Kevin's poem for the June 2021 prompt "In the Outside"

 In the ‘Outside’

by Kevin Cooper

 

 

Outside.

Outside was freedom

Opportunity waited outside

Adventure awaits

 

Almost always alone…

What games can I play

With no one else?

 

Climb a tree: it becomes 

a rocket to the stars,

a pirate ship…

Ride my bike, I’m flying

or in a road race

 

Outside, the wide world

is mine

No walls, no doors

no silence, no chores

 

Even when it rains:

outdoors is puddles

and drowning worms

My same world transformed

 

The street of our block

was a connection to another,

bigger world

It pulls me away with promise

of destination

But here I remain 

secure in the familiar;

the places to hide

right outside my front door 

Prompt for June 2021

 From Beneath the Steps: A Writing Guide for 12-Sstep Recovery

by Christine Beck

Prompt for June 2021

Hypervigilance

I learned to deal with the fear of violence by being hypervigilant to the moods in my house. I learned to hide.  I wrote about it, using the game “Huckle, Buckle Beanstalk,” a game of searching for an object in plain view. The name had that wonderful sound of repetition that I treasure in writing poetry.  I thought the game was harmless fun, but uncovered a deeper meaning.   See if you can keep writing about a topic until you surprise yourself with a kernel of a buried truth. 

In this poem,  I surprised myself by turning into a tree. This is called a “turn” in poetry, a shift in tone or topic. Growing up, I always felt safe outside sitting under a tree, so it isn’t surprising that I turned myself into a tree. I made the tree a home that has “sustenance,” plenty of what is needed to nurture birds and bugs—and maybe me. 

Objects

Huckle buckle beanstalk, a game of looking

for an object hidden in plain view, which

refuses to be found, camouflaged

in the shift and twist of the material. 

An ordinary object, a pencil, say, or glove, 

something useful, or something useless,

a ticket stub from a movie, a dried rose

from a man whose name has frittered off.

I loved that game, where luck was immaterial,

where skill or speed, or being chosen for the team,

was unimportant, a game for which you needn’t trust

another, no secret word, no acting out a movie title.

Just silent vigilance, looking for what isn’t there, or

isn’t where it’s supposed to be, knowing you are what

is missing, which is why you love to hide in open air,

stashed in plain view, looking ordinary. Slowing down

your breathing, until you sink into a nearby sapling, not worth

noticing. Until you are the tree, a home for birds and bugs,

a stationary object that sucks up sustenance

from deep inside the earth.

                                              PROMPT: 

1.Write about your backyard, park, or wherever you played outside as a child. Who was there? What games did you play?

 Did you feel safe? 

2.Write about your relationship with nature and the natural world today.  Is it a safe, inspiring place? Try to imagine a safe place and write about it.  Allow birds or animals to talk or help you if they want to.

Connection to Recovery:

The end of the poem reminds me to slow down and breathe when I feel agitated. It shows nature is my safe space. It reminds me that we are all connected in recovery. Being “ordinary” is actually a goal. Trying to be “special” got me in trouble. 

Recovery Writer Gretchen responds to May prompt

                                                        photo credit: Mathias p r Reding on unsplash.com

 No Award Will Make Me Proud

Carry those buckets of water to your 4-h sheep. 

I don’t care how heavy they are.

I also don’t care that you wanted to show pigs and not sheep.

Third place is not good enough.

Your best is not good enough. 

Try harder, practice more. 

All the awards you win and 

I’ll still never say I’m proud of you. 

Nor will I dare say I love you. 

I’ll teach you how to hang out with the guys,

Poach deer, drink like a fish and 

out work the best of men. 

But I’ll never allow you to be the 

Lady you were meant to be. 

Not as long as I’m in your life. 

After cutting me out of your life 

you’ll finally be able to learn all the ways

of a true lady with the help of

your wonderful, patient husband 

Whom I hate, because he was your 

ticket to a mentally healthy life style. 

Thru out your life you will have 

Ultimately abandoned and lost 

yourself with chronic people pleasing. 

You will lie about your likes, dislikes, 

wear makeup that you hate, buy the same 

clothes “your friends” wear and chronically 

beg for others opinions so you can please others. 

Always reading their behaviors and moods 

to see if you pleased them well. 

You will eventually get to the point where 

you realize you don’t know who you are anymore. 

You will try all the eggs like Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride

And realize you like them scrambled with katchup

Not fried over easy like I taught you. 

This will be the true beginning of your journey

to self discovery and overcoming people pleasing. 

You will become so addicted to learning who you truly are

that you’ll never want to please anyone for the sake of losing 

your identity again. Keep on trucking. 

Written by a recovering people pleaser~

Gretchen Marie Walters 

Prompt for May. My Daughter's Birthday

 People Pleasing

 There is nothing wrong with wanting people to like us. But when we betray our true selves in trying to please or ingratiate ourselves with others, we are trying to get others to fill our emptiness.  It doesn’t work.  And we lose our identity in the process. I wrote this poem in the voice of my mother.  She taught me how to be pretty and how to flirt.  This was people-pleasing behavior. I didn’t know it could backfire.  It seemed natural to me.  

