where the writers are

November 1





I have dug myself a trench and invited my friends and family.  Truth is, I drug many and tricked others and there they are in the trench I have so recently climbed out of.  It is a nasty place and I feel horribly responsible, but here is the sacred truth; I can’t climb down there again, not even on a rescue mission.  I am obligated to help them, this is for sure, but the fact still remains that it is not safe to get into the water with a drowning person, even if I am the one who caused the drowning.  If I am to be of any help at all I must get my footing and keep it safely on the bank and only then might I be able to throw down a rope or lend a hand to anyone, especially those I love.  I pray for the sturdy stance of helpful strangers and try my best to cause no further harm, more than that will have to wait until my cleats are soundly lodged into the earth and my head is squarely upon my shoulders, for headlong and mud covered I am no help.



Topple trivial towers



The way that age pours down my mothers face
When she is sad reminds me
That grief runs through my blood.
Generation after generation
Has been transfused with anxious woe.
Heartbreak vexes minds full of fear.
There is no easy way
To round the bend on sharp pointed issues
The route is circuitous.
I battle the chaotic thinking to fight my way back
To a place where my mothers eyes sparkle
As they squint closed with her smile.
The war of peace is not easily won by contemporaries.
We must close ranks between the ages
To keep the joy from sheeting off our skin
And keep the sadness in proportion.
Restore us to our possible bliss
We can over take ecstasy from there.


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