In there

inside the elbow

I see

the old woman

the wrinkled skin

loose & sagging.

Out there 

in the outstretched arm

I see

the young woman

full of vitality strength

and courage.

Between the two

is me.

Sitting here shackled feeling less than a man

My heart's been broken since that day you up and ran

Helpless and hopelessly in tears

While locked in a cage

Wounded and scared yet these eyes flash this fiery rage

Chorus:

Girl you cut my wrist that day you lied

Girl I thought we were forever side by side

Girl my end of the world was when my love was denied

Girl would you cry if I took one last breath and died

Crazy and wild times like Bonnie and Clyde

The current of drugs changed us

Like the turn of the ocean tide

Like a pack of wolves we howled at the full moon

Awake into the night and asleep into the afternoon

Tripping and stumbling in this fog of fear

Lost and blind I feel chills of death whispering in my ear.

Chorus:

Girl you cut my wrist that day you lied

Girl I thought we were forever side by side

Girl my end of the world was when my love was denied

Girl would you cry if I took one last breath and died

On my bunk sneaking a smoke before the guard makes a round

Criminal behavior it’s called

Here they come sniffing like that old blood hound

Every moment is spent thinking missing you

Emotions are driving me mad

Tell me what I should do

Life without you is pointless there are no other options

Wandering through a crowd of messy concoctions

Chorus x2:

Girl you cut my wrist that day you lied

Girl I thought we were forever side by side

Girl my end of the world was when my love was denied

Girl would you cry if I took one last breath and died

When time is up and all has come to an end

Come home to me let our life rest

While all else is on the mend

Chorus:

Girl you cut my wrist that day you lied

Girl I thought we were forever side by side

Girl my end of the world was when my love was denied

Girl would you cry if I took one last breath and died

Girl would you cry if I took one last breath and died

What I have recovered

about myself

is my sense of me

I’ve realized

I’m no longer a mouse

but I’m a person, a woman

What I have discovered

about myself

is my sense of belonging

I’ve felt

closer to people

my friends, my family

and strangers sometimes

What I’ve uncovered

about myself

is my sense of stability

I’ve stood

My feet and legs are strong

My head is held high

My smile is wide

What I have recovered

discovered

uncovered

is me!

The fact was that all that warm weather and sunshine was making her feel just awful. She thrived in the misery of frozen ground and snow—not least because she made her best living plowing and sanding driveways. Mowing lawns wouldn’t be quite as profitable, but that was not the point.

Because the fact was that she was only satisfied when she was cold and miserable and complaining to anyone who would listen. With the sun and warmth would come beauty and sweet smells and new life. Who could possibly endure that? Not she. But her saving grace was that she would now, as awful as she felt, have something new to complain about. It was all good.

I had never heard metal crash against metal so cruelly so constantly until I came to prison. Steel doors opening and closing,
opening and closing giving ears no rest.
Like sledge hammers hitting a steel bar echoing bringing me to this dark, ugly place.
This empty useless place of delusion.
Darker even than the darkest night because I’m stuck, denied, forgotten uselessly looking through Prison Screen windows at high fences decorated with barbed wire in clever circular swirls crowned with perfectly placed razors that hunger to cut and drain my blood if I dare to challenge them.
So for what good is it?
What good am I here?
When one day struggles to follow another to endless timeless routines that take me no where. Lost in captivity.
And what do I do with this?
With this life that I have brought here?
Is there something in my soul that’s Redeemable? Restorable? Remarkable?
Do I have worth? Can I believe again?
Do I have a desire to believe? And by believing find hope? What is this hope that I seek?
If I will be but kind to myself. Will I find hope? And what will this hope give me? If I test it and try it, will I have found faith? And having found faith will I be able to rebuild myself?
I read: “Ask and ye shall receive; seek and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened unto you.”
A promise of hope to my lost and needy soul. Surely I can become a miracle of hope if I would but follow the Light and Voice that told me to Ask, Seek, Knock. Will this surely bring me hope?
“I can do all things through Christ which strengthen me.” And with each step. I will build hope up. I will prove that there is more to me than dust and ash. Hope will be my companion that will strengthen and guide me. What was lost will be found. What was dead, will have new life. For Hope will be my banner, my sword, my shield and I will now meet all things in my day with Hope

Peep...peep...peep

Awareness of sound

spring peepers

turn my obsessive thoughts

out

into the fresh air.

