Letting

There is a time,

it seems,

even long after our emergence from the womb,

when we must actually let ourselves

be born.

Uncaged

No more desperate attempts

will there be

to stuff elephants into

mouse holes.

No, the elephants must roam unfettered

on their rolling, grassy plains

under the streaming light of the sky,

trunks blaring

as only elephants' trunks

can.

Impact

I have seen truth

in a very brief word --

no long, postured dialogue,

yet powerfully heard.

Grace of State

You are truly a bird of splendor

when you demurely fold your wings

at rest as you were designed to do

by the God Who made all things.

Prisoner's Plea

Truth is a prisoner

in iron chains

loosened little by little

through backbreaking pains.

Pride, reluctance,

shame, and fear

conspire to shackle

with threats austere

Truth's plea for release,

for honesty sweet --

lost sheep safely nestled

at Jesus' feet.

Soft the Rain

Grass-green and fresh the missing was,

still dewy from the rain,

tender sprigs of longing mixed with

the dandelion bitters of pain.

My Little Mother

I wish that I could sit beside

Baby Jesus in the hay . . . . .

His Mama's face on a statue

opened up to me, yesterday.

No cool and distant countenance,

but a yielding, humble and sweet --

arms outstretched, face beckoning,

as though it were I  She'd been waiting to greet.

Love was Her beauty, Her selflessness

the magnet that drew me near

in prayer to Her, with new understanding

of my little Mother dear.

When Words Shine

Chain of words,
the finest thread,
repartee woven
between heart and head.

Chain of words,
all links secure,
lifeline extended
that hope may endure.

Chain of words,
reflector of light, 

stalwart companion 

in thick of night.

Chain of words,

strong hand to grasp

in the tear-stained journey

toward Truth at last.

Tragically Tepid

Go ahead, vibrant one --

take your shimmering blacks and whites,

your raving oranges and yellows,

and let them all fade

to gray

while you submit, trancelike,

to the vapid cheer of

easy comfort --

traitor to yourself.

When you are as bland as unsalted french fries,

as listless and wan as a glass of nonfat milk,

desperate in that cringing corner of your soul

to escape the tyranny

of idiocy parading as wisdom,

then, perhaps,

you will recall the refreshingly rude,

blaring honesty of orange,

the scalding passion of red,

the intensity of black,

the ecstasy of white --

and you will pine, finally, for something

real.

I Thought

I thought, afterwards,

when I was done startling

out of my skin

at every creak and 

soundless brush of shadow;

when my head was done

surging into volcanic pain --

body shaking, green,

and retching;

when I once again

surrendered,

despite deep reservation,

to the passivity of sleep . . . 

I really thought,

after all of this,

that I could and would

return

without a hitch

to that nice, neat world of

impeccably painted walls

and wooden trim,

that all my shelves would fall

back into order --

and I'd dust.

The whisking of the

clean, fresh cloth

would solve it all --

I thought --

wiping away the smears

of ruin

and the seething pain

of shock.

Quickened

Poetry uses inanimate words

to frame reality.

Reality framed by acts of love

breathes living poetry.

The Bell-Ringer

Boy rings the bell,

then runs away.

(Does he wish to see you?

Yea? or Nay?)

He might like to know
that the doorbell can ring,
that the lady comes running
when she hears it sing.

Perhaps he believes that
the lady is silly,
her brain pricked by hairpins,
mind fluffy and frilly.

Or maybe he wishes to
test the door,
to ensure that each ring
flings it open once more.

Bell and door proven sound,
he never stays --
just bolts like the wind
in a dusty haze.

What bell-ringer seeks,
nobody knows.
But he tests bells and doors
wherever he goes.

Song of Light

Follow the sun

and you won't go wrong.

Look to the moon

for your bedtime song.

The sun will blaze; the stars will keep you

bathed in beams of light

when clay earth cools 'neath sunset's jewels,

twilight sinking into night.

Truth's Fire

"No words for you,"

reports the wind. 

Thank you," nod I,

my trust undimmed.

"What keeps you steady?"

wind asks anxiously.

"A light burns afar," say I,

for the words that will be."

Tempo True

I would rather say nothing

and hold my own

off in a corner,
completely alone,

than run with my words

like a horse in a race

to keep up with others'

breakneck pace.  

Let them run, let them tear

through gate after gate,

topic upon topic,
while I quietly wait.

Let me ponder, let me tarry

and never rush in

to perform mental feats

in games I can't win.

