Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 22

THE PRIVILEGE OF SUN RISE


I wake, happily, at 5:30. I will again see the show beyond compare. In stark contrast to the mornings I filled with moping or sober angst, shades of the same dark color, I shuck my covers, bathing and dressing with purpose, and propel myself forward. I hate to miss the first act. Dawn, the tint of clouds dusky and sweet. I’m on my route; I start my open-eyed prayer. For all those living at the hands of an addict, Be with them. Please. For the addicts, help us all to fail fast.
I scan the horizon, checking all the views. I reflect on the striking change, earthbound green and gold, sky held pink, orange and blue. The silhouettes of trees exquisitely lit from behind, the sweet moon sharing the sunrise with me, add to the pleasure of my drive. I start my gratitude list. Beginning with my sobriety...each moment, the people, the life, the thinking, the feeling, and my ability to share it all with you.


Don’t become overly fond of nothingness for it may consume you.
*

Jacks


Born crazy, is that better than becoming deranged?
Do birth affects excuse my unrepentant glee?
Does irrepressible sardonic wit
explain the order of restless exposition?

Can you count on Cicadic enthusiasm to carry me,
or flightless fancy to keep me down?
I am beyond redemption, beyond reception, beyond device.

I arrived riddled with chaotic cracks,
but I am more than just a glaze
and deep down I’m more than sound,

So walk with my wild side
and your thoughts I’ll rearrange.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 23

WAITING FOR THE RECOVERY OF OTHERS


I sit on my hands and wait for these bright pennies to earn the lessons of time. I dance my little dance and move on, dropping the pretense of patience. I search other forests, fields, and meetings and encounter many fine plums, though none are the gems incubating at home. I make acceptance my goal and breathe through my days. I watch the bulbs ripen and bloom. I wonder at their beauty, inhale their sweetness. I have lost track of my personal progress. I behold, with charmed dismay, the open chasm before me. I must turn from the flowers and let the new lessons begin.


Don’t show your broken places to everyone, but do show them to someone.
*



Spectrum


The quality of the poetry
is so dependent on the quality of the lighting.
Improve the color palette and yes, you’ve guessed the result.

So, I say to you, “Turn up the lights.
Do not write in half-dark grief and limp through the words.
Spotlight what you can and illuminate the rest.

You needn’t make a sound,
needn’t pitch a tent, needn’t build a bridge,
though you may, may if you wish.

And wish is what I do, wish for better light
and when the clouds break loose in the sky let the sun pour in.
I lift my pen and make it all;
for what was needed was this better light.”

"So, I say to you, “Turn up the lights.
Do not write in half-dark grief and limp through the words.
Spotlight what you can and illuminate the rest."

Word!!
Spotlighting what I can today, the rest seems to follow in it's wake.

Thanks again Sherrie for your words of wisdom. *kotc*

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 24

BIRTH OF AN APPLE


When an apple gives birth what is the result? Seed or sauce? Crunch or crisp? The act of creation is so much an act of sacrifice, how can it be limited to only one kind of delivery? The children of effort produce fruit of their own; who am I to call them other than my kin? How many times have I thrown over bluster for blizzard? But snow is snow. I can accept every squall if I keep clear and willing. I may finish my days in a winter orchard if I spend my life picking not choosing.


Keep two lists: what you want and what you have.
*


Behind Closed Doors


The children of happy fathers make no sense to me.
I have known no such peace.
What is it to live in a world where there is a man
who likes you, someone who approves?

I feel like my chin would have always been out there to see,
no ducking, no need to hide,
had there been a good man to whom I could turn.

The dark circles under the eyes of my soul make me old,
old and different from those kids, mere children,
safe in a home with a happy man whose joy it is to be their Dad.

[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 26

FISH OF CHAOS


Out of chaos come very tiny fish, well, maybe not fish but a very swimmy feeling. How can I go around with my feet off the ground, my mind racing on a squirrel cage? Breathing helps, breathing is someplace to start. Once I get breathing regularly, I can gingerly probe with one foot for a place to stand. The chaos may race around and past my legs like so many eels on a summer’s evening, but with time and practice I can step from this current as well. Out of chaos come very tiny fish, but I can come out, too.


Wring out every drop from your books.

*


Circuit Speaker


It isn’t until I listen long to the Northside poet
that I realize there is such a thing as a Chicago accent.
I hear it as I never have before.

I don’t hear it in my beloved Rodger,
hear only the hope he brings to share.
As I get ready to walk to the podium
I wish that no one hears the Jersey in my voice
only the experience I bring to share.

[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.