Breathe deep

release worry, tension and woe fresh air in 

with in breath

out 

with out breath.

Peepers

Refresh the spirit.

Quiet allows awareness

Something other then

internal turmoil,

Something spiritual...

Presence.

Remember when you were very young lying alone in a field or park and the clouds overhead some how resonated in an idle sort of way with images and stories deep within your soul? Of course it was silly, but it still mattered, and mattered deeply. Writing for recovery is connecting with that very important silliness. Before we learned how not to be, it never occurred to us that we weren’t wonderful. Writing for recovery gives us play and gives us heart. It suspends in midair the possibility of what might happen next. This unleashing of uncertainty moves us across the high-wire where balance only comes from moving the story along. One word followed by the next we move our wonderful life forward while the crowd looks on in awe, and balance comes not by looking down or back, but from imagining where you’re going next. Writing for recovery is recovering your balance. It is moving your life forward, one imagined word at a time. 

You fit my hand like

A tailored glove, made

For me by the Java Kings

Of old.

You take from me my past

And keep me rooted in the

Present with just a hint of

Future tidings

Holding you brings out

The joy of fresh awakenings

Like lying down on

Clothesline dried sheets

In you I see myself as

I am not as I was.

Putting my lips on your

Contoured edge I begin

The journey into the

Here & now.

Almost instantly the stains

From yesterday are

Dyed into the fabric of

Today’s expressions,

Keeping me alert to

All the possibilities.

The wind chants a tune

I used to know

It passes through my ear

An echo of the past

A memory is glanced

A child giggling imagination

The magical moment

The dirt that was

remains underfoot

in remembrance

One single red rose

Mourn the yesterday

Cradle the tomorrow

Live the today

The wind chants a tune

I love to hear

Out in the back yard,

the gang and I would

kneel down over some

Of the creepy crawlies—

insects and lizards.

Very quietly, making sure

not to spook the creatures

we’d pretend we were

the ruling kings watching

over our peasants. Or

other times we were

benevolent giants who

protected that particular

ant pile.

As I got older and

looked back on those

games, I’d imagine

us as those oblivious

worker ants.

Then I wondered if they

ever played our game

with even tinier creatures.

Oh how I love the way you walk through yards and down the street,

as though you and you alone

can rise above the boundaries we hold so secret to all others.

But of course you can, you bring us presents, or at least

the possibility of them, a Santa of sorts,

a missionary of hope,

a broadcaster of weather,

an explorer of worlds beyond this block.

I trust you,

I greet you,

I believe in you.

You remind me of life.

It’s red, sometimes too hard, sometimes too soft

I like it on salad, bread and ham

Sometimes they’re yellow, bright like the sun

At other times they’re red as a big, red ball or like Rudolph’s nose.

I like to cook with tomatoes perhaps a little sautéed with onions

Many people will call a loved one their little tomato, but I tend to think of it more as a food than a friend

Some people can make sauce from scratch with the tomato, but not me, I prefer to buy it in the can

Looking forward to summer when I can grow some for myself, it turns out ok, cherry or grape

 Hanging from the upside downs are a beautiful sight of summer

The tomato; vegetable, loved one, a comfort, diced or sliced or fried up in a pan

The tomato; best invention of God and man!

When I was a child, there was this game we used to play.

All of us would pick the animal we wanted to be. My cousin Danny was always a tiger, my brother Chuck a bear, my friends Gary, Jason, Julie, and Jen were badger, bobcat, eagle, and koala, and I was always a black panther.