When others are tense

and ill at ease,

frightened of silence

and driven to please,

may I hold fast to peace

and not spill myself silly

to fill gaps in sound

with words, willy-nilly.

I detest when I do this --

I loathe giving in

to the force of unrest 

for whom silence wears thin.

Restorative

Worn down easily

by the frivolous and excessive,

I take frequent siestas

of solid, unmoving print.

I am surprised

when people find this rude.

I see it as a polite form of rest,

as there is no snoring involved.

The Poet Laughs

The greatest meaning often occurs

between the lines,
or sometimes off the page
entirely --
an extremely poetic
phenomenon.

When the silence, full,

wishes to speak,

the poet listens.

Suddenly Foreign

Beautiful Mom,

laughing, loving sun

around whom my earth spun. 

Not a linguist,

but translator of all. 

When she averted her face,

sunset came too soon,

darkness descended

(though it was still day),

the air stung with cold,

and shadows stalked

gardens once lit by tulips

smiling at the sky,
dancing in the summer breeze. 

When I turned to look for her,

I gasped to see

her once warm place

usurped by Winter --
every face on the disappearing horizon

now completely

untranslatable.

Compassion

An actor knows an actor --

from far away each sees

the skilled attempts at posturing,

reframing by degrees.

An actor knows an actor,

never troubled by the act,

performance, reflex -- like a sneeze --

which fails to muddy fact.

An actor knows an actor --

knows to bow and back away

when the other must take refuge 

in the role of his own play.

A Vehement Loneliness

Arrogance, it would seem,

is a most agonizing death

rehearsed vehemently during life.

Let no man's epitaph be:

"Died fanatically preserving pride,

with mortal wounds to the left and right hemispheres

of disdain and conceit,

following a martyrdom of self-imposed isolation

from all lesser men."

Insidious Counting (One Christian's Perspective)

If life is truly to be taken "one day at a time," and "all we have is today," why would a recovering alcoholic ever be encouraged to count, one by one, his accumulating sober days?

The counting of sober days is potential temptation and punishment rolled into one!

Counting sober days risks making the recovering alcoholic a veritable slave to his own accrued sober time, to the external appearance of well-being, and, possibly, to an insidious pride in his sober time.  God, however, does not want us slaves, but free.  He does not want us to get ourselves puffed up, however subtly, only to become enslaved to appearance or pretense.  Perhaps this is why those who do "go out" to drink again -- and who survive the experience -- appear so much calmer, clearer, and relieved upon their return to sobriety.  They may have hurt themselves in one way, but they have also reasserted their freedom under God and restored their own humility.

Recovering alcoholics are encouraged to "keep it simple" while, paradoxically, engaging in the scrupulous practice of counting every single day of sobriety, so that they may "earn" their "celebrations" for "x" amount of time sober and remain grateful for the gift of sobriety.  But scrupulosity in any form is normally considered to be a spiritual affliction, a psychological burden.  Counting sober days contradicts the very essence of any program which stresses the importance of "one day at a time," "living just for today," leading a balanced life, and, overall, "keeping it simple."

Counting sober days, in short, is all sorts of spiritual trouble -- the root of which is pride and the fruit of which can be lies.  The practice of religiously counting sober days is therefore dangerous to a recovering alcoholic's sobriety.

"Attending" recovery meetings for 90 days, after all, is quite different from feeling compelled to "get" 90 days sober.  A free man "attends."  If he stumbles, drinks, and survives, he simply picks himself up again.  In reality, no one who drinks on day 89 of his sobriety actually loses his previous 88 sober days!  Yet, despite those 88 genuinely sober days, the recovering alcoholic who drinks on day 89 must typically begin counting his sober days all over again after his fall -- no official group acknowledgment will be forthcoming for that comprehensive string of 88 consecutive sober days.  That string of 88 sober days is effectively erased.  This erasure, however, is a lie.  The consequences of this lie can be far worse than any mere withholding of celebration.  It is a lie which has the ugly effect of also discrediting, to a greater or lesser extent, the whole person who has "slipped."  To complete the lamentable picture, lies and distortions of any sort feed into the spiritual part of the disease of alcoholism.

