel
there is a world of harmony waiting
to take me for a turn out on the dance floor.

Melody is not what I was expecting.
I was so sure I would be drummed out of my life,
not trumpeted in.

My surety set in motion much of my convoluted activity
and caused me great distress.
It is high time I listen with eyes open
and my reactions leashed;

Allowing the tune to introduce me to life
and lead me to my bliss.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 9

HAWAIIAN GRAFFITI

White pebbles spell themselves across the black of lava grown cold. Personal announcements proclaim love, school pride, religious freedom. The care of placement and consideration of design make the roadside an ongoing mineral memo. What message would I care to share? What words would prompt me to bring a pail of crushed marble to the edge of the road? Is there a truth so urgent I would take time from paradise to spell it out? A few more miles and I see the words I live by strewn down the thoroughfare, “it works if you work it.”


Joint your possibilities.

*

Pick up Your Hammer and Saw

The task infers the tool, I know this,
yet I resist clearly mapping my insanity.
I look into the well of my despair
then quickly I look away,

I fear informing God what I need
lest the need be filled.
I need to believe that a power will heal me,
but if I am provided with the force of life,
I shrink from the prospect.

This too, must be added to the list
of my emotional woes and mental shortages.
This too, will be healed.

I look at my problems
and then realize, that like the moon,
who pulls the water from dry shore to dry shore,
solutions are installed in heaven and earth
if I know what the problem is.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 13

HOW RED IS RED


I check my color and contrast; I paint the setting sun. Add a bit of yellow and fill to the edge burgeoning poppies. Add more blue and paint the blood which pools around my mind, the equalizer of all my mental conversations. Too much is never enough. As the story goes, I pursue my shades and signatures. Too much for the fingers and not enough for the toes, I disregard fraudulent crimson. I scale the mountains of intention looking for perfection. The leach of my addiction drains the other colors from my rainbow. My sponsor asks only one question.
“How red is red?”


Allow your thoughts to be neighborly with your feelings.
*

Phillips Head


What’s stuck in makes the thing.
What sticks out is all that’s seen.
I can tell so much from what is left out,
yet there is much I will never know, can never tell.

The twist, the give, the opening to variation
is known, but never acknowledged.
Somehow indecent if spoken
or thought of too loudly, insinuation is ignored

Society allows us to focus on
what is held after or due to this act.
We have built the whole world
on what we can screw together.

But we will merely hallow this,
never embrace the fact until it falls apart.
Then we exclaim over the rawness
of how it caused us to be turned around,

The risk and wrongness,
ignoring just how much good
can come from just a simple screw.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

I'm grateful, so grateful to be trudging this road to happy destiny all these years!

https://images.bonanzastatic.com/afu/images/08d6/b858/bdb5_4334241323/__57.jpg

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 18

DON’T BE


Don’t be stupid.
Don’t be crazy.
Don’t be anything out of the ordinary.
Don’t be angry.
Don’t be hateful.
Just don’t be that way.
Don’t be sad.
Don’t be mopey.
Smile for the camera.
And pretend for everyone.
I wondered often why I felt like dying and it took me years to understand why.
Don’t be equals death.
Don’t feel.
Don’t cry.
Don’t love.
Life is about action, presence and content. You’re wrong if you break the rules and dead if you keep them. So, please be you and don’t be them. Look back when you have to but step out of the grave.



Learn followership too.
*



Single Serving Sterling


When the menu of life feels vast
I must focus on my teaspoon;
a simple tool that fits well in my hand,
whose use I well understand.

The possibilities conceived
when I ponder the intangibles
conspire to suck me down the rabbit-hole
where all that’s left to me is a drug.

When I come back to stir my tea
and lick the spoon clean
the world revolves around me
and without need of my completed unified theory.

Need looms, loss stacks,
salvation keeps a steady distance,
my only hope is to drink my tea,
I shan’t even sharpen my spoon;

I can and need to stay out of my fear built prison
and off the streets of hell.
My task is at hand and the size of the scoop
is a reminder to take all of life in small doses.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 19

COMFORT AND WILLINGNESS



Closer than comfort is willingness. Comfort is at the skin but willingness is under it. I can live without comfort but not without willingness. Both are unseen but felt deeply. Willingness drives to the destination and comfort settles me in once there. Comfort is a gift like warmth; willingness is a gift like breath. I have been tempted to let go of willingness to hold on to comfort. True willingness brings true comfort; never the other way around. No matter where I have to go, willingness will take me there; I hope comfort will follow.


Draw satisfaction on the wall of your brain.
*

Go Where it’s Warm

The intangible rightness of cohesion is difficult to explain.
What is it that makes a group congregating into a congregation?
What makes a rag tag tousle into a home group?

It is the thing I yearn for, but dare not chase.
I know this too makes a grub into a butterfly,
yet private transformation seems necessary,
where the change of masses is gratuitous.

A thousand geese fly overhead;
arrows of individual miracles,
pointing the way to the meaning of it all.




.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 20



THE SEDUCTION OF SOBRIETY


I was seduced away from my duties as an alcoholic by the promise of sobriety. Allegiance to my disease was sidelined. Alluring stability and beguiling integrity curried favor with my desperate heart, pulling me from the arranged marriage of addiction. How could I cling to the corpse of dependence when sanity shimmered just out of reach, then not out of reach but within my grasp? I couldn’t resist the golden flicker of life. I had been bound to death, unable to see an alternative. My loyalty to loss and grief slipped from me and I limped into the daylight like the widow of the night. I have been lured to my senses by a love like no other, the love of life.



Raise the ceiling on optimism.
*


Blind Man’s Bluff

Turning your head to see
doesn’t help when you have a blind eye.
All the rotation in the world won’t restore your sight.

