It drink it in as though, it were my original sin.
Tin boots beating at the paneled walls…that hold my mind in place.
A cool breeze canvases karma and comes away…whispered reminders of debts yet…to be paid.
How daring to not imbibe when the spirits surround my blind side.
The hoarse intonations gather at the base of bad decisions…
And, what I hear?
...there is no place to hide. I will find me!
Pills, pills,pills, such a conflict of human interest.
Such a toxic crutch.
A hazardous muse with a bitter tongue and addicting touch.
Such as piles of gathered leaves.
The drug keeps giving and giving…
Until the harvester falters to the need.
My only stint in rehab…required going to ‘detox’ first. At Sobriety Maintenance, of which I got a degree that could not compare to any others I had, there were many life experiences…Many that cannot be replaced. That, in truth, I had been schooled…to which I always thought,
‘You can’t con a con!’
But it did happen.
I learned how to play Spades, cigarette a point Cribbage, clean bathroom stalls, and, enjoy decaf coffee.
The lesson I keep with me everyday…but occasionally loose during, life on life’s terms? The Precious Present! An aged cook from the Marines ran the kitchen at the detox. His name had been Jamie. Jamie witnessed my struggles with self. My need to put on the facade of ‘I am ten foot tall and bullet proof.’
I liked him but balked his every attempt to tame my unruliness. That is until I found the ‘Precious Present’ at my table setting…
Once there was a boy. . . . Who listened to an old man. And, thus, he began to learn about The Precious Present. “It is a present because it is a gift,” the contented man explained. “And it is precious because anyone who receives such a present is happy forever.”
“Wow!” the little boy exclaimed. “I hope someone gives me The Precious Present. Maybe I’ll get it for Christmas.” The boy ran off to play. And the old man smiled. He liked to watch the little boy play. He saw the smile on the youngster’s face and heard him laughing as he swung from a nearby tree. The boy was happy. And it was a joy to see.
The old man also liked to watch the boy work. He even rose early on Saturday mornings to watch the little laborer mow the lawn across the street. The boy actually whistled while he worked. The little child was happy no matter what he was doing. It was, indeed, a joy to behold.
When he thought about what the old man had said, the boy thought he understood. He knew about presents. Like the bicycle he got for his birthday and the gifts he found under the tree on Christmas morning. But as the boy thought more about it, he knew. The joy of toys never lasts forever.
The boy began to feel uneasy. “What then,” he wondered, “is The Precious Present? What could possibly make me happy forever?” He found it difficult to even imagine the answer. And so he returned to ask the old man.
“Is the Present a magical ring? One that I might put on my finger and make all my wishes come true?”
“No,” the old man said. “The precious present has nothing to do with wishing.”
As the boy grew older he continued to wonder. He went to the old man. “Is the Precious Present a flying carpet?” he inquired. “One that I could get on and go any place that I like?”
“No,” the man quietly replied. “When you have the precious present, you will be perfectly content to be where you are.”
The boy was becoming a young man now, and felt a bit foolish for asking. But he was uncomfortable. He began to see that he was not achieving what he wanted. “Is the Precious Present,” he slowly ventured, “a sunken treasure? Perhaps rare gold coins buried by pirates long ago?”
“No, young man,” the old man told him. “It is not. The richness is rare, indeed, but the wealth of the Present comes only from itself.”
There are far worse things to be then…old and foolish in sobriety!
Old and Sober
I’ve cleaned hell for you.
Misery I gave a makeover.
Affliction I made a lover.
Hades became my mother.
Deep in the swell I cannot forget hell’s bell.
The others do not look like me.
But they have seen the chains that have not let me be.
Everyday I think myself free.
I must remember my master holds the key.
Behind all the anonymous trees.
Knotted limbs pointing.
Knuckled ancient index fingers directing me back.
Faithful flasks distorting the facts.
The older the fiddler the sweeter the tune.
Dear devil in the facts,
no one chooses a room without a view.
Sinful saints are not born of your brew.
This is nothing but a masterful path…
persons praying in their own liquidated aftermath.
Sobering fact…this daily reprieve the further the distance,
the more the need.
old and sober.