So why, the question begs to be asked, should any "returning" recovering alcoholic bear the degradation of appearing to have lost his truly sober time  -- through the rigid, scrupulous, and potentially punishing practice of counting sober days?  This practice actually becomes a controlling mechanism which treats an adult like a child, then punishes a "fall" -- the act of drinking -- with the lie of sober-time erasure.  This erasure of "accrued sober time" often effectively exaggerates the actual amount of so-called "lost" sober time.  For instance, in the case of a very brief foray back into drinking, the comparatively short time spent on drinking assumes a much greater weight than all the sober days that preceded it:  If a recovering alcoholic drinks on even just one day -- say, day 89 -- he "loses" the entire string of his 88 prior sober days.  And this insult to his reason and dignity comes after the very practice of counting sober days has possibly helped to tempt his fall in the first place!

How might the practice of counting sober days actually tempt a recovering alcoholic to drink?  It might tempt him to drink by virtue of the very detail noted above:  by treating him like a child.  Children, after all, lose potential rewards when they disobey . . . . .  The counting of sober days having become a control mechanism (which the recovering alcoholic then obediently inflicts upon himself), it also becomes a potentially shaming mechanism under the surface -- despite group encouragement to "keep coming back" after a "slip."  A control mechanism, in turn, devalues both human dignity and free will.

Something deep within an adult human being may understandably revolt against this degrading treatment of his humanity . . . and he may wish, legitimately, to say "no" to it -- perhaps without even realizing exactly what is rankling him, but reacting from instinct alone.  What a shame (or, perhaps, a tragedy) if a recovering alcoholic were to say his first, bewildered "no" to this dehumanizing approach with a drink. 

May others say "no" for him, preferably BEFORE THIS HAPPENS -- by discouraging the destructive and obsessive practice of religiously counting every single sober day.

God bestows the gift of free will on each of us.  If people are truly "free" to believe in Him in a recovery program, then they must also be "free" to be free (!) -- which always must include the freedom to make reasonable exceptions, in charity and prudence, even to the most so-called popular or "proven" methodology.

The counting of sober days enables fortunate souls to celebrate various segments of their sober time, but perhaps at the high, high cost of grinding other, less fortunate souls into an early grave under the punitive cloud of perceived -- and exaggerated -- failure.  For the returning alcoholic who has had a drinking "slip," the hard message between the lines is that there is no real forgiveness or "mercy" built into the mechanics of such a program.  Furthermore, there will be no accompanying count of "successfully sober days" to boost, rationally and realistically, the returning alcoholic's true "sobriety average."

In the operating mechanics of such a program, the recovering alcoholic's "slip" erases his prior history of integrity and perseverance, and he is "bumped" back to "Start."  

Making a fresh spiritual beginning with each new dawn is one thing.  Erasing history, however, is quite another.

Not Enough

It is not enough

to be genuinely oneself

where methodology has become

a god,

where people must prove themselves

sufficiently skilled in serving

him above all.

No, a simply honest man

will never be quite trusted

there,

for his very freedom

disqualifies him.

Every Drop

We make such small strides

with our pain,

yet every inch

feels like a mountain climbed,

an epiphany.

Amnesiac wound lanced anew --

and not much gained

beyond the reminder that

yes, there is a wound.

Still, a peak is scaled each time,

a new summit reached,

and -- as anyone who has foraged through a piece of hell

will attest --

the view, however limited in scope,

is worth every glistening drop of

sweat.

Entrapped (Post-Dream)

The sun shone, but

words could not move,

thoughts could not move --

inner world frozen solid. 

Tears flowed over the impenetrable granite,

tears because I was stuck

(worse than any writer's block)

and could not write my way

out of that miserable, miserable place. 

Should I have cried "Help!"? 

"Help, I cannot write!"? 

Absurd --

and yet, not really,

because something more than my writing

was stuck. 

I was.

When

Hope . . .

such a precious thing

when the waves of suffering

crash over one's head.

Hope.

Ping-Pong

Life stopped

in some way

last night

in my dreams.

Subtle, it was --

how it stopped and

took my breath away --

but how?  Who?

While I was walking around

trying to get my bearings,

trying to piece together the story,

the characters completely changed,

covering over the something wrong,

the something wrong with the place,

and I knew exactly what had been wrong with the place

but forgot it . . .

because the absurd entered

and wiped it all away.

Donkeys and ponies

then ate apples off trees

and I played ping-pong with a

Russian man.

Let It Play

Doom . . . . .

Doom all over everything,
a coating,
sickening.

The dreams -- back again?

This time, forgotten,

but for this, their imprint.  (How could I have missed it?)

And the interruption of consoling music on the screen

makes me want to scream,

as though something 

were breaking,

and how dare it break now --

Please, not now.

The music -- let it play;

it must play 

the doom away.

Silent River

Amidst a sorrow

deep and wide,

the noise of my rhyme

I can barely abide.