Addressing life problems with a solution
involving spin is counter productive
and sometimes counter clockwise to boot.

If I find I just can’t see, then maybe
it’s time to listen better and compensate
for my shortcoming through some other action.

Turning away doesn’t help and walking away is worse.
When I am blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other
stepping up to the plate may not be an option,
but I still need to find a way to stay in the game.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 21

HOW EVER YOU CAN

I heard, “let go with love.”
“You know how to do that?” asked my sponsor.
“No, that’s why I’m here to see you, but it sure sounds like something I should do.”
“Well, in a perfect world maybe we can all do it that way, but for now let go with a mean look in your eye. Let go with rage in your heart. Let go with words boiling on your tongue. Let go with the butter knife up to its hilt in the jelly jar. Let go standing at the sink wishing for some other life. Let go as a reflex. Let go as an anthem, as a prayer, as a declaration. Let go even when you don’t feel you are holding on any more. At the same time hold on to what’s important: your recovery, your Higher Power and your sense of humor."

Fly in your dreams.
*

Hang on or Dance

Because I felt ‘outcomes’ slipping through my fingertips
I dug in with my nails, I schemed, plotted, worried, whined.
Lack of power was my problem I thought,
but what it came down to was, failure to acknowledge… accept…
failure to surrender to the reality of powerlessness.

The only thing I learned from resistance
was an intimate knowledge of futility.
When I embraced truth… the facts…
when I live with the gravity of masses not fight against it;

I began to enjoy the weather,
knowing I did not pull the clouds or push the storm.
I’m back in the dance of people moving about me,
all keeping with the time, it is not mine to keep.

.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 22

FOREVER IS NOT AS LONG AS IT USED TO BE


What time gives in permanence it takes in fluctuation. The relationships I stand on to reach, with tippy-toed grasp, the light of heaven flutter like flounder disturbed from their sandy bed. My mind probes the past looking for the shroud lines to hold up the sails of hope. Togetherness, the banner of life, bonds to strength, protection from outside and within. I yearn for a life of love, unbending and calm. I am met with the tug of war, which ends in mud. Days stretch into years but years are no protection from terminus. Forever rings in my head. Promises I have made to myself, promises I have made to others, promises made to me are nothing in the face of the promise of tomorrow. Time flows like air over a row of seedlings, fresh and challenging, sustaining life and carrying away familiarity. Forever is not as long as it used to be. I can live with that, have to live with it. I can shake my fist to the sky but it won’t make love last. It will not keep my heart from loving again. Sails, which have filled before, will fill again.


Love yourself green or blue or pink.
*


Up to Date

The future is a prison I escape by staying in today.
The tiny windows which open to strange foreknowledge
have barbs rather than bars and inflict painful wounds
when I attempt too close examination.

My business is here and now; the currency like manna,
good only for the duration of the day and nothing further.
Pretty dreams and colossal disaster float as baubles on the horizon
but I need to take down my focus from such far off vistas;
adjusting the optics for a clear view of where I am standing.

Circumscription is what the destiny becomes
when I try to live in it too soon.
Novelty is what it is to be living in the very moment
I am currently breathing in.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 30

THE CALL

Within the sound of your voice
I sing
In the beat of your heart
I heal
I feel in your touch
And dance when your toe starts to tap
I see myself in your beauty
I warm inside your embrace
Your thoughts are my inspiration
Your lungs breathe me in and blow me out
I soar in your flight
And dream in your waking
I ring in your ears
Fall with your tears
I’m lost in you
Found in you
Travel and lounge in you
I share all your rantings
And hide in your secrets
You hear and caress me
My darling
You know who I am


Return to an old joy for a visit.
*



Rex

Hungry dogs who love me anyway,
dance around waiting to be fed.
If they didn’t love they
would take bloody bites and I don’t forget it.
These puppies have teeth,
like cigarettes I want to smoke but don’t.
And meanwhile back on the farm
I seek to quiet the whines and barking
of the unfed, malnourished familiarity
which writhes at my ankles and jumps at my knees.

I can no longer pat my disquiet on the head
and expect it to stay or heal.
I must hunt down the beast which bothers me
and feed the meat of it to the pups.

I must not leave the lopers to quarry my burden
if I want to remain master
and leave them to be pet.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 2

PROMISE BROKEN


If promise shatters without anyone touching it, if it pops like a floating soap bubble that lost its cohesion, what do I do? Name names? I can’t even take fingerprints. Sometimes dreams just end. No fault or blame is attached. The ice breaks under its own weight and nothing can be done. I am more than just holding on. I am alive even if all the promises melt away. I can accept the unexpected and the unasked for and still know this doesn’t affect my worth. My value is intact regardless of disappointment or discontent. I have learned that anticipation is mere amusement; promises are pleasantries. I am made of stronger stuff. I am not broken by words, ideas or hope. Promise can be broken but it doesn’t break me.


Open the mental crayon box.
*


Where’s Your Chair?


Is the ring more unnatural for the tamer or the lion?
One the trapped, the other the trapper.
Who is the more in danger;
the one with loss of freedom
or the one with possible loss of life?

And while this question is still in play
the next question is begged. Why is there a ring?
What is worth the price paid
by the whip holder or the whipped?

Spectacle is a thing whose cost
reaches from the forest to the trees;
can take you from the highest rung
down to your knees.

All this lost for some Owwe’s and Ah’s
from people needing diversion
from the ring they turn tricks in.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 4

WATERLINE



The interface of water and land is compelling. Soothing but dramatic; I’m drawn to this transition. I stand and watch the lap, lap, lapping of the liquid to the land. The gift of one place to another calls me. Change and transition exhilarate my senses. Whether it is rock or sand, river or sea I feel the pull to watch life in response. Boundaries are beautiful. Borders allow safety and recreation, not just risk. When I embrace this in life I embrace it in me.


Do it twice, once with the pattern and once without.
*



The Naked Not the Dead


Because comfort is sometimes no comfort
I can shave my hair and walk bare in the naked world.
Removing pretense helps in unexpected ways.

Foolish action becomes formulaic
when you are scared or hurt.
I lived through the summers of blood;
the winter is not enough to stem the tide or heal the wound.

I have no want to raise the dead,
but how to save the living?
Poverty is the inheritance of so much misguided lethargy
and I must shear off the illusion of maturity
and let the children speak.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 6

FUNK AND WAGNALL’S BACK PORCH



Bottoms come sealed in envelopes from unknown accountants. Amazing how many nominees and how few winners! The audience, filled with past recipients, holds its collective breath and prays for this year's finalists, and prays a bigger prayer of thanks to this year's donors, the ones who prove with their lives that it hasn’t gotten better out there. The speeches are the same, a gratitude list and maybe a punch line, the smiles and tears fresh but familiar. And when the lights go out on this night, the days of diligence begin once again so no one need lose their seat and we can all celebrate here, next year, together.


Open even though the hinges are hidden.
*

Nightcrawlers and Nightingales



I wriggle blind eyed through the dirt;
friction, my friend giving me something to push against,
resistance aiding my travels.

I worm my way through life
and believed that was all there was; having never seen the sky.
I traveled far and wide once I had taken to the air.

Open eyed I push against a thing I cannot see
and peer down on the dirt I left behind.
I soar rather than struggle
and go the distance leaving my mind open to the next frontier.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 8

WILL YOU GET TO THE OTHER SIDE?



Chickens stand together on the edge of the road pecking and scratching; people make fun. People tell jokes but it’s not so funny when we are the ones playing on the tracks. We forget that all the excuses about longing for excitement and not wanting to be cut off from the world sound like so much cackling to the ears of people who value their lives. Life in the pasture or the backyard is fulfilling if you want it. That kind of life is no adrenaline rush, but then again isn’t adrenaline just another drug?


Tell the truth as if it were the weather.
*


Helping Hands?


Why would you go to a rattler for a snakebite remedy?
It feels so much like the hair of the dog that bit me.
The truth is I must, must stay away from the quick answers.

I am a slow healer, but I do heal if I allow myself to do so
unencumbered by poison or untruth.
When I am returning to the vomit of my past
it is incumbent upon me to search for the old lies
and/or the new ones, either or both will get me drunk;
do I even need the help of a prescription pad?



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 9

HARVEST TIMING


The harvest fits in the growing season and the oak fits inside the acorn. My sober mind fits right in my sober time. The soul of everything rubs across the hind leg of a cricket to sing. The infinite machinery of the universe spins but you stand there questioning the existence of a Higher Power. Well, that’s who you are, but I have only one question for you. Who else could have made all the best tomatoes come from Jersey?


Catch rain on your face.
*


Barnum, Bailey & Me


When I wake to find a whip and a chair by the side of my bed
I know I am in for a circus of a day
and the tears of this clown will not change a thing.

I ready myself for the tightrope walk
and watch out for stray elephants.
All the trained poodles in the world
can’t make this into a day in the park.

Painted ponies prance through their paces;
I try to stick to my own act,
meanwhile remembering that no matter how difficult
these routines may be it still beats a seat in the stands.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 12

WHY NOT HOME?



Power is not production and production is not art. I have to keep pulling the car over to the side of the road so I don’t miss the train of words sent to me from out of the dark blue life I am on the edge of living. But I still want to go home. I will never give up these roadside excursions into the river of thought, though I do wonder why the cable shoved into my house never gets this channel? Why is the connection so strong on the bus not the bed? The minefields of thought explosions seem seeded anywhere as long as it’s at least five miles away. Power is not production and production is not art. I let it pour through me; it’s not mine to sort.


Learn to read God’s handwriting.

*

Hypothetical


Is my inability to understand what creates mystery?
If I were brighter, swifter, keener,
would life be free of unknown communion?

Would comprehension eliminate revelation?
Would I lose perceptual apprehension
by arming myself with knowledge of forethought?

Could I end mysticism through education?
Should I even if I could?



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 26

SCREAMING LETHARGY



The screaming lethargy of being alive after many years of wanting something else, the exhaustion of pulsing, breathing, waves and waves of thinking. Yet as tired as I am, I am. Here without a doubt, I stand. No crawling for I have not fallen, no climbing for I have reached the plain. I wait for the rain to wash over me, the truth to run through me, time to pass by me. As if on a free trip to an unwelcome destination I arrive with randomly packed bags and low expectations. I’m here now. The train doesn’t seem to be moving on. I might as well leave the station, nothing to do on the platform. There may be points of interest or flowers to be smelled. I step haltingly and fear making any connection to this unbidden place. My name is unknown; I befriend the lamppost, the birds, the street. I am tired of travel, fearful of arrival. Fury courses through my veins but the weather is pleasant, I might take off my coat and stay.


Plan a trip with no destination.
*

One Street off Amory



Apology holds change at arms length.
Apology is the thing I was taught to wait for
as a sign that things will improve,
but apology is not a harbinger of change.

It is quite the opposite
it is the guarantor of business as usual;
no amendment need occur,
apology has been made and life goes on with no alteration.

Without variation we all stay sick
and apologizing for that won’t get us better.
Restitution, amends, revelation, revolution
these are the things which make the world bright,

Apology is just a scrap with which to wipe your ass.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 27

PIROUETTES



I turn and spin; the world flashes as I go. I am erect, proud of my self-possession. I can stand the forces of vector rotation, public opinion and gravity. Sobriety has made a dancer out of me. I sprint the stage and take my place. I know the moves and trust, as best I can, the choreographer and the choreography. I feel the wind move on my body as I revolve, the blur of existence spreads out before me. I can let it all pass. To spot myself and keep my upright posture, the only place that requires my clear and unobstructed view is the line of sight from my sponsor’s eyes to mine.


Let your work speak.

*


A Verse to the Wise

Encoding truth into poetry
makes reality survivable by giving readers
the opportunity to dig truth up like diamonds.

Throwing certainty in people’s faces like cold water
gives them a wakeup call but nothing to embrace.
The beauty of semaphore is the dance
that need not be understood by everyone who sees it.

Communication through device
leaves headroom and breathing space
while acceptance might be reached.

The current of a conversation
often leads me to face the facts,
but a tsunami of candor could drown me.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 28

LINEAGE



People stand in the queue and I stare, lost in contemplation and compliance. I weigh the conflicts and complications. Is this the method to clear identification? I think I am better known for the lines I’ve crossed, the times I press between warm souls and force myself to the area beyond. How can I wait my turn for generational stew when the fruit trees bear life for those who break free from ruts and rumbles to bite deeply the flesh of the future? I can’t stand here though I love so many in this line, I cannot love the line itself. I must step through, breathe, stretch my legs and mind, take leave of grids and locks, to live a lonelier but healthier life, all caused by a change in direction.


Enjoy change like flowers before the fruit.

*

Kicks


New balance is more than a brand of sneakers.
New balance is a joyful revelation
made possible through constant vigilance.

I am tap dancing into a vision,
no more soft shoed wishfulness.
I can lift my feet knowing I can keep my up right posture;
my musculature robust from climbing
the steps and accepting direction.

This bright tempo delights me;
I feel stretched, subtle, able-bodied.
Life off the balance beam offers me the world
in which to embrace my equilibrium.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 3

SEAM ALLOWANCE


The space given and taken, the space used to bind us and sew us fast.
The permission for humanness and the need for seams to make us whole. The narrow margin, a shoulder on which I lean, the slender strip a place of refuge.

Darts are snipped to hug the curves; I bend to fit to life.
Our nearness; being my own part and part of more.
Planning, and a pattern cut to order with allowances made for fraying and fragility, allow me to feel woven into a web of what is and still hope for more. The unfinished garment is taking shape, easing and stretching.

And before my eyes, pins held between the teeth of God.


Keep strong words on a high shelf you have access to.

*
Have Faith
Strange and wonderful tragedy
takes you away from me
and I don’t know how it is that you return,
but you do and I thank God,

But I’m not sure it was God’s idea
that you went away or that you came back,
though, I am sure, He missed you every bit as much as I did.

I revolve the freshness of you in my mouth like candy;
I swirl, but don’t want to crack open.
Honeymoons are for people who live comprehendible lives;
we fly to each other and cling like raptors plummeting to the ground.

You leave your mark upon me I do the same for you;
we are none the worse for the wear.
I stand in the gush from the hydrant,
soaked in the pleasure, forgoing the safety.

The world may burn down again tomorrow,
I remember that it has before, but I am wiser for the singeing
and weathered with soot in my eyes and charcoal piled roundabout my legs,
yet I’m still standing and you are back from the dead
and I think of you as Lazarus.

And now we will live the comedy
for life is what lay ahead,
we took the hit of death before its time
and so must be off the hook for the rest.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 9

VIRGINIA CREEPER


In a clearing grows a vine; as seasons change the leaves turn pale. This type of vine grows throughout the wood, but does it grow pale everywhere or only in the sunlit space? I see the trembling of the lovely foliage and wonder the destiny of the flora. Does growth have a will of its own? Does it grow to the light or is it a must? Can I turn my face even if Virginia Creeper cannot? And if I can, should I, just to prove a point?


Keep a spare heart for your overflowing love.

*

The First We

Before powerlessness can be dealt with,
before unmanageability can be faced,
it is imperative that the “WE” is embraced.

It is the first and last job of sobriety.
Initially the human “we” is faced
and finally the I and Thee.

But the full spectrum of “we” is there to allow
the creation of possibilities in my life.
As the human body is 97% water
the recovering alcoholic is 97% “We”.

What I could never do on my own;
We do with ease.
On my own I might not be much
but together We are everything!


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 11

DENY ONE, DENY THE OTHER


If you want to deny the problem, by necessity you must deny the solution. Resolving a problem whose existence is rejected creates a split in the crust of collusion. Oftentimes, the convolution and reconvolution of addiction causes a bloated roiling mass that rolls through the streets of sanity. How can a wedge be cut in a creature so dense? How can I work on piecing together remedies when I am readily assured by fellow sufferers there is NO DIS-EASE? Can I trust my personal depletions? Can I employ faith to a resolution when faith is utilized to fortify the contagion I’m told doesn’t exist? But if not faith, what?


Count out all the buttons in your box.
*


Alarm


I have lived life like one long fire drill.
Is there smoke? Not always, but I fear flames.
The alarm in my head is with me always
and I walk from my life single file and silent.

I don’t move on, this is only a drill,
‘I don’t want to take drastic action, this will pass,’
is my constant thought,
though, I can not remember a time without the buzz.

I have stood outside my life so long
practicing in case of an emergency
that there is no life to protect.

I have been conscientious to the point
of being consumed by caution.
Balance requires risk.
I must be brave enough to have it all.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 12

JOY IS NOT ENOUGH


I was driving around in my car, eating a meltingly ripe persimmon. On the radio came a fiddle-playing band performing their rendition of In The White Room. I was traveling with the three drafts of my first step, version one consisting of 690-some words and the final consisting of only four. Joy is not enough. That’s it. The whole thing. Today my life is unmanageable due to the fact, having a balanced life, feeling my wide range of feelings including joy, is not sufficient to eliminate the pain and damage of the past. My horrific childhood has not healed, has not mended seamlessly. I have joy today, every day at some point, in proportion to my sober choices.
I fail to realize the promise doesn’t say heal the past; it says I will not regret the past. I don’t, at least not any of the choices I made. Other peoples’ choices are not mine to regret, so I can’t do that for them. I will not wish to shut the door on the past, and I don’t wish to. I want it healed. I may not get my wish. Just because I am doing my part to heal the past doesn’t make anyone else do it. I can’t strong-arm the perpetrators into recovery the way they strong-armed me into abuse.

