Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 6


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.


Say what everyone knows in a way that no one thought of

*

HUMILITY

A great woman walks my street everyday.
She carries a tall walking stick with a loop for her hand.
Each morning I see her low crown of hair and the half smile,
Her friendly wave when I catch her eye.

Each morning when I see her
I see the secret play across her face--humility.
This is the secret she cannot share.
I know she would sing it from the mountain tops if it would help.
But humility is not a secret you can tell.

It’s a secret you have to live with.
As I slowly learn this precious thing I see it shine in others.
Recognition of persons with inborn dignity
And a keen understanding of their personal value lights inside me.

When I see this fine woman walking with purpose
I appreciate myself better and am so very grateful
For those who keep humility alive by living it.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 7


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.


Acknowledge the marks left by the street you came from

*

YES---THAT TOO

When kindness becomes weakness,
When mental agility becomes emotional instability,
It’s time to reassess everything.

I cannot leave things off my inventory
Because my Grandma, 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 lose myself.
Warmth is nice but I don’t want Death Valley.

Integrity requires balance
Or depraved indifference will be the outcome.
Weak or strong, right or wrong.
It all goes on the scale.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[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.


You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 9


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.


Raffle off the surplus grit from your nitty gritty

*

MEGAPHONE

The point of surviving
Or maybe the goal after survival
Is enabling the voices of victims to be heard
Starting with my own.

I allow the surging waves of thought and feelings
To rush the gates and exit
I try to bleed the bad
With and without the use of leaches.

So much is stumbled upon rather than sought after,
Some things hound me, I run down the street
With memory at my heels
I must let the screams out or become them.

Today I talk, tomorrow is for others.
When I pour forth I open the way for the rest
I have become the megaphone
Rather than the cheerleader
It is good to be of use.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 10


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.


Go relax on the porch of your imagination

*
WILD

When I run wild through the rain
My hair streaming behind me
Water fleeing my face
I see with my heart
The thousand other rains
Pouring from my past.

How I peel from me the soaking luggage
Covering my naked pain
Nothing drives me to the cozy retreat
Of my bed like the humid chill
Of an early fall drizzle.

I slip my trembling skin between
The comfort and the comforter,
Flex my toes,
Towel my hair, wipe scenes of lost love
From my pale, pale soul.
Leaves rush my gutters, clog my mind.

I see the change in me as I turn heel to heel.
Trees spinning bare in a blank wet world,
I know this ever relived fluid, recycled life.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 11

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.


Jones for candor


*
WORKS

I cry the waterworks so necessary to the healing of my heart.
I explode with the fireworks required
For anger to set living boundaries.

I sleep the sleep of angels, as I link to dream works
Allowing mental maintenance to occur,
Slip into my political face, making time for public works.

I return to my abode, call the pie maker and order “the works”.
Have it delivered so I can face the homework
Waiting for me and bearing my name.


You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 12


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?



Sample other people’s assets

*
OPTICAL ILLUSIONS


Like my new frames? I ask my sponsor
Who wrote your prescription?
Oh the lenses aren’t new just the frames, I reply.

You want to be seen differently,
but you want to see things the same old way?
My question still stands---
Who wrote you the script for those funhouse glasses
you have used all your life?

Did it ever occur to you the distortion is ground into the glass?
Remember some people need you to see things for other than what they are.
Unhappy families look great if you can’t see them too clearly.

It’s hard to know what to say to keep the peace--said Grandma.
She never took off her specs to see there was no peace to keep.
So I ask you again --The view of the world you base your choices on
who chose the color you see it through?


You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 13


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.


Check your drawers for memories
*

SCREAMING LETHARGY

The screaming lethargy of being alive
after many years of wanting something else.
The exhaustion of pulsing, breathing waves,
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.
Like a free trip to an unwelcome destination
I arrive with randomly packed bags and low expectations.

I am 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 from travel,
Fearful of arrival.

Fury courses through my veins
but the weather is pleasant.
I might take off my coat and stay.


You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 14


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.



Chime in
*

HOME TO HOPE

Shadows of doubt fall across my face on dark days
And I have trouble finding my way home to hope.
Reliance on sunshine fails me come dusk.

Twinkling stars bare their souls to little avail.
I am lost.
Absurdity and obsession plague me for time and attention.

I wander deeper into a dismal wood.
How can I chop my way free?
Dejection dulls my senses; I am blind to solemn assurance.

