Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 27

THE DREAMER


“What about the dreamer?”
“What about her?” responds my sponsor. “You ask me about her like I was the one who pushed her off the cliff.”
“Are you saying I pushed her?” I questioned my sponsor.
“Yes, that is just what I am saying. Do you need me to sing it? You wanted the dreamer to fly off to safety and happiness and wanted her to take you with her. In an attempt to grab hold of her ankles and propel her to heaven you threw her from the precipice. Now she is broken and bleeding far from your sight. Your dreamer is damaged and you ask me what about her. Do you want to know what you did and how to remedy it or were you looking to duck responsibly?”
“Quack.”


Run before you fly.
*



Defining the Indefinable

What is Alcoholism?
What is a Hurricane?
What is a Cataclysm?

I know I look for the root cause,
look to predict the outcome,
look to prevention and preservation.

This thing which comes pouring
from the four winds
to land in my yard
and knock on my screen door.

What it shows me today,
the furious winds,
the slanting rain,
may not be how it presents tomorrow,

I must keep in mind it is all the same storm
and must be regarded with the same respect
and treated with the same care and diligence.

Whether it’s the thirst or the thinking,
a jail cell or my mental mouse trap,
alcoholism is an umbrella term for the tsunami,
which came to collect me,
but no definition will convey the devastation it has wrought.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 28

PUBLIC PRIVACY



My public privacy is protected by my smile not my scowl. Maintaining boundaries as I travel the common areas of life is more readily accomplished by a pleasant demeanor than a dark stare. I have used negative attitude and found myself outside of my own protection. The buoyancy of my manner keeps surface tension a natural and acceptable reality. Hooded behavior drags every interaction into suspicion. When I make part of my business to put others at ease, it is easier for me to preserve my business as my own.


Put clothes on ambition.
*


The Slick Nature of Grace



The higher I climb the more severe the fall;
the sweeter my life the more brittle my blood sugar.
I must be more careful as I get better.

I thought being sober would make my life free from care,
but I think it is a freedom from fretting
that might be more accurate.

I must still climb and take in all the sweetness
which comes my way,
but always I must vigilantly keep my balance.
Hold on tighter; eat more protein.

Grace is a glorious thing
and I am the consecrated recipient
who knows the slickness of the slopes
and the cunning of the glucose.

Daring to be sober is an athletic endeavor
I must tighten my cleats
and sharpen my sweet tooth.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 29

SATISFACTION



Satisfaction is like a marble in my pocket. Formed when correctness was still red hot and my sponsor rolled my mind until I was whole. I sigh and square my shoulders. I know I am up to any task. I am skilled with my tools and know well the talents of my intimates and helpmates. I am not invincible but I am capable. I value who and what I am today. I sleep the sleep of a person not a hostage or a captor. I am me. I have a marble in my pocket and it reminds me of the world. I have a world within me; knowing how to live with that is a great satisfaction.


Listen clearly to angry words but don’t repeat them.

*
Even at the Bottom


Why is it that I feel God leads me to the path,
but expects me to travel it alone?
In all honesty it feels more like God leads me
to the stairs and I fall down them on my own.

I lay in a heap at the bottom
filled with self-reproach for the landing.
I forget that a power which draws me forward
can also endure.

I did not come here alone,
I will not leave here alone;
I am never alone,
even at the bottom of the stairs.

[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]

August 31

CHANNELING


It’s a full feeling to be a channel. Only an empty feeling when it’s blocked at the base of my spine and God can’t go to my head. The river flows through me and my banks will hold. Excuses dam me up and leave a dry and lifeless basin, with tributaries taxed for usefulness. Staying in the groove conveys my Higher Power’s will without need of my furrowed brow. A hose with no water running is a place for spiders to spin. If I shut off to service, I am a breeding ground for creeping sadness and shocking misery. Compliance allows me the view of flowing strength and rushing joy, the greatest of which is living with intent.


Repeat until you chant.
*


Shadow of Doubt


The long dark cast covers my face,
my thoughts…….. my life;
it is the light blocked by my skepticism.

To tear down the obstruction
means a profound change of my internal architecture;
walls will have to be knocked down, windows installed.

The poor mouthed structure
takes better to the steamroller than I wish it would.
I fear the loss of my hideout,
panic at the thought of a life in the sun.