We would climb trees and lay on the branches baking in the sun or shade, creating habitats and waging battles with sticks, black walnuts, and any other form of weaponry on hand.

The last time I remember playing we were throwing the end-of-the-season vegetables form our garden and my cousin tried to stand up and throw a rotting cucumber. As he pulled his arm back, there was a loud crack and the branch he was on snapped. He and it hit the ground with another crack, which happened to be his arm. Life is a jungle!

I am from Ritts Park, alone, on a summer day, eating a P&J from my Hopalong Cassidy lunch box, listening to the summer birds.

 I am from the smells of the steel industry and the sounds of trains in the distance, bringing new materials in and carrying away the future of my town.

 I am from the appearance of a happy little boy who was never not terrified of the future.

I am a 5-year old boy who took the hand of his younger sister and ran away from home, always asking an adult to walk us across the street, until Dad caught us as we reached the other side of town.

 I am a small boy who grew to be a middle-aged man before he stopped running, looked around, looked inside, and realized there was nothing more to be afraid of.

 I no longer feel where I am from, but I see with confidence where I am going.

I am from amazing people

I am from family

I am from family gatherings 

and parties

I am from the open land of 

Pennsylvania.

I am from the fields and cornfields

of the farm.

I am from playing hide-n-seek

in the cornfields.

I am from horses and cows on the farm.

I am from riding in the open truck

on the farm.

I am from riding on the back

of cuby, my dad's tractor.

I am from the lake in the summer.

I am from chasing lightning bugs

on summer nights.

I am from camping when there were 

only tents and original pop-ups.

I am from jumping into the hay

from the barns second floor.

I am from the smell of french toast 

on the weekends.

I am from Penny Candy.

I am from 5 and dime stores.

I am from great music on 8-tracks.

I am from original video games.

I am from M-TV and original computers.

I am from all of the wonderful

memories from my childhood, but 

also from everything I have gone

through to get to where I am now.

I am from Italian streets, baked bread with a hard crust and a soft center
I am from a breezy shore, sand and sun, endless days and nights of summer
I am from a thousand heartaches and a hundred tears, searching for a place called home
I am from laughter and joy and sorrow and pain and back again
I am from a town called old fashioned and a city called wild
I am from a long lost time forgotten in memory, too hard to remember, too painful to forget.

Last night, Writers for Recovery made its debut at the Turning Point Center of Central Vermont. The first sessions of writing workshops can be a bit difficult—everyone is nervous, even (and perhaps especially) the leaders. Will people show up? And if they do, will they be willing to jump in and take the risk necessary to make the workshop a success? Knowing it was a spunky, can-do town like Barre should have given us the obvious answers to those questions—which were "yes" on both counts. 

Deb and I co-led the group, and we were just amazed at not only the courage of the writers who created and shared their work on the spot, but what they had to say and the creative ways in which they said it. If this is any indication of how the remaining nine weeks of the workshop will go, we are seriously off to the races! Thanks so much to the writers who came to share their work, and to Bob Purvis, director of Central Vermont Turning Point, for the support needed to make this happen, and for contributing his own wonderful work to the group. And if you know of anyone in Central Vermont who is in recovery or whose life has been affected by addiction, invite them to drop by the Turning Point on Tuesday evenings from 6:30-8. We'll be there for the next nine weeks, and we'd love to have some more writers!

The putrid pink room was softened by the sunlight streaming through the blinds.  Sparsely furnished, the small square space was unadorned except for a television set suspended from the wall in front of the bed, and a clock. The door was closed. Elizabeth was alone.  She lay still beneath the thin cotton blanket trying to grasp a sense of place and time.   

She closed her eyes, but each stubborn minute brought bizarre images. She ticked off things she knew:  her husband had brought her to the hospital the night before; she was in labor, they were expecting their first child.  She remembered a darkened surgical room with faceless silhouettes moving slowly, muffled words, a tiny leg illuminated against the darkness.  And then nothing.  In the sterile putrid pink room, Elizabeth’s hands explored her body.  Her skin was dry, her mouth was parched and her belly soft and empty.  She was hungry.