I must reevaluate the shimmering enthusiasm from the night sky
Skepticism passes like storm clouds.
I may feel the rain for a time.

Necessity reigns on both sides of every street
But still I can crawl into my bed
Morning will come and I will fear less the coming night.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 15


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.


Except change then accept change

*

LINEAGE


People stand in the cue 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
Living a lonelier but healthier life
All caused by a change in direction.


You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 16


Hand Washing

I live a simple life now; I handle life as it is dished up. I no longer need to make use of the dish prison. Living an orderly active life I find it untenable to have my favorite spoon or bowl held hostage until I make enough mess to run the dishwasher through. I don’t live an ‘Eight is Enough’ type existence and need not burden my psyche trying to save my hands a little soap. I save the Cascade for visits to waterfalls, Jet Dry for landing strips.


Smile with all the parts of your face

*

DEATH PRACTICE

Why do you practice death like it were a skill?
Do you fear you lack ability, or because it’s your goal
Have you made it your hobby?
Beleaguered by the questions of my sponsor
I search quickly for some believable response.

I confused calm with death
And thought I was practicing the former.
Death came for a holiday
How could I refuse it.
It’s a test drive, if I like it I can keep it.

My sponsor doesn’t think I’m funny.
Check your motives, wants and desires,
Make sure death is what you really want,
That it’s not just your fallback position
Because you fear life.

Don’t get me wrong
I hope death is a good thing
But why try to chew tomorrows food
When your plate is full of today?

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[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.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 18


Buffoon

Never juggle knives and butter at the same time or you will just spread your problems around. Passing on the knives is the first best idea, leaving the butter in the dish is the second. I have gotten many funny schemes into my brain; gotten them in with ease, it is the getting them out of my brain I struggle with. Crowbars and coercion have been my favored tools; ineffective though they may be, I am persistent, while wishing to be dexterous. It took me years to realize the problem with juggling is that it begins with me throwing things and ends with disaster if I can’t catch it all. What slips through my fingers through daily living is hard enough what I throw into the fray for showmanship is, too much. I needn’t be the fool flinging my pins when my goal is to stay on them.



Learn a song in case of karaoke kidnapping

*

OLD BOOKKEEPING, NEW PAINTING

What will become of the fine lines
I use to divide good news from bad?
How will I handle life with no screen to keep
the silt from shifting across my personal landscape.

A delicate crosshatch had kept little checks in little boxes
Now the checks are bouncing randomly,
No pattern or restraint.
My old bookkeeping has come to an abrupt end
Leaving many questions and much uncertainty.

I lift the green visor from my brow,
Looking for answers from the periphery.
Taking the long view
I put down my pencil and pick up my paints.

Sling the easel over my shoulder
And walk away from meticulous survival.
The fine lines I have now are in my brush strokes
And even bad news is somehow good.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[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-----------

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 20


Toolbox

I know just how hard it is to pick up the right tools. It's like I know I have a hammer in the drawer, in fact I have two, so, why oh, why do I feel compelled to hit things with the heel of my shoe? Trust and believe it is ineffective at best; additionally it is embarrassing. I wish I could say I have done this a handful of times, unfortunately, I have done it over and over, it’s hell on my shoes and worse on my morale. Using what is at hand or foot may seem practical, but it is not prudent. Walking myself through the step by step process; reading and following directions is easier but only when I disengage the lie that says it’s harder.


Build a canopy over elucidation

*

SAFETY IN MY CHAIR

Sometimes
I have to sit with my knees
Tucked up under my chin
My feet can’t touch the floor
At these moments I hug my legs to me.

I feel contained
But somehow adrift in my chair.
I center my mind on breath and pulse
Pure fear flits and flutters
While I gain my composure.

When I feel safe enough
To put one foot down
Then the other and connect
With the world again.

I am leaving home to embark this earthly trek
The journey is there for me everyday
But some days I curl up in my chair.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[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.



You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 22


No Jin

I molested the touch control lamp. I had no trouble turning it on, but could never figure how to turn it off; therefore I let the light shine in the daytime. I called looking for guidance, “lick your fingers then try again,” was the glib suggestion. I offered that I was not interested in becoming that intimate with said lamp. Sometimes connections are made easily, other times they cannot be made at all; still there are times the renewal of a connection is determined by my willingness to up the ante. Am I willing to put a little spit into the effort or will I leave the light to burn?