Skepticism builds a paper world;
opaque, weak yet frightening to tear apart.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 1

ORIGAMI


I fold my reality like origami, each day a shape to suit my whim. A dog when I feel like begging. A horse when I want to trot away. A pot to brew up some potion. A penguin when I feel cold and I stand on my egg all day. I can bend and flex, change my image, but in the end I am truly flat and lifeless, a construct of imagination, but soulless and boring. Reality cannot be my creation made in the accordion of my mind. Truth and breath come like the wind and I need to let them change direction and change me, too.


Turn right both ways.
*


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?

[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 3

HARD TIME



Sometimes I pack the earth down so hard that weeds can’t even grow up through. I try to make nature inert. I try to kill my alcoholism. I confine my disease to this tiny path of compacted dirt and wear blinders as to warn off distractions. I forget there is a garden to be grown in the fertile ground of my recovering mind. Losing the compulsion to drink is a gift; stopping my mind from thinking is soul murder. I can sink my toes in the good brown soil and look to the lilies and the Queen Anne’s lace for inspiration. I can stop giving myself such a hard time.


Let art talk.
*

FIVE FINGERS THAT GOBBLE
It only takes five crayons
to turn a tracing of my hand into a turkey
and it only takes a few things to change
my drunken life into my sober life.

Looking back I am amazed
how little it has actually taken to transform my life.
My drunkenness looks about as much like my sobriety
as my hand looks like a turkey
but the transformation has taken place.

The red, the yellow, the brown,
the meetings, the steps, the sponsor, these basics are the bulk.
Sometimes it’s the small extras
that help push this work of art into the realm of believability.

Accents of green, up and down the fingers,
or a few bonus phone calls to women outside my network.
Anything can be the thing that kicks it over
into a plausible and convincing reality.

I can never be more than I am, a drunk is always a drunk
and a hand is still just a hand,
but within each of these things are unimagined
possibilities waiting to be explored.

Michelangelo believed that sculptures lurked in chunks of stone.
I have come to see that a sober woman
prowled inside this drunk
and every Thanksgiving my hand yearns to put on feathers once again.

[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 5

DO NOT BE A FRAUD

“Fake it ‘til you make it" is like saying "keep drinking ‘til you get sober,” complains my sponsor.
“But what about the things I can’t do yet?" I ask.
“You work on them; that’s all. You work. You adjust your attitude, practice the steps, carry your behind to meetings and talk with me and the other people in your network.”
"Yeah, that sounds like a breeze."
“Easier than staying sober while lying. In this program we try to stay in the moment and be honest. Pretending to feel differently than you do at any given time defeats your ability to be present and makes it hard for people to trust you.”
“But it’s so awkward,” I grumble.
“Which is why we of the alcoholic persuasion try to find short cuts, but don’t get sucked into them. Tell the truth and do the hard work of sobriety, and stay away from the persons who try to sell you a softer way.”


Let people give advice to you, never take it from them.
*

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.

[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 7

THE FRUIT BOWL


Meetings are living and precious fruit. I must squeeze every drop from them, even the lemons. I am privileged to be among the succulent growth and pungent fragrance of determined hearts and minds. The infusion of strength, the vitality received from the essence of truth gives and gives to me. I am refreshed by exposure to raw talent, revived by action and growth. The diversity of shape and flavor cheer and inspire me. The contrast from bowl to chalice is dramatic, ever a reminder to stay where it’s fresh.


An offer is better than a gift.

*

Genius



I am often bonded to a self which thinks I know everything
and when in doubt believes I should know even if I don’t.
Freeing me of this requires the constant support
of friends and neighbors’ assuring me that in a capricious world
willingness is a more practical resource;
it packs neatly and handles most jobs with aplomb.

Staying consistently free from the bondage of self
requires truckloads of willingness
and the spirit of humility and sometimes even forgiveness.
I am freer when I like myself,
for the true bondage of self is the hatred of self.

[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 10

DO YOU HEAR THAT SOUND?



I was running on empty and thought I was getting along that way but the smoke gave me away. My life had caught on fire and I burned it to the ground. I thought nothing had been apparent until it all lay in ashes. My sponsor said, “No, we all knew when your tank ran dry. The sucking sound could be heard for miles around.”
I asked her, if that were true, why I hadn’t heard it myself?
She said, she guessed I had my denial turned up too loud.


Box a gift to be set free at a later date.

*

Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon


Tying myself to one rail of a set of railroad tracks
gets me the same results as tying myself to the other.
Swapping one chemical fix for another
is like changing my socks in a rainstorm,
nothing dry will come of it.

Not seeing potential harm does not eliminate the harm.
Like a child with my hands pressed firmly over my eyes I yell,
“You can’t see me,” and run headlong into disaster.