The dam having burst,

river now overflows;

I'm swept by the current

wherever it goes.

En Route

And what do they know

of who you are?

Words are like kites

rustling mutely, afar.

But let it be, let it be --

let the words have their day.

Let some thoughts touch ground

before blowing away.

Of Worth

The selfish hasten to surrender

what Love rejoices to remember.

Honey's Cure for Woe

Words are useless

for this pain.

Perhaps I'll wash it off

in the rain

and dry me in the next sunny day,

then hop on a cloud,

and soar away.

Sunny Honey

Honey apologized

for her heart.

All kinds of trouble

it would start.

All her life,

she loved too much;

her mother often

repeated such,

not comprehending how a girl

could get her heart in such a whirl,

so twisted 'round another's finger --

one who would neither love nor linger.

Perhaps it was a father thing,

a search for a dad who would make her heart sing,

looking high and low for a strong, worthy hero --

heartbroken after batting zero.

Honey once tried not loving at all

and felt over her life a terrible pall

like death warmed over -- no pain, and no joy --

much better she felt pining over a boy.

So Honey reclaimed her runaway heart,

displeasing others more cunning and smart,

others who preferred staying wary and alone

over daring to love when the sun next shone.

Locks Declined

Trust is not mere feeling,

passive plunging down a hill.

Trust is a decision of

"I want to and I will."

Trust is not a guarantee

the other will come through.

Trust is love enough to say,

"I choose to believe in you."
The lock serves well in hostile zones,
accompanied by key,
but trust posts love as sentry,
preferring to be free. 

Of Power and Contradiction

The key -- a symbol of control.

The key -- a seed of war:

Guarantor of privacy

which also unlocks the door.

Noon Sun

Friend arrived with noon --

spritz of light from the East.

We strolled down the road and had us a feast

of words and laughter and common ground,

roots of likeness struck deeply, still new ones found.

Friend left again but the glow remains

to rekindle life's fire when spirit wanes.

Nameless

Body still bewildered

after all these years,

tissues thick

with unshed tears,

the swollen salts

of pain. 

Cells,

frantic and depleted,

thrashing off-course,

old pathways

steamrolled: 

High adrenalin,

in its wake,

leaving some cells

flattened

while scrambling the codes

of others,
replacing person
with nameless anguish. 

Comfort,

an unsolved

mystery.

Evasion

Evasion is a strange animal --

beside a lie, not as colorful.

Evasion is more like a gauzy mist

flitting this way and that with an agile twist.

He can't disappear, for he was never quite here;

nor was he ever fully there.

He's several places and nowhere at once;

to pursue him is like chasing air.

Evasion wants nothing from anyone --

except to be left alone.

So, if you come calling, don't be surprised

if  Evasion says he's not home.

The Void

And they know not

how you waited

in that dim room

so long.

They know not 

what it is

to be gutted

of song . . .

to have silence enshroud you,

dread's grip so tight,

no stars,

no love,

no "Good morning,"

no "Good night."

Just blackness and gloom

outside of the room,

and fright that encased you

like an oversized tomb.

This they cannot

know.

Art

Sweetheart staunchly cut her bangs,

spiky roof on her forehead now hangs

crooked and quirky, all little-girl style,

her dear handiwork -- and beneath it,

bright smile.

As It Is

No privileged view have I

but nature, sun, and sky.

In truth, I know so little.

Doors open and close;
when they close, I cry --

Sad punchline to each riddle.

A Separate Space

In times of crisis,

feelings can elude me

and I must watch from my head,

knowing for months or years

the gravity of what has unfolded,

benumbed in silence while others emote

grandly . . .

and I wonder why I

can't.

But later,

when present is past

and the drowning hubbub has ceased,

in swoops the enormity of the truth --

all the more striking against a subdued backdrop --

unlocking all of the feelings that rightly belong to it,

spreading its wings

wide

to catch my flowing tears.

Book Troubles (or Strong Scents Clinging to Paper - The MCS Files)

I'm reading a story about a girl whose boyfriend broke up with her because she was reading a book at a funeral.  Prior to that, she'd walked into a lamppost while reading.  Reading while cooking, she'd accidentally started a kitchen fire.

As for myself, I was caught sniffing a book Saturday at the library, checking for absorbed scents too strong to bring home.  The pretty, petite librarian clicked by happily in her high heels when I heard -- and saw, out of the corner of my eye -- the sudden catch in her step.  It was then that I realized the book in my hand was still held up to my nose.

