I want to tell you something IMPORTANT...
But I am fearful...
You don’t listen ... really listen...
You hear, look attentive... but...
DISMISS ME!
My thoughts
My feelings
My actions
My words.

I actually am no longer fearful...
I just know:
YOU DON’T LISTEN
You won’t listen
You don’t want to listen.

You play king...
But at the expense of me...
And often the expense of others too.

The Emperor’s New Clothes...
I can see them on you now...
You won’t change...

You DON’T  WANT to understand.
So I have to....
I have to change my acceptance of your behavior.

I love the emperor, but hate your wardrobe...
AND ALWAYS HAVE!!!

The first time I can remember ever drinking, at least more than just a single small sip for taste, given with "permission", I was the age of ten. I can remember going over to my friend's house We'll call her M. M & I played computer a while, but grew bored. Tried going a walk, to realized yet again that there simply wasn't much to do in the small town of Palmer. Back at her place, she suggested we try a bit of her mother's Kahlua from the fridge, mixed with some low-fat milk. It was good, sweet and creamy, with a very mild alcoholic taste to it. I drank until my head felt light. I drank until I felt funny. I drank until I couldn't stop laughing. I drank just until I knew I'd want to do it again when given the chance. Which didn't take much for a 10-year-old female under 5 feet.

It was 10:30 and into the room arrived a beautiful, tame canine. His short hair shown every shade of brown when in the sunlight. He was not too large, nor too tiny. He had a friendly, somewhat calm, but also quite playful demeanor. He picked up a small pink stuffed elephant gently with his pointy yellow teeth, residing in his strong jaw. He brought unto me this little toy, and looked longingly at me with his big chocolate eyes, almost as if to ask me to throw it across the room. I proceeded, and the good boy quickly chased it; catching it just before it hit the wooden floor.

I am the one who is often too quiet. I am the one who can get so in-my-head that I have a social anxiety attack around the same friends I should feel perfectly comfortable with by now. It's not in the way that some people break down and have "real" anxiety attacks; but instead it's in the way that I simply freeze up. I can't remember how to articulate words, sentences, my thoughts. Can't remember how to make eye contact, nor even control the faces I'm making (i.e. unintended dirty looks). Sometimes, when it's at its worst, I can't even remember how to listen to the person talking to me. Odd, because other times I can do all of those things without effort. Why is that? And what can help? Sometimes drinking helps, especially when paired with weed. Acid's great too, just one tab or two if it's weak. But somehow other times that seems to be what makes it even worse. Is it ADD? Hopefully one day I'll be able to fix these flaws about myself.

I am from a place

Where the drug of choice

Is the smell of salt on the sea air

Stigmata of jellyfish

And aching calves from sand walking

The ocean rocks me as I lie down to sleep.

The old ones say it didn’t used to look like this

But spindly plants in the dunes still hold the earth together

And jagged sand still hurts sunburned faces.

The word in Italian for when an object hits the water is Patatunfete.

The word in English for when an object hits the water is Splash.

Does patatunfete sound like an object hitting the water? Yes it does.

Does splash sound like an object hitting the water? Yes it does.

Does patatunfete sound like splash?

We listen with the same ears

How differently we hear.

Chasing and yet never catching.

Waking again on this lifeless treadmill designed to do and accomplish one goal.

Chase the dragon & feed the hunger of crack and heroin addiction

Maybe 24 hours, maybe 3 or 4 days.

I've been up and moving through those grey days before, for, almost a week.

Anyway the only colors I see are the flames touching, heating, crackling transparent glass

the color of blood red.

Have not seen sun, sky, moon or stars. Only the flame.

Everyday praying its the last day

28 days later

feeling, seeing, sensing, colorful air breezing through my heart, mind and soul

Have not felt so alive in oh so long.

Looking at life through a brand new set of eyes.

Finding life tastes so incredibly sweet.

Embracing this new life albeit surrounded by prison bars,

returning from court with a new lease starting tomorrow 

A treatment program mandation.