Joy is not enough, but it’s a hell of a start.



Lend your assets; keep your defects home.
*



Matching



“Matching calamity for serenity,”
is a task requiring attentive diligence.
Each tragedy has its unique blast pattern
and necessitates a precisely cut cure.

Coverage is one concern and depth is another,
the weight of the healing atmosphere
must equal the corrosive depletion caused by ruin.

I have to make available the wound
in order to receive the remedy;
anytime I camouflage or barricade my injury
I have eliminated the opportunity for a corresponding solution.

Knowing this fact
and answering it with right action is the job of a lifetime,
but I cannot think of a more productive use of my time.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 20

WALKING JOY HOME


I make sure to walk joy home not because I doubt her ability to find it alone, rather because it gives me extra time with her. I used to fear joy, that I would be intoxicated by her presence and lose my well-hardened grasp on realism. Now I see that without joy in my life there is no realism, that it was only cynicism masquerading in its place. Joy is simple and unassuming. I often confuse her with ecstasy and scoot away in shy terror. Joy is nice to have around. She is not just a party animal; sometimes I invite her over for a cup of tea. When we are done I take the winding path to savor every step up to her door.


If you can’t lay down your burden move it from hand to hand.
*

Resilience

When I experience trauma or drama
my heart and soul return to the toddler state;
I feel the urge to stay up and push forward.
I resist help and rest.

I try to override animal need in favor of intellectual prowess.
Bleary eyed and red-faced, I soldier on,
only managing to make my life into a ceaseless fight.

My charm and wit wear thin; then wear out.
I need to recharge my batteries,
need to hit reset and restore my default settings.

It is hard for me to accept that I must lie down
in order to get up again.
Restoration is impossible to achieve from my battle stance.

Resilience is a bouncing ball.
What I want to rise I must first throw down.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 21

REFLECTIONS OF YOU


When people meet me they listen and stare, then the familiar words tumble from their mouths, “there is something about you.” I know it’s the reflection of every person I saw at the meeting last night, the sober voices that created them, also the mirror of years spent in rooms just the same. I know this is what is seen in me. The bright light shines on me and the prism of time fans the colors to my new acquaintance. I thank my Higher Power for letting me be a spectral instrument and I am grateful to the fellowship for shining the light on and through me.


Recycle absolutes into planters.
*



Canine Comprehension


I wonder what it is that the dog knows.
True love, quantum physics,
the ratio of lift to thrust required to make the ball fly,
how food shared from my plate
is better than food from her bowl.

This begs the next question.
What do I really know; song lyrics, nursery rhymes,
old scores from old grudges?

What I hope I have learned;
is the space it takes to keep an open mind,
the willingness required to make a real change,
and the width, depth and breath of honest affection.

If I haven’t learned these things
I will put them at the top of my list of things to do.
Because I believe I can teach this old dog a few new tricks.




.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 25

ABUNDANCE OF WATER


Waterfalls fail the catch basin and run off to make mud slide from the hills. Power showers down, but the channels it uses are not always beneficial. High tide with the push of tsunami wipes out the coast. Water is the stuff of life, but God forbid it gets out of control, there is no living with it. I cannot regulate the weather but today I have a plan. I don’t have to stand out waiting to see how much will come down. I may not have every contingency covered; I do have a backup for the worse than average season. Yes, I did dig myself a French-drain, but I started by not living on the flood plain.


Travel in your own good company.

*


Basket Ball



Idiots out number poets, this is a fact,
though I do wonder why.
It cannot be an easy lot spending your days
in slow witted discharge;

I would think they might at least try putting pen to paper.
I think I would rather live in a world filled with bad poets
than drifting on this ship of fools,

The troubadours rise with imbeciles as their cover
and poems fall from favor.
I wonder how I could make verse a contagion,
how could I make it spread?

You may laugh at me, but think what some guy did
with a broken peach basket and a rubber ball.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 27

SLIPSTREAM



I look in the rearview mirror; I see the headliner and a river of road flowing out behind me. Dual viewing is the kind gift of hindsight. I can see my internal workings and the past laid bare. The beauty and sadness can transfix me. I will lose my way if I keep looking back. I catch glimpses and move my eyes forward. I can’t advance without a full vision so I remain grateful for the mirror. Awareness and cognition, the brakes and gas, I have the full package; I just have to make sure to steer.


Tell a joke to a cat.

*
Picard

The little tin whistle I yearn to play
squeaks in my head
warning that I have no time to learn
and a tin whistle though slender is not easy.

I think if I had a magic wrinkler for time I might learn,
I remember characters that have, but I rethink this
and remember I don’t want to win the lottery again.

I am too good at too many things
and have no time to enjoy their full round pleasure.
I have no need for additional longing or extended guilt.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 7


Dion


Everything in the world happened before I was born and the cinders sift through my fingers. Accomplishing cohesion of the ashes is a goal I have not yet achieved. Cremains precious but meager are a difficult building material, shifting due to emotions and wind, I find they stick too well to my lungs and not well enough to anything else. Tears help, but I will not cry forever. I must draw from a fresh water source and wet the powdery scratch I have inherited and form the world anew.