Morning sounds echoed in the hall outside the room -- silverware, dishes, and people talking quietly.  As she drifted off, Elizabeth soothed herself with visions of her baby, its soft face nestled in the crook of her neck, her husband whispering softly to their son, the two of them rubbing noses.  In a highchair caked with oatmeal, the dog waited patiently for something to fall.  In autumn, Elizabeth would walk through rustling leaves with her daughter, up the path past the barn and circle around to the brook before lunch.  They would pick out books before contented afternoon naps. The nights would be short. 

Suddenly, the sound of something rolling outside her room stirred her.  An ageless woman in blue scrubs burst through the door, and stood expressionless.  Elizabeth searched the stranger’s face for a sign, some indication of what this woman might say, what she was thinking, but the door closed abruptly.  A chill brushed her neck, and she turned away from the door in her bed, drawing the blanket tightly around her shoulders.  Everything takes so long, she thought.   

“Seth if it’s a boy,” but she hadn’t chosen a girl’s name. Elizabeth pulled her heavy body up and turned on the TV.  From the small screen, Leon Russell appeared, jamming on his piano, his long grey hair wild and free. The rotund, joyous backup singers wailed “Emily” and clapped, Russell stomped on the keys.  Elizabeth smiled thinking, “Emily, that’s it, if she is a girl.”     

Again, the rolling sound outside her room; the sun had faded, replaced by a gentle rain.  In the dim fluorescent light, the clock read three o’clock. She heard a tiny cry.  It’s the babies being wheeled in their bassinettes, she bolted up, elated. Elizabeth’s breasts ached and her hospital nightgown was cool and wet.  It must be time, she thought.  Why does everything take so long here? 

Just then, a timid knock on the door; it opened a few inches.  Standing there in rumpled clothes, ashen and unshaven, stood her husband, deep-circled eyes cast to the floor.  It was at that moment that time and reason stopped: she knew there would be no Seth. No Emily. Elizabeth wept a silent, bottomless cry onto her damp nightgown. 

If you need help here is what I can offer. He thought he remembered her faintly saying just before reaching out to hold his hand as they walked; just before, her songs took over his head. But he didn’t mind that they took over his head, she offered a jaunty tune and he liked the way it made the clouds come alive as they walked.

He had been telling her about another woman, a woman he couldn’t get out of his head, a woman whose songs were once lively and funny and smart but years later had turned harsh and scolding. Though she had left him some time ago her demeaning melodies stayed with him. He felt cello like sounds much of the time when he was alone. He missed the songs he had heard when they met. He listened for them when he went out. He wanted them back.    

It didn’t bother him that this new woman knew just what to do. He had hoped she might. She looked like she might. They held hands as they walked and between the squeezing of her hand and the flickering light through the trees her jaunty tune was slowly embedding in his step. It soothed him. He forgot himself. Colors began to shout out and clouds began to whistle.

They came to a secluded clearing. The grass was dry and warm and soft. As they lay side by side kissing she took off her clothes, but wouldn’t, let him take off his. They kissed, one breath, together, over and over again until they were dizzy. The sun had never felt so good. Could it be that the birds were tweeting just for them?

The next morning her song was still with him. When he looked at his face to shave he saw her eyes in his. When he walked she was in his step. Her hips were everywhere he turned. There was no where more important to go that morning, but, to her.

She was still in pajamas when he arrived at her door for breakfast. Her eye-lids were purple-pink, her iris green and brown. Her pupils were large, so large. Within minutes, they were naked in her bed. The cello was gone and the trill of a lively clarinet teased his ears.

Many days passed by. Her songs remained lively, funny and smart. She needed him, but for how long, he thought. He knew it was wrong but he wanted to be sure her songs would not change. He wanted to nail her spirit to a tree. The more he liked her songs the sadder he became. What was her plan he wondered. Would she become mean and leave him, too? The more he tried to hold things still the more her songs began to change. They became stilted with after-thought, with pause for what they might mean. He knew he was causing this but he couldn’t stop. Within a month she had stopped singing and wondered why she was with him at all.