Invent small pleasures

*

WILLING PIECRUST

I lay the crust of my will over the pie plate of Gods’ will for me.
I must have the willingness to trim off the excess.
I hesitate--- I worked hard to roll it out.

I know from past experience when hot issues come up
These tags and hanging-ons burn and drop
Sometimes ruining the flavor and appearance of the whole.

It is easier to cut loose the things outside God-given intent.
I get the pie in its entirety when I crimp and bend
To the shape of my life.


You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 23



Peace Time


I have been to the wars and through the wars and now sit on the stoop and wonder; will I learn to live here in the world of everyday after having had to spend so much time running for cover. Each time I return to what I believe is my home I sit and rock trying to pour my soul back inside from my hipflask where it was held for safekeeping. I try not to spill a drop for it is worse than shed blood and harder to rebuild. My soul has grown pale from confinement and lack of sun, but it still exists and for that I pat my back and suck on my Lifesaver; I could have done worse, was unable to do better. I console myself with the knowledge I never started the conflict just learned to survive it.



Substitute action for apathy

*

REMEMBERING

Remembering is the oxygen my brain pumps to my soul.
Remembering gives me mobility and traction.
Everything in my life that is positive depends on my remembering.
It keeps apathy at bay
And complacency locked in some far off cupboard.

Remembering gives today the misty sweetness I have grown to love.
I can live to my potential and enjoy the process.
Watch misery move away.
I can dream the future every night
Because I remember who I am and what I am capable of.

Never can I be haunted.
Memory keeps me from reactionary visitation.
Though some fear the past
I know holding it in a close embrace
Allows me to dance to the rhythm of truth.


You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 24


What is Dear?

I am angry that I was taught I must hold on for dear life instead of being taught that life is dear, but they couldn’t teach me what they didn’t know and couldn’t know what they had not discovered for themselves. I wish I had learned earlier to love the life I was taught to cling to, but I am grateful I have been bound to life long enough to find the joy in it. I have found that knowing joy causes me to cling all the more, cling in sweetness to what was once such a bitter task. I am angry for what I wasn’t taught, but sadder still for what they didn’t know and all that is lost in their lives to ignorance and tradition. I wanted better for them and they wanted better for me and this is the circle which closes around the dear that I hold onto.




Make room for running starts

*
FRUSTRATING IMPROVEMENT


Improvement is frustrating, lonely and yet exhilarating.
It somehow starts with moths in the stomach
And ends with warm soup satisfaction.

Struggling, waiting, followed by further struggle
Progress made by tugging one string then the other.
It is hard to accept scaling the ropes alone
But tottering assent is always this way.

Once at the top I realize how easily I could slide to the bottom
Sometimes friction is all that keeps me up.
Establishing a new altitude is challenging.

I must ground myself in a new way.
My talents hinder and aid me.
I must open the correct doors in my mind
And avoid the traps in the floor.

Stuttering through requirements and obligations
I transform but only slowly.
Earning each drop of comfort from a job just done.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 25


No Dialing Tonight

When it is late at night and I can’t sleep I wander and putter and plan my dreams. I hold out hopes and wash their faces; pray for rain and clean all traces. Thunderstorms rumble and lightning strikes; I tune up the plumbing and wipe down the pipes. All the paint and promises in the world won’t change me; I’m still lost in the dark without you. Tear stains are friendly till I wash them away leaving blotchy eyes that can’t be explained; an aching heart that keeps on ticking and wishes that can’t come true. Sunday morning is here, too soon and life rolls on whether you think it should. Tiny thoughts come out to play and sad, sad fears keep them at bay. But the dog is curled up under the covers without a care; I long to disturb her but do not dare. She is the queen here and I’m but the naïve; I’ll tend to my writing and try to be brave. For the dawn will follow this endless nocturne; the whole world will be safe once more. I will cry but it’s all too late; though you are merely a phone call away.


Find the place where noise and music intersect

*
ALARM CLOCK

The dream killer plays its harsh tones.
I pull my lids, so unwilling to wake.
The tip of my tongue dry to leather
Welcomes the wet of my toothbrush
I grin a foaming smile.

I run through my night travels
I mentally wander the highlights
Ponder the implications and meanings.

Dressed, with open door breeze in my face
I leave nighttime escapades
For daytime pandemonium.
The only thing I won’t leave behind
Is the last image before the gong sounded.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault