Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 26


TOP

The chipped paint of the red stripe gives the illusion of fading to rose as it spins. The edge, painted with green, thalo in its intensity, reflects the windows of the room. The bead, purple and gleaming, affixed to the stem, holds the cuff with its two apposed openings, the cord recoiled inside. Underneath, protected from easy observation, resides the point, lathed and faultless. The turning weight is carried and balanced perfectly on this nib. The hum, spiraling and melodic, comes from the table as well as the top, the epitome of form and function, grace and harmony. In spite of it all, the only thing that truly matters is who pulls the string.



Be polite to your dreams.

*


Exceptance


“I want God’s will for me,”
I sigh to my sponsor.

“Except for this and except for that,”
is her trig response.
She knows me, knows I have exceptance.

“You have a list of exclusions,
a list that dams up the works.”
“Well, trust is hard,” I splutter.
“Trust is not the issue here,” says she.

“You don’t feel acceptable
and exceptance is what follows.”
“Whatever could you mean?”
my broken bluster leaving only this plaintive whine.

“You believe you’re not good enough
for God or anyone
and cross everything off the list
in an attempt to duck blame
or shame or some other nasty thing.

You are good enough kiddo,
get that and everything else is good enough, too.
At least good enough for now
and now is all we have. Accept that.”


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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 27


BELIEVE

Listening to what people say is a half waste of time; believing it is a full waste of time. Truth wills out in behavior. No matter what is said, what is done is the real deal. What is done over time is the final test and the things which are repeated, resounding from one generation to the next, are to be counted on. Believing in told truths is a snare and delusion, the trap of all traps.
If your sponsor has a sponsor you may sleep at night. If your sponsor works with that sponsor you can sleep soundly. Doing the right things, doing them over and over again, doing them with others, your group, your friends, your sponsees, will make you believable. I can think of nothing else that will.


Tickle your age and laugh with it.
*

The Resentment of an Acorn


Because no one believed
that I was a giant oak inside,
I had to prove it and drop my little cap
and leave my shell behind.

Now I stand big and tall,
alone, board feet to the sky.
I have lost my portability in my quest
for the recognition of my potential.

My amazing growth painful due to its cause;
poor mental health is a bitter road to achievement.
As I stand head and shoulders
above the undulating canopy
reflection comes on a sweet breeze.

Am I sorry I’m here, it could have been worse,
could have been eaten by a squirrel
or glued endlessly to a third-grade art project
“my walk through the woods”

Bugs could have gotten me,
though that looms even now.
I could have disintegrated, lost my power and integrity.

Whatever the driver I am appreciative of the destination,
there were many darker roads on that map.
It’s good to be here.
It’s good to be anywhere sober.


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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 28


ONE IN A THOUSAND

“Did they tell you the odds when you came in?” asked my sponsor.
“Yes. One in thirty makes it to the rooms. One in thirty of those stays for five years. One in a thousand gets truly sober and is catapulted to another dimension." I responded.
“What was your response to that?”
“Well, I showed the proper amount of surprise and said, ‘Oh, my.’”
“Yes. What did you think inside?”
“I thought. 'Climb with me or I’ll climb over you.’ Not very spiritual is it?”
“It worked. You’re still sober; a lot of folks aren’t. The company you keep is sober. There is nothing less spiritual than being drunk,” said my sponsor.
“Is that why it’s called a selfish program?" I ask.
“I don’t know. It seems to me sobriety is a gift you give to the world.”
“But I give it to myself.”
“Can’t give a gift you don’t have in your possession.”
“Point taken.”


Do what you can and try the rest.

*

Adjustment


The chase is on, round and round it goes
and where it stops no one knows.
I run after control and change as I grasp,
but can never quite get my fingers
wrapped around the thing.

An open fist is an adjustment;
no fist at all would be a feat.
The fool’s errand I send myself on brings suffering;
there would be suffering anyhow,

I feel I am the cause due to my attempt to avoid it;
another backhanded attempt at the illusion,
the goal, control.

Adjusting to reality is at first freefall;
rarely do I get to second.
The shape taken by the shift in my gears
to no gears at all dilates my pupils and the rest is white.

If the colors come back I don’t know when.
If the ground beneath me returns I don’t know how.
I am blinded by the light and can only follow the sound.


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[LeftWriteFemme]

March 1


WANTING

“Wanting to be alive is not as important as wanting to do right," said my sponsor.
“I don’t want to be here," I half blurted, half sobbed.
“I know," came the reply. “Many of us come in not wanting to live.”
“But sobriety is about living.”
“Yes, and you want to be sober,” said my sponsor.
“But I don’t want to live.”
“This moment. This moment you don’t want to live but you still want to be sober. You still want to do right.”
“Yes.”
“And that is what you’ll do. You’ll pick up the tools as you have done so often and you will try everything suggested. You’ll see how you feel tomorrow.”
“What if it doesn’t go away?”
“You’ll keep it up and see how you feel the next day.”
“What if I never feel better?”
“Ah, well. When have you ever had anything that dependable?”