Use caution when interacting with the crème de la crème this may trigger intolerance



*


OLD GOLDFISH

I got them when my sobriety was new.
They were tiny little guys, ten cent feeders.
I wanted my stepson to sleep soundly
In our strange jumble of a home, fresh from purchase.

The tank sat on a dresser under his elevated bed
Space to fit my hand to feed them
No space for baby boy to climb in
I loved my goldfish.

There is never a NO with goldfish
Feed them as often as you want
Let the water get cold
Put them in a big space, small place, plants, no plants.

NO was so hard, I hate and fear No.
I am hard, fish are easy.
Tears and mesmerizing aquarium
Meetings and steps.

I could not keep myself alive
I don't know how I kept the fish fed.
The program kept me going,
Kept hope flowing and the fish swam.

In this century when we are finally outliving wild goldfish
We are sober together,
By the grace of a Higher Power, in this century.
It's been a wonderful time.

I am grateful to be here with the goldfish.
I am grateful the goldfish are here for me.
Expecting so little
Maybe I could return the favor

Vlog: http://youtu.be/BVWOAXsGMBI

[Tommi]

I have always been with Friends of Bill for my Anniversaries of the past 42 years. It matters. Jan.7., 1977, makes today my 15,343rd day. One Day at a Time, I am alive, and here. I want to thank BFP "Friends of Bill" for your continued posts & service for many years. Keep coming back, it works when you work it and it won't if ya don't. :rrose:

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 12

Live Bait


Is being a taunt to others really a life? Dangling as the cover for a hook, luring intended and unintended to their deaths, is that living? Or if I draw you with my attack rather than my appeal is that a worthwhile existence? If I carry myself filled with poison praying for a strike is that anything other than a march to an unhappy grave for two, or more? Hidden under an avalanche of harassment strips me of my vital quality and my soul loses its true nature. I am allowed to transcend the setup of competition and social strife. It’s alright to be tempting with no agenda. I could be an appetizer if only I removed the barbs or better yet I could be dessert.

Tuck tiny wishes between your toes.



*

JOY IS NOT ENOUGH

I was driving around in my car
Eating a meltingly ripe persimmon
On the radio came a fiddle playing band
Performing their rendition of In The White Room

I was traveling with the three drafts of my first step
Version one consisted of 690-some words
And the final had only four, JOY IS NOT ENOUGH
That's it, the whole thing.

Today my life is unmanageable
Due to the fact that having a balanced life
Feeling my wide range of feelings, including joy,
Is not sufficient to eliminate the pain and damage of the past.
My horrific childhood has not healed
Has not mended seamlessly
I have joy today, everyday, at some point
In proportion to my sober choices.

I fail to realize the promise doesn't say, Heal the past
It says, I will not regret the past.
I don't, at least not any of the choices I made,
Other peoples choices are not mine to regret.

I will not wish to shut the door on the past
And I don't wish to.
I want it Healed
I may not get my wish

Just because I am doing my part to heal the past
Doesn't make anyone else do it
I can't strong-arm the perpetrators into recovery
The way they strong-armed me into the abuse

JOY IS NOT ENOUGH but it's a hell of a start.




Vlog: http://youtu.be/qnr7COwlqqU





.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 2


The Inside Half

I have drunk deeply from the glass set before me. I’m not entirely sure that I am half way through, but I am into it a goodly bit. I would be happy to have another 31 years; thirty-one more hours would be a gift, too. That glass might be half empty but I am at least half full and I am amazed! I am regularly stunned by the prodigies this half trek has born to term; equally dazzled by how quickly the generations compound in this painstaking construction. Development both internal and assembled surpasses my wildest imaginings. Amazement is my most constant companion, more than gratitude and as of late even outstripping willingness my most trusted ally. Shock has been replaced by wonder, bewilderment with surprise, I am fortified with these feeling realities and look happily to finishing the rest of what is in that glass.


Turn left into your right mind

*

DUCK TONGUE

Trying to get out of myself, I travel to an Asian fish market and grocery
I had heard has very fresh fish.
Greeted at the door by thirty large and lively tilapia
Swimming in their tank,
I felt my mood lift.

The captured beauty gave me pause.
Shiny and silvery, the faces banged at the glass
As they tried to get a better look at my entrance.
Like passengers packed on a subway car,
The fish jockeyed for position near the glass.

Further inside, I see the wonders we have extracted from the sea,
Cuttlefish, conch, squid, mussels, clams,
Whole fish of every stripe.
My belief in a power of diversity strengthens
And I smile.

Leaving the seafood section, I head forward,
To the refrigerated cases of other types of meat.
Frozen pigs tail, fowl with feet on, the novel variety pleasing.
When I approach the trays neatly filled with rows of chicken feet
I break out in a grin.

Thoughts of soup and days gone by flutter through my mind.
Finding formed foam piled with layer after layer
Of duck’s tongues was my limit
Spinning in my mind,
Who? Why? Oh no!

But in the end I came to care
About how these minuscule flaps of leather
Were placed.
The person whose job is done well
And to the fact people are just people.

We do what we do.
For reasons unimagined to the rest
And we do it,
With full faith
And hopeful breath.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 13

Progressive Fourth


All I can do is stand on the grass and count the shutters, the windows, the doors. At first I cannot approach to inspect any closer than that. Time passes and the other steps work me. I peer through the windows the next time and count the stuffs I can glimpse through the glass. I possess no periscopic vision, but what is in plain sight I reckon. Subsequently I wished to exteriorize and draw the inventory of the house out onto the lawn and tally there wishing to avoid that interior life, the poisoned vixen who haunted there. Time passed and she recovered as did I, into the house I went. I am now able not only to number my possessions; I can assess the flow and function, work patterns, interplay, reliability. I have now appraised not just the what, but the how of my life and progress into tomorrow.