Whether the train comes and makes a mess or not
I make my own soup Ducky
and must get on track by staying off the rails.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 11

YES, THAT TOO



When kindness becomes a weakness, when mental agility becomes emotional instability, it’s time to reassess everything. I cannot leave any thing off my inventory because my grandma, or society or the preacher says it’s a good thing to be. Every blessing can be a curse; all my characteristics have their dark side. I have to list the entirety of my cargo and keep a watchful eye. I have to moderate my investment in all my abilities or I could lose myself. Warmth is nice but I don’t want Death Valley. Integrity requires balance or depraved indifference will be the outcome. Weak and strong, right and wrong, it all goes on the scale.


Be generous with yourself, then others.

*


Louet


Consolidating fuzz into yarn
makes me a friend to sheep everywhere.
Spinning the filaments of truth into cables of life
does not impress the mutton in anyway,
but sure does my mental health a world of good.

Free floating fiber is bad for my lungs
and piles lint all around.
Giving things a firm twist
pulls together what used to be fluff
and keeps me warm and dry.

[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 13

RECOGNIZABLE NONEXISTENCE



You will never take time to tell the truth. You will always take time to tell a joke. As you run from your life I see the familiar vapor trails of an unlived life. When I flee my life through caretaking I leave the same mist of unfulfilled desire behind me. I look at your potential and the damage that you do by not being here. I turn the magnifying glass on me and search for the same trends. I feel abandoned by you, the you, you never were but always should have been. I pray for the key, which will get me on the other side of the door you never opened. I hope to live life as it is rather than the comedy it can never be.


Cross the rivers in your mind.

*

Cadentia



The randomness of love
is matched only by the randomness of loss.
What slips into view or out of grasp
whispers beyond my control.

Like cookies baking in a nearby oven
I long for the sweetness to be inside;
even if it is simply in an olfactory way.

The similarity of the pain of what I have
and the pain of what is no longer mine
haunts me; scares my security,
rattles my hope, affects my sleep.

For minutes make a life
and moments are all it takes to remove the very same.
In the end all that I know is that loss does not remove love
and love does not remove loss.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 14

KILLER SQUIRRELS AND OTHER SOBER DRAMA


I can tell you stories to make your hair curl: death-defying fifth steps, speaking commitments with microphoned podiums, sponsees with killer squirrels trapped in the house. Courage and sheer determination are needed to face plague, after crisis, after pestilence, and yet with sober mind and willing heart these travails are surmounted and we live on. Tears turn to laughter with rescue and remedy. How strong we feel as the cape is passed, when the one-time panic prone sponsee becomes the model of calm and stable sponsor. Hoards of relatives at holidays and interactions with bankers, police officers and all manner of people in shiny shoes are handled with grace and boundaries. Porch loving skunks, children becoming teenagers are faced with humor and wit. Things, which in years gone by would have sent us screaming to the phone, are now casual asides during after-meeting discussion. Life does keep on spinning but we learn how to stand still.


Spend a day on a lily pad.

*


Heartfelt


Boab trees litter my dreams;
gossipy like old women in the late afternoon sun,
I wonder at the tales they tell though
I am far too young to understand.

The Australian Kimberly shelters these mysteries in life;
they shelter me in the far off wilderness of my mind.
Coming to age seems merely a step
when in the presence of the ancient beauty of long endured life.

Too long drought, too deep rain,
are places I can pick my face up from,
stand my ground or be on my way.
The leaves may fall, but they will return in my dreams
and I will return to my life.

[LeftWriteFemme]

Sept 15

WHINING BRATS


Some days whining brats come at me from all directions and my hair won’t curl. Apathy chases me around the house. I wonder how it has more energy than I do. My mind twists into a wrinkled mess; I drag my good foot and hop on the bad one. And even on those days I still rather be me; I never long to be the innocent victim or the spiritual leader, the tough guy or the PhD. No matter how bad it gets or what the struggle is, there is no place sweeter than in my head. Many are the days when I wished not to exist, not at all, but never to shuck my skin for the skin of another. Now that I manage, breathe right and face each day with cheer I know it was almost worth it and might be worth it yet.


Write your name on a piece of paper and slip it into your pocket.
*

Warhol Wouldn’t Be


There is no trick to art.
If I work to make my pieces fit with the familiar
I lose my individuality.

If I make what is truly me
I fear there is no line in which to stand.
I must make the work, find the market,
live life and die happy;

All this with no map
and a world filled with people
who tell me what to do,
but none who can guarantee the outcome.

My unwillingness to fight,
to look at and feel the ugliness of life
is at the core of my impediment.