Don’t force joy to simmer let it boil over.
*



Van and I
(Happy cleaning windows)



When the fog clears and I still can’t see,
I check my optics and wash my windows.
The mundane upkeep hones my pursuit.

After the weather and housekeeping concerns
are managed, eye exercises are next on the agenda.
I have to strengthen my equipment,
stay fit or fall prey to vagaries
of nearsighted limits or farsighted failings.

Myopia is an ever present danger
I must guard against as well.
A fixed focus is a death trap.

I must learn to track a moving target
while I wend onward.
Nothing in life is stationary;
concentration and a decent line of sight
are priceless rudiments.

Continual practice with the tools and tactics
build my confidence and sharpen wit.
Burdens are lightened
when I see my goal in stark relief;

I can chart my path and make my way.
Sobriety means if I can see it I can believe it,
so I best go get the Windex.


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[LeftWriteFemme]

March 2



IF I HAD A SCREWDRIVER


If I had anything other than this hammer, possibly, I would discontinue pounding this helix into the side of my universe. The slot is unused; the flat head of my sledge slams. A wide void is punched into my abyss as the threads are pummeled not turned. If I had picked up the right tools, if they had been displayed within my reach, if my granny had five wheels she might yet be a wagon.
I have picked up new tools but, having never seen them used, I bang with them. Watching others twisting the wrist and angling the elbow, I try to wrap my mind around the posture. Muscles I have never used, laminated to mental configurations unthought of, improvement in workmanship is slow. Many a fine toolbox has remained full and untouched, the mind lacking the dexterity to grasp the in-workings, the body ill-equipped for the outer. If I had a screwdriver, I pray I could bring to it the flexibility of sinew and the nimbleness of wit.


Remember the minutes; they belong to you.

*


Reality and Desire


“I know the difference between desire and reality,”
I whisper to my new found friend.
Who I am and what I am,
are a reality unto themselves,

Your recognition of that
and how you handle said recognition
are for you and God.

The vastness of the true you;
I hope to spend a lifetime surveying;
but not sampling.

What you want and your reality
are not mine to mind or mend.
If you are driving that train this is on you

If HP is the driver all the more incentive
for me to be still, enjoy the ride and await the outcome.
For in the end the question is never,
will you be mine, but what will I be to you.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

March 3


SWEAT

I turn the desk lamp into the eyes of God. I put question after question to the construct of my childhood concept. “Would you please explain?" Or, "Exactly why did You do this, that, or the other thing?" "Are You now or have You ever been a member of…?” I put the pressure on; the beads of perspiration join, then trickle. I have God in ‘the box.’ I will not relent.
“I don’t understand You," I say disappointedly, as if speaking to a troubling adolescent. “You have so much potential if only You would apply Yourself.” The icon shakes Its head slowly and deliberately; I shake my head, too. So much time has passed and I am no closer to embrace.
“You don’t understand Me,” says God to me. Dawn breaks; I uncuff this mythic creature.
“You are not the one I am looking for. You are free to go.”



New is neutral, not better or worse.
*


Stepping up


I look along the list of names,
look upon the sea of faces.
Are there any whose eyes I avoid?

I gaze across the landscape
are there any craters,
any pock marks, any divots.

I tick through my actions
those I’ve recently taken
checking for stubbles, glitches, snafus.

These combined facts and figures
create a portrait of my day;
I appraise the eyes, the hair, the teeth.
If I can smile at what I see
all is well if not I begin the repair.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

March 4



DICHOTOMY’S EMBRACE


Contentment and security bleed in through the doors and windows of my heart. Peace blows its fine wind across my mind. I fear for my identity. I raise my hand to beat the drum. Is my pulse still there if the beat of discontent is not? The warmth seeps in, my fingers uncurl. I resist the urge to tilt my face to the sun. How can I be I, if my countenance is not bleak? Mirth escapes my lips. Am I a creature of laughter?
Shadows play across the shade. My brain feels through levels of sheltered memory. I am old and age hangs from my brow. I am young and exposure stings my flesh. In all this, joy? Where can I enfold this antithesis? A child of extreme, yes. Brooding and rage; hounding and silence. How have sprinkles and starlight added to the mix? Purring, musing and sweet kisses. What am I in this embrace?



Write a collage.

*

The Horse of a Different Stripe



When I arrived at the horse and pony show,
I saw all there was to see;
there were Morgans, Walkers, and Paints.

Yet I couldn’t help but return
to this particular zebra,
the spark of my imagination,
the inspiration of my dreams.

There was no help for me,
I want what I want and need what I need.
It was all about spirit, all about soul.

The fire in its eyes matched
the burning of my heart,
ignition at the point of recognition.

Then I stumble, then I fall,
bad behavior and wrong thinking,
the selfishness of the self-involved
takes hold and runs my mouth, “

Nice mount, great steed,
But can nothing be done about these stripes?”
The flash in those eyes,
the knowing knickers, said it all.

I was trying to stay in my small place
and that would never work with her,
if I wanted the Zebra,
I had to be willing to go to Africa.


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