Give cooperation a hand

*

TRAVELING PICTURES

I parked next to a beaten little import.
The well of the passengers side filled
With empty sports drink bottles and soda cans
The dash board was a shrine.

Three taped photographs.
One of a young man and young woman.
One of the young woman and an older woman.
One of the young woman and an enormous marble statue.

There were small carved objects
Affixed to the dash.
Jade and soapstone figures,
Beads and a feather.

The sanctuary in my head is decked out
In a similar manner.
Postcard pictures line my mind.
People I love, trips I took, pets long gone.

The road signs of my journey
Stand as exhibits of a tour of duty
Not always to my liking
But nothing I would trade.

I know clearly where I have been
And study the map to prepare
For the future escapades and loved ones.

Trinkets strung on my life line
Give texture, flavor and flash
To my pilgrimage.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 2


Here Kitty Kitty

Litter training the lynx seems like a good idea until it is accomplished and all concerned are less for the accomplishment. Domesticity is a transparent cage, which has a presence felt by all whether loved or hated. The air is changed and the cat stifles, everyone is safer, so it is said, but what are we safer from? And what is a broken lynx, certainly not a house cat?


Peer under obstacles then climb over


*
ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE

Just because the crows fly away when I arrive
doesn’t mean they are afraid
but they might be.

The obvious answers are usually the correct ones
but I must leave room for the unlikely answers too.
Sometimes a spade is a shovel
and a gofer is occasionally a retriever.

The world is a wonderful and fearful place
where possibilities are endless
if I am willing to allow the light
to strike these sheltered doubts.

Any day---any where --an alcoholic can stay drunk
or get sober



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 3


Where’s Your Chair?

Is the ring more unnatural for the tamer or the lion? One the trapped, the other the trapper. Who is the more in danger; the one with loss of freedom or the one with possible loss of life? And while this question is still in play the next question is begged. Why is there a ring? What is worth the price paid by the whip holder or the whipped? Spectacle is a thing whose cost reaches from the forest to the trees; can take you from the highest rung down to your knees. All this lost for some Owwe’s and Ah’s from people needing diversion from the ring they turn tricks in.


Refuse delivery of bad acts
*

HOW EVER YOU CAN

I heard --Let go with love.
You know how to do that? Asked my sponsor.
No that’s why I’m here to see you,
But it sure sounds like something I should do.

Well in a perfect world maybe we can all do it that way.
But for now let go with a mean look in your eye.
Let go with rage in your heart.
Let go with words boiling on you tongue.

Let go with the butter knife up to its hilt in the jelly jar.
Let go standing at the sink wishing for some other life.
Let go as a reflex
Let go as an anthem, as a prayer, as a declaration.

Let go even when you don’t feel you are holding on anymore.
At the same time-hold on to what’s important---
Your recovery---Your Higher Power, and your sense of humor.




.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 5


No Reason

Reason falls through, where it lands is a place of unknown seascape and unrelenting tides. The roar in my ears furthers the disorienting effect of relocation. At first it seems easier to let go of reason but when I descend into madness I scramble for purchase; looking for sanity like a cleft in a cliff. Loss of skin and blood is nothing to compare to the loss of my mind. I believe I could be more easily separated from a limb or two than to lose rein on my brain. Reason falls through; I must follow even though the terrain is arduous and my heart is sometimes faint, for without reason there is no reason and without reason there is no life.



Write songs to the dead, sing them to the living

*
HATCHLING

When the shell gets too tight
It’s time to hatch.
I can’t tell you it’s safe out there
Just that it’s time to go.

The leaving is not easy.
Exodus fulfilled by the use of one small tooth
This experience may or may not prepare you
For the rest of your life.

So much still depends on predestination
And your attitude.
I mean are you a chicken or a hawk?
A peacock or a dove?
Or is there something of which I am unaware.

Did someone sit on your nest
Or cover it with sand?
Are you a turtle, lizard or snake?
See so much is out of your hands
But still your actions are your choice.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 8


Helping Hands?

Why would you go to a rattler for a snakebite remedy? It feels so much like the hair of the dog that bit me. The truth is I must, must stay away from the quick answers. I am a slow healer, but I do heal if I allow myself to do so unencumbered by poison or untruth. When I am returning to the vomit of my past it is incumbent upon me to search for the old lies and/or the new ones, either or both will get me drunk; do I even need the help of a prescription pad?


Never cage harbingers

*

SELF-SEEKING IS A DEBIT

Trying to get credit for everything I do
Has run me into debt in my anonymity account
Which draws directly from my humility bank.

I cannot expend my resources seeking acknowledgement
And expect to retain much dignity or class.
How can I build within, while constantly grasping,
For nods and smiles from scenery and landscaping?

I want approval so much that I have lost my center.
In an attempt to top the charts I forgot my song.
My ego writes checks that my soul can’t cover.

I run my potential into the red
Looking to get my name in black and white.
If I keep my name out of lights
I have a chance of building up my dignity.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 17


Ovoid

I can pretend at this normal life for a period of time then the plaster starts to crack on this white picket fence and it’s all down hill from there. I am better than I was; I am happier and more well adjusted, yet I am still far from fitting with the standard fittings, I am an off size, my threads run counter to the average fixture, I spent too much time on the rack to resemble anything from off the rack. It’s not that I am so special; it is just that I am Special Ed. Performance anxiety and paranoia regularly take me out of round though even with these kept at bay I am not your normal nut. I assure you that you can dress me up and take me out, just don’t try to take me home.



Remind yourself of your friends

*

WEE HOURS



In the wee hours I hear the high pitched wail
the tiny pest whining in my ear
the onset of my thin stretched nerves reaching their end.

A few more hours are required of me tonight
I rally my spirit and lift the edges of my willing resolve.
Long slow nights carry me to far corners of my mind.