Thanking God & the Judge for saving my life.

Confident I can feel this free for eternity

Its all up to me.............

Something I want to accomplish is total liberation of body, mind and spirit, to extinguish my ego and be more connected to God and be alleviated of all my suffering. To begin this I must continue on the path I'm on and find new awarenesses of consciousness and attain oneness with God by meditation, prayer and study. I need to attend 12 step meetings and church. I may not achieve this in this lifetime, but I want to cut the the number of my incarnations down so I don't have to keep coming back and I can get there. 

In the moment it seemed like the right choice.

The moon shuddered a ghostly wave.

The risk was inside an empty grave.

That is to say the first time I drank

It seemed like the right thing to do,

kind of like reaching an unknown goal

or when a sudden flash of insight appears

and you actually remember it.

That night of the beers I was about 16

on the old dump grounds.

I still recall lining up the Schlitz bottles

on the hand of an acquaintance waiter

who was working washing dishes at the Middlebury Inn,

did his best Dennis Hopper from Easy Rider

talking about Aliens.

I rode my bike home thru the wobbling covered bridge,

passed out on the screened in porch

and was off to the races.

It did seem like a fun thing to do,

lucky it did not kill me as

since I have had at least 4 or 5 blackouts while driving.

Now I hopefully shine the light of prayer on similar situations.

It occurs to me that
It would have been all too easy
For my story to end like his.
Hundreds of times vomiting,
wiping my mouth and carrying on
until it was all gone.
Being sick wasn't the end.
How strange it is to me
that a man whose tolerance
far surpassed mine is the one
the beast took down.
Wrestled him to the ground
and pinned him there.
But he was so much stronger
than me. My bionic man,
metal parts and childhood scar stories.
He had lived his teenage years
keeping his mother forever holding her breath.
An addiction was the most terrifying prospect yet.
A true beast.
I watched it ravage him
like a lion on a gazelle
and still, I have the urge to pet it.
Feed it from afar in hopes
it will someday let me have a casual relationship
visit on the weekends and
ruffle its mane with my fingers.
I am not afraid of beasts.
I am afraid of the way I want to befriend them
and invite them home.

Here's what keeps her awake at night:
This bed is a sea
endless and without horizon
too much space here
where there used to be a man.

Here's what keeps her awake at night:
The glaring and unforgiving truth
life does not get better
you get better,
and it does not happen idly.

Here's what keeps her awake at night:
A thousand unaccomplished tasks,
due bills and unwashed dishes
dog hair covered floors
adulthood sent away on sabbatical.

Here's what keeps her awake at night:
The promise of one more
I love you, stolen away
greedily and hungrily by another
who spat it on the side of the road.

Here's what keeps her awake at night:
Shaking legs and anxious, roaming hands
racetrack thoughts on their third lap
insomnia bittersweet and sour
that takes as many hours as it gives.

Here's some good advice from the true me:
*There is a voice inside you, away from influence and fear, listen to it.
*Instinct has kept us alive for longer than anxiety will.
*Remember that no one can identify your boundaries but you.
*Learn as early as you can that people will love you the way you love yourself.
*Know where your roots are. Where home is, your safety net, but never forget the importance of branches.
*Never take anyone too seriously. Especially yourself.
*Walk barefoot, swim naked, dance in the moonlight. The earth is where we all come from and go back to.
*Breathe deep and never stop growing. Agony is not the presence of pain but the absence of learning.

Here's how I hit reset. I take a step back and realize I'm headed in a direction in which I don't really want to go. What did my old sponsor tell me? “Don't open your mouth if you don't want anything bad to come out! STOP! Pause. Think about what you were going to say and try hearing it from the other side. Would you like someone speaking to you that way? NO?? Think and re-frame. Are you hungry? Angry? Lonely? Tired? How can you keep it civil? Say what you mean and mean what you say, but don't be mean!”

It's taken me the best part of the past 30 years to get the high drama out of my life. I discovered that it is not nice to manipulate people into doing what you want. Instead, be clear about your intentions and ask nicely. Respect other people's wishes. Don't be curt or have a voice dripping with disappointment, anger, sarcasm, condensation or tears...all are tools of manipulation. Don't be a martyr. No one likes a martyr! Take a step back, take deep breath, set your boundaries, say a little prayer and don't allow anyone to manipulate you! Then you can feel good about the outcome and live a somewhat harmonious life.

When this winter's finally over, the roots of my soul will branch out into the cosmos of eternal being. The I that is me will grow into the awareness of the connectedness we share in the humble psyches of consciousness and the now of the Spirit will once more work at egolessness in the quest to become whole and the One will once again resume into the activities that bring clearer realization of the divine aspects of body, mind and spirit.

Knitted thin white fabric,
Twice as wide as my bunk,
And long enough to fold under my feet.
I lie on top of my sheet at night,
And pull my blanket over my head.

Why do some people pull the newspapers
Over their heads to hide the truth?
Do they find comfort in the
Misfortunes of others?
Maybe they are just too lazy to ask questions.

On March 9th, members of our Montpelier and Middlebury groups shared their writing at Studio Place Arts in Barre.

Please explore these pieces below.

Many thanks to Sue Higby and SPA for hosting this event.

HOW IT ALL STARTED
by Maura Quinn
How it all started
Well
In the beginning there was the word
And the word was alcoholism
This word was so powerful
I didn’t want to go anywhere near it
Of course alcoholism was an
AFFLICTION
I saw a movie with Nick Nolte
And I’m pretty sure it was called
Affliction of Afflicted
Nick Nolte the one-time hunk
Later of the frumpy frazzled mug-shot
Fame or infamy
I liked Nick Nolte
Still do
I think he understands
What it is to be drawn so powerfully
As to make you powerless
Like swimming in Niagara Falls
Not going to happen
But I did feel like I was drowning
Not so much physically
Because despite the fact
I used to gulp my drinks
I could take a break
In between the first four shots
The first four shots that came in rapid fire succession
Before making myself a double to take to the couch
I kind of forgot where this began
Which is very much like
Every night when I was drinking
Oh but yeah here is how it all started
I drank too much
Too long
I stopped

Here’s How to Know When You Have a Problem
by Maura Quinn
Here’s how to know when you have a problem
Well, I thought I knew how you know but I can only share my experience
But ok
Here is how I knew and how you may now the experience
It keeps bobbing up
Like a buoy in the water
Only the bobber or buoy
Is in your head
Kind of like a smell that lingers
Or a noise you actively try not to notice
But you notice
Alcohol keeps bobbing up
The idea of it the need for it
And there is never enough
Even at the beginning
When the bottle is full
It still isn’t enough
Because you start to notice it disappearing
You try to imagine
Someone else is hogging it
So you start doing shots
And pouring stronger and stronger drinks
Till it is gone
And SOMEBODY ELSE MUST HAVE HAD MORE
But whatever
We need more
Just a beer
Even a beer
You’re going nuts
And you know it.
So that is how you know you have a problem
Oh and maybe your hands are shaking like mine did
Oh and anxiety and rage
But you not a violent person so it smashes around inside of your head till you think you might
blow
So you know if you are awake you need more
And of course there is
NEVER ENOUGH

The Text I Never Sent
by Maura Quinn
The text I never sent
The car I didn’t rent
The seat I didn’t save
Cremation or grave
Funny I think of that now
How did she do it?
I don’t think I want to know
Knowing that she isn’t breathing anymore
Is too much already
We didn’t send text then
We stopped making calls
Now I read your words
On a page you published
At first I smile
I hold your words
In my hands
Years ago
You held me in your arms
I am angry
I am sad
I was angry then
I was sad
Most of all I wish
No I don’t wish
Wishing goes nowhere
Which is where you are now
Before last week
You were somewhere
But now I know
You are gone
Turn back time
Great song
But ah
Too much
I’ll pull myself apart.

What Keeps Her Awake at Night
by Dawn
Tick, tick , tick....
the second hand on the old kitchen clock.....
tick, tick, tick
Where is he tonight?
It’s late,
tick, tick, tick....
the seconds continue
Funny how that sound goes unnoticed
until all you want to hear
is the sound of tires in the driveway....
Tick, tick, tick...
it’s now the next day,
after midnight,
is he alright?
Where is his phone??
He’s not returning texts or calls... 
Over time this mother has learned
not to leave too many messages as it fills the mailbox... 
Playing scenarios out in her head...
praying to hear the tires...
Eventually the prayed for sound is heard
and a sense of relief floods her body. 

When No One is Looking
by Dawn
When no one is looking
it is easy to dream and reflect,
to change the endings
to horrible events from the past.
To make the endings happy,
to end something just in time,
to have an ending that’s a mystery.... 
It’s easier to look in the mirror,
smile back at the reflection
and like yourself. 

Here’s Why I’m Not Giving Up
by Dawn
I’m not giving up
because I love you more
than words on paper can express.
I know that recovery is possible,
miracles happen every day!
You may crawl up the steps
to a meeting
and then lead someone up those stairs
at another time.
I can accept I can’t change you
or force you to change
but I can have hope.
My hope is you will make it
up those stairs to a better way of life. 

I Am From
by Lee Larson
I am from Frank and Muriel, a clever engineer and a hard working nurse.
I am from 1950's small town Holliston where I could ride my bike down back country roads
with no fear of strangers.

I am from camping in the Hulbert pastures, my friend Jo Jo and I, choosing a different tent each night to pitch at a new site on her family's farm while my dog, Lulu kept the bovines at bay, the sheep huddling on the other side of the fence.

I am from the great heights of the multiple arched stone train trestle, where one day while playing in the stream below with my friends, the Chartrand boys rained rocks on us from above. De De Pisapia caught a stone on her head, blood promptly and profusely running down her scalp and clothes as we hurried to my house. My efficient Nurse Mother Muriel put De-De to right, patching her head and cleaning her up. Mom's efforts were not enough however, to keep Mrs. Pisapia from fainting dead away when De-De and I walked through her door. Those Chartrand boys got off scott free.

I am from Dixieland Jazz playing in the night while my parents and neighbors danced on the cement terrace next to the old cemetery, lit by a string of colored Japanese lanterns, a flickering fire and a full moon. I watched, un-noticed from my perch in the apple tree, thrilling to the rising notes of a trumpet and worrying if Louis Armstrong would die from his recent heart attack. Such things happen. He didn't die just then and I finally got to see him in concert at the Bushnell in Hartford in 1968.

I am from that cement terrace which was formerly the floor of a chicken coop, my parents' great find as they set to clean up the yard of their first real home. My dad built a fireplace out of rescued bricks and we grilled steak, burgers, corn and marshmallows there on most summer evenings. I would creep quietly from my bed at sunrise, stealing up to the terrace for the charred, cold corn on the cob gracing the grate of the fireplace chimney. Often I would find that Honest Oz Holmberg, Pop's best friend and our neighbor across the field, had beat me to it. He always saved me an ear as this was our special time to talk of the critters and birds of Massachusetts. He was a trapper and ornithologist.

I am from a hole in the garage roof as I stood on a big wooden crate, waist, chest, shoulders, arms and head poking out over the lower courses of a new roof, hammer in hand. My dad would set a roofing shingle over the fresh tar paper and I would pound down the new nails he lightly set in place for me.

Mother Muriel, hollering up from ground level, “Frank, Are you crazy? What are you doing?” He was teaching me to be confident and self-sufficient, no-doubt.

HERE'S WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR
by Lee Larson
A 4' 5000K shop light. I will have to settle for
a case of 4000K lights at $4.99 each.
I guess this means that I am looking for the light.
A good light to light my way.
A way to see clearly.

Everything that I love to do seems to require good light.
Especially the notion of being enlightened.
Of understanding why things happen the way they do.