She picked up speed again, thankfully . . . . .

Higher Logic

Instinct rushes to identify

trouble brewing on the sly.

Pedantic reasoning has the fate

of often being much too late.

Askew

A lie nearby

can sometimes be felt

when instinct warily recoils.

Gut twists in response

to an unseen prompt

that wrecks peace as it roils.

Something obscure,

something unsaid

left swirling in the air,

the churning waters in its wake

mute proof it had been there.

Broken Words

Broken words and broken poems,

the language of the lost,

the stammering of beggars begging,

"Hear me, though it cost."

In Memory's Ear

Breathing I heard

in memory's ear. 

Frightening?  Not now,

because it's not here. 

Whose breathing was it --

in memory's time? 

This I know only: 

It wasn't mine.

My Prayer

Help me to become
who I must be,
before You regret
ever making me.
Amen.

The Stranger

Arrested

by words 

serious

and keen,

I halted. 

The stranger

suddenly

had a soul,

and I began

to see.

Exclamation

I don't understand contentment based on

creature comforts alone.

I refuse to treat as tragic

the availability of "mauve" as opposed to "bone."

I cannot bear to fuss about

this method versus that.

Change is not a scandal to me

as it might be to a cat.

Death is coming to us all,

vanity is air and fluff,

so when people rave on about trivial things -- 

enough, enough, enough!

Silent Sorrows

There are sorrows never broached,

yet they exist . . .

shadows passing over a face,

sadness behind a smile.

These unspoken things

have their place,

for if they're in man's heart,

they matter.

Time Change

Drunk with night's exhausting dreams

I painstakingly wend my way,

old layers of time interposing themselves

in memory through the day.

I shake off old time zones from hour to hour,

trying hard to remain "present time,"

but the old zones slip in, over and over again,

without tangible reason or rhyme.

It tires a body, this constant flux,

global movements in the mind,

each bearing an old mood, like an old perfume,

"signature notes" varied in kind.

One whiff after another, fickle time has its way

of obliviously wafting through,

uncaring of mindset it blithely disturbs

as it swings between old and new. 

Surrender

Answers that elude me --

go ahead, fly away!

Sad and disgusted,

I'm too weary to play.

What God wishes me to see,

He will reveal.

I've no more patience

to withstand the unreal.

Exile Unspoken

Drained from pretense

(or was it charity?),

I sit in a warm, dry room

after a sunlit day,

damp and chilled in the bones. 

And the work was hard --

hours of buoyant conversation --

for there was no bond left,

only burned bridges

long ago incinerated. 

In their ashes I swam,

attempting to vivify dead memories

and ties which, perhaps, never were . . .

the futility of it all

breaking again and again and again

my own dumbstruck heart.

Why bother with words, when silence can be so much richer?

Jealous Captor

On his knees within,

the addict stumbles through the day,

substance crooning, "I'm your friend,"

while holding friends at bay.

Mere mortals can't compete

with the peaks of ecstasy

that wax and wane alluringly

in twisted reverie.

By Itself

Thanksgiving alone

might be my fate --

goat yogurt and cranberry

marooned on my plate.

Dandelion tea

might offer a perk . . . . .

No coffee -- but chicory!

Now that would work.

But then, chicory comes

with barley mixed in --

Can someone find me chicory

by itself,

in a tin?

I Worry

Organs ailing within and I worry,

worry about what it all might mean.

Doctor's office makes me sick

between disinfectant and candlewick,

but the pain remains constant and keen.

Writer's Holiday

Unwell, I write,

and write all the more,

distress pouring out of me.

Well, I write,

but in measured dose,

more conscious of heart's lock and key.

Thoughts During an October Illness

In the breathtaking 

sunlight

(so beautiful!)

approaching noon,

eyes cringing from the

brightness,

ears buzzing softly,

head in a misty daze . . .

I had the fervent desire

to cry.

********************************************************

 

Sometimes,

it's just games.

Even a smile 

can lie,

when there is no 

real warmth

behind it.

Sometimes,

for the sake of honesty,

we would do much better

to frown.

*********************************************************

If you have one person

who really cares about you,

consider yourself

rich,

because many people find

caring

to be a burden.

I don't know why.

*****************************************************************

Eyes stiff,
vision wobbly,
inflamed brain nearly pounding out of my skull,
I finally gave up writing
to watch an idiosyncratic romance,
laughing my head off
like a crazy person . . . . .
Maybe tonight I'll watch
the Weather Channel.