                   My Daughter’s Birthday

Daughter, you begin your journey from a  pool

where you’ve been floating to a light you can’t imagine.

Soon enough I’ll perch you in a tub of water on the grass,

posed for a Christmas card, naked cheer.

Until the water cools and life that requires rain,

an ancient incantation to conjure, will usher

in uncertain scarcity.

You will lie, pretend, keep secrets, smile when someone’s

watching, learn to love a dress with green apples, just

like mine, totter in my evening shoes, imitate my laugh.

And we will band together, pretty women, entertain

the men, despise their undersides, leave them in the

valley, windblown on our mountaintop.

                    Connection to Recovery:

I learned people-pleasing from my mother. This trait masked my True Self and made me feel like a fraud. I gave away my power to people I was trying to please. Today my Loving Inner Parent tells me I am complete just as I am. I don't need to smile when I'm unhappy or pretend to be self-sufficient when I need help.

                                             PROMPT:

1.Write about how you learned about people-pleasing.  

Who were your models? What type of behavior did you take 

for granted because of what you saw around you?

2. Write in the voice of one of your caregivers about a trait they 

passed down to you.

3.Write about a time you gave away your power to please 

someone and the feelings you felt then. Bring your writing

 forward and write about how you feel now.

The Drama Triangle

 

Enjoy this response to our April prompt, written by Janine.

The Drama Triangle

The clothing of abandonment 

has fit me for so long

complimented my fierce survivor

with her tough girl boots

kicking up the mud in indignation

But am I not also some sort of predator?

seeking to rip off 

the misogynists’ masks

and toss them in triumph

on the pile

the garbage in your sweet seductions

revealed

And what about my trash?

What’s to be found in there?

Maybe just me

steeping in a victim’s love of victimhood

fulfilled best through repetition

my game is to say You put me there

but I can see now 

that I trashed myself

Too late to find another way

but that’s okay

your mask on the pile

me 

safe in the recesses 

of a metal can

Janine S. Brunell

for Wilbur - 2020

April Prompt: Abandonment

 Fear of Abandonment

The following poem imagines what is in my trashcan and lets those items stand as metaphors for the sense of loss and abandonment that led me to use alcohol as a “solution.” Notice that the poem ends with a wine glass.  I did not intend this image when I wrote the poem, which was before I went into recovery.  I realize now that I “knew” alcohol was hurting me even before I went into recovery. This is an example of a poem telling the writer something they didn’t know they knew. 

Taking Out the Trash

Gritty coffee grounds

Crushed and wet

Release morning’s breath

Grapefruit shell

Pink pungent taste

Small close compartments

Eggshell’s jagged edge

Embossed with shiny film

No longer home

Ragged edge of newspaper

Curled into itself

Forgotten admonitions

A half-smoked cigarette

Lipsticked cherry red

A moist pink tongue

Broken wine glass

Slender stem intact

Aftertaste of loss

Prompt:

1. Write about what is in your metaphorical trashcan, car, basement, attic or anywhere where there are unwanted things, or perhaps things you are holding onto that you know you should get rid of.  You can put people in there too!

2. Try to work with concrete images rather than "story" or "narrative." If you begin with a story, look for the images that appear in your story and "unhook" them.  See what happens.

Response to March prompt: Where have you had a spiritual experience?

                                pinterest.com m2c0...faf.jpg

 "Northwest Coast" 

        by Marcus H.

headlands  

hands of the earth

fingers of lava that dance with the ocean

wind, water, fire, earth

etched in basalt faces

Elephant Rock wades into the spray

Stone Whale blows its spout

Giants stand seaward,    no ship can pass

beach above my head  

wave polished stones 

frozen in crystal rock 

that flowed a thousand years ago

a beach of black marbles 

that sing with the waves

a beach of boulders 

that I must leap across 

a boulder

a pebble 

a grain

how big am I?

where do I end?

I can feel that....

rounding the headland

beneath the cliff 

under the arch

slick 

wet 

dripping 

where the ocean pounded 

an hour ago

listen to moon’s tidal heartbeat

and don't wait too long

but

stop 

see the world in a bowl 

an animal?

no a plant?

no a rock? 

squirting water

out of lips 

closing tight 

until the ocean kisses it again

ant crawl 

over the finger

animal trail through vaulted forest

ocean murmurs of cliff edge 

thick with bushes 

enter through their tunneled vein

scramble down a rock bed 

to water’s edge

sea peeks

through wall of pillars 

that touch gray cloud ceiling 

waves do not enter here

inches from the depth

I stand upon a table stone 

dinner scraps discarded there

am I alone?

whose house is this?

a head emerges

from still ocean

close 

as my boyhood dog

with talking eyes 

speaks to my soul

We are all one.