He asked her to his house for dinner and when the conversation had become vacant and still, he brought out a hammer and nails that he wanted to show her. He was ashamed of himself and told her what he had been feeling. She looked surprised and sad and shied away from him. Though it was not a cold evening he lit a fire. Once it had peaked he asked her to place the hammer and nails in the fire. As they burned, he stood looking deep into the fire and with only the crackling of the fire to interrupt the silence, he began to sing, at first in a mumbling sort of way, as though he were speaking in tongues. He rarely sang out loud and didn’t really know how. He sang about the time they met, he sang about the heartache he once felt and the heartache he was beginning to feel again. His song brought tears to her eyes as she understood what had happened between them and why her songs had stopped. She stood close as he sang so she might make out the quiet words. When he sang of his love for her his voice became more secure and clear. She slid off her dress to the floor to inspire him as his voice became louder and louder. At her urging he stood on the chair, and then on the table, the song carried out of him without pause, without reflection; he was perfect in his frailty, perfect in his faults. He could do no wrong, he sang of what he knew to be true.

The next morning as she left for work she held him close and whispered, If you need help, here is what I can offer, and placed his hand on her bosom, kissed him on the cheek and left.

How could he possibly know which of the many songs will remain true?  

Frog and Bunny is what they called one another in high school and still do when they’re together. However, high school was close to fifteen years ago and to Bonnie these names no longer fit.

Frank (or Frog) likes to recreate the old days whenever they happen to meet. Using those names helps him to imagine they’re watching the same inner-movies together as he narrates their past. Bonnie (or Bunny) lets him talk because she can see how his worn-down tattered face lights up when he does.

After years of dead-end jobs, two years ago Bonnie saved enough to buy a five-year old Camry and become a Realtor. She hand waxes her Camry every month and keeps the interior smelling fresh and spotless. She has her picture on-line and in a magazine, too. Her Realtor smile gives no hint of a life before selling real estate or of her run-down two room apartment, or that anyone has ever call her Bunny, but rather it portrays a radiant, youngish, successful woman who wants nothing more than to make your life as grand as hers. Her clients want to think of her as one of their own, that she too believes that appearance and status and sharp looking lawns and shiny cars really do matter. They do not have friends named Frog.

Weekly sales meetings, quarterly sales rallies, and mentorship by her sales-team have groomed Bonnie to meet the sort of people that will make her rich, and Bonnie is fast becoming the sort of person she at first was pretending to be. Status, appearances, and who can help and who can hinder have become the ties that hold her world together. Her constantly ringing phone keeps her in check.

Bonnie’s friendship with Frank has become a strain. She is tired of pretending that she hasn’t changed. The last time she and Frank met on the sidewalk outside city hall and he called her Bunny she was reminded of how self-conscious she is of her large breasts. She had been considering having them reduced and formed. She is not Bunny, she is Bonnie and Bonnie is on her way to success.

The last time they met Frank was enjoying his morning wandering around chatting with most anyone that happened by his view. He was in love with the morning, the sidewalk, the people, and the mysteries that were unfolding with each step he took. He was hurt by Bunny’s discomfort when they met outside city hall. He felt bad for her. It reminded him of something he had read years ago; be careful who you pretend to be because in the end that’s who you are.”

Frank was glad he had a past. Frank and Frog were woven together. The name Frog gave weight to his step. Even though the town was filling in with new people it didn’t occur to him to change to fit their image of success. He told them his name was Frog. He worked hard and he got paid a fair wage, simple as that. He liked his rowdy ways. He owed a smile to no one and could care less if his truck smelled nice. He kept his word, and he kept his past alive. He wasn’t changing for no one. He watched the world pass by. He had hoped Bunny would be his friend forever but lately she has been acting like a real dipshit.