I am more average than I had imagined or hoped for.
The commonness of four AM brings base to disclosure
the charmed exposure of predawn wakefulness.

The fuzzy vibrations in my brain make me feel deep and real
Vulnerable to all the normal limitations of nature and caprice.
The sun will rise, ending this night.
My sentry over I will fall to earth, and rest, and bed.






.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 19


Nameless Strange

I am nameless strange and you don’t know me, not anymore. Dismissed as an unread book; sent away with covers torn off. The bad weather that you love keeps you indoors eating hot curry and thinking foolish thoughts. What narcissism separates you and me? After blinking eyes you find our sameness, bend near me and whisper my name.


Have faith in fruit

*
A LITTLE EXTRA HOPE

What will you do with a little extra hope?
Asked my quizzical sponsor.
What good is a little hope?
My retort.

A little hope got you sober,
What can you do with a little more?
Could you take out your dreams
And fly them on a breeze?

Could you throw yourself
Into a wave of intention
And see if you could ride it out?
Breathe easier, smile broader?

Take my hand tighter
And walk the road awhile longer
Before you run for refuge?

Let me ask a better question.
What couldn’t you do with a little more hope?
-----------FAIL-----------




.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 21


Mercy

The rearview holds the vision, the sad figure on the corner as I drive away, all that is left to me are memories of G-d, the rest I ejected and sped from as fast as I could. I cannot face what is left when I make G-d homeless and unloved. Though living together was tough sometimes, living alone is unbearable. Nothing cooks right, cleans right, tastes right or smells right, even the moon won’t rise right when I am strictly on my own. And G-d wasn’t built for the streets, that corner is not someplace my Higher Power fits in. We are meant to be together and apart the world spins off its measure. Pitiful is what I am, so I swing around the block, fling open the door and take pity on G-d and go home.


Make time for lullabies
*


BELLS

The bells are ringing but no one sings
There are no peals of laughter and that’s just fine
For pleasure is not the only response to sound.
Shock and distain are other options, too.

I have what I want in relationship to the buzz in my ear
Equal opportunity attitude, pro and con.
Some songs bring joy when they end.

I have to lower my expectation of pleasure
And value my distaste for tinkling sounds
Or any other preordained sweetness.






.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 26


Green Wood

When a nail is hammered into a living tree, the tree is forever changed. Even if the barb is pulled out the tree will never be the same. If the spike remains and the tree lives; over time the nail will be incorporated, the tree will get on with the business of living and carry the thing as just a part of what it took to get here. What was trauma is trauma, but life is big and the longer it gets the larger the life, is the hope. Piercing experience is engulfed by rings of fresh wood and a will to grow beyond the moment of impact. The tree branches out and even a hundred nails can’t stop that.


Educate domination when you can and cage it when you have to

*

VIRGINIA CREEPER

In a clearing grows a vine
As seasons change the leaves turn pale.
This type of vine grows throughout the woods
But does it grow pale everywhere
Or only in this sunlit space?

I see the trembling of the lovely foliage
And wonder the destiny of the flora.
Does growth have a will of it own?
Does it grow to light or is it a must?

Can I turn my face
Even if Virginia Creeper cannot?
And if I can------------
Should I just to prove a point?


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 1


THE COWS ARE HIGHER THAN THE HOUSE


I got sober only to end up living in a house where the cows are higher than the house. I mean, next to my house there is a hill. The hill is surrounded by a fence. The cows are pastured inside the fence. Standing on the hill, the cows are taller than the house.
I didn’t expect to live in a house where the cows were higher. I expected normal. I didn’t expect the cows at all. I expected the house, but not this house, and not here, next to this hill. I expected to tell people, "Come to my house. It’s at the end of the lane. It’s the one with the rose colored shutters." My sponsor wants to know why rose colored shutters are okay but cows overlooking the house are not. I can’t answer her. It’s just wrong; that’s all! I don’t know why she can’t understand this. It seems perfectly clear to me.
My sponsor says I am powerless over cows and my life is not unmanageable but my thinking is. She tells me to paint purple cows, to write stories about worse places for the cows to be. I tell her the tub. She says write it down. She’s no fun.
I heard in a meeting I should pray for the people and things I am upset about. I pray for the cows. My sponsor says the cows see how I live my life and she is sure the cows pray for me.


Write a letter to the moon

*

Lie


Yes, a lie is just a lie,
but the truth also has problems.
I relay the facts
and the words take on a life of their own,

They leave out the backdoor
and walk on down the road.
They move to another town
and never find time to come back for a visit
even though, I am their mother.

And woe to the woman
who grows attached to credit
or recognition for her ideas.
These kidnapped prodigies are never ransomed
but sold outright and their DNA not questioned or tested.

So, my advice is to love your words in secret
and raise your notions behind high walls.
If you are ever called upon to share your wisdom, lie.

For even if you’re caught the risk is tolerable.
Exposure is awkward but then again no one is looking,
so, what is there to lose.
A lie is just a lie but it stays home with you at night.



.

[Tommi]

Transition from here and now dear Friend of Bill. You were so much to so many that held your words of inspiration close to heart.

Too young. Too soon. Title of your bestseller, Sober on the Way to Sane echoes in the corners of my mind.

Left Write Femme ,clever left handed writer.
Memories :moonstars:Traveling to 12 Step bookstores from New Jersey to California to kick off the following 10 books. Remembering the glee in your face when you saw your books on the shelves. Your joy as I marched across the snow in motorcycle boots, so you could photograph me for the cover of your first novel, about Love and abuse in our community. This is intolerable. Rest In Peace ☮️

[Tommi]

Friends of Bill

Living sober. One day at a time, remember the journey of those who have gone before you. Sober thoughts and sober living enable you to give back and pay it forward. We will continue along the road, always providing a light along the way.