I started to get enlightened in Recovery.
I stepped out and away from my depression, from my desire to end it all as a way of stopping the
pain.
My friends in Recovery seemed to each have a torch to help me see what they see, what they
have found that helps them.

The more enlightened I became, the more I felt like embracing creativity:
Embracing a way to express myself, to make a statement of WHO I AM, WHAT I LOVE;
A way of being a better person in my relationships:
Say what you mean and mean what you say.

Recovery has given me steps, a path to follow and ears that seek to listen. I no longer need to try
to be deaf to what is happening around me.
I've seen the light that helps me surround myself with people seeking Recovery and have been
able to step back from those who would manipulate me.

A good, long 5000K bulb would help!

Hit Ignore
by Daniel Wyman
To family:
I hope you all know, I don't discriminate.
My consistent unresponsiveness is not directed
towards you or him or her.
You can wish me well and send your love,
and if you're lucky, you might get a "you too,"
but most likely you'll find days of silence
followed by some bullshit out of a remembrance card,
or even more likely, nothing at all.
My hope is you'll forget
and that someday you'll just stop.
That someday I'll have left your mind
so you can better place your love.

When You Know You Have a Problem
by Daniel Wyman
When you stop seeing daylight,
you might figure something's up.
When the lack of space left in your dog's bladder
is the only thing getting you out of bed,
that's just unkind.
And when you can't wait to go back to sleep after having done so for over 16 hours,
that's no longer living.
Avoiding hugs or kisses from the one you love
may be an early warning sign.
Your heart skipping a beat each time she opens a cabinet
because you don't remember where you hid the bottle
turns your home into a minefield.
Staying up just so she'll go to sleep,
so you can hug and kiss your vice,
only to wake up in a panic- terrified of what you've done.
Every Morning. That's a hint
When you look back and see that
you're not the protagonist,
but the bad guy in your own story;
when your own self-centeredness can't save you,
you might have a problem.

Relapse #1
By Daniel Wyman
I expected to feel shame and embarrassment
I told myself "tomorrow, you can have only one of two conversations"
I thought I'd regret missing out on that chip
I knew how disappointed my parents would be
I wasn't looking forward to that headache
I was setting the clock back
I was lonely
I was sad
I was angry.
Then
I was buoyant
I was social
I was a butterfly
I was becoming who I wanted to be
I wasn't second guessing myself
I knew exactly what was right for me.
I thought I was a fool for ever denying myself
I told myself "you can do anything".
I expected to feel the same way tomorrow.

Here’s How to Know How You Have a Problem
by Diane
If you are in college and still haven’t declared a major after your first year because you scheduled all of your classes around soap operas. You’ve got a problem. 

If you think you are a ballerina and dance to “Send in the Clowns,” by yourself, at the wedding reception of your boyfriend’s family. You’ve got a problem. 

If you pack your bag like you are going to Betty Ford’s but really end up in the county detox wearing paper shoes. You’ve got a problem. 

But if you see them, own them, and change them, then it’s no longer a problem. It’s now called growth.

I Found the Photograph Under the Seat of the Car
by Diane
I bought a new beater. It’s fifteen years old.

It needs work where the rest has eaten its armor away. 

My husband says “a little Bondo a little paint, we can make it what it ain’t.”

That’s the easy part

But inside, under the passenger seat I found a photograph of a woman.

She was standing proud, grinning in front of the car.

She looked happy and appeared to be someone that was on a mission or adventure.

She broke that car in,

She kicked ass with it.

She cried in it and laughed in it. She drove it like there was no tomorrow.

And now it’s mine,

I hope I can live up to her standards.

When No One Was Looking
by Diane
When no one was looking,
I knelt and prayed to a God that I did not trust.
When no one was looking, 
I peeked in my closet in my closet to see if Dracula was living there.
When no one was looking I pressed flowers into a bible I did not believe in. 
When no one was looking I beat myself so hard that I fell or the floor,
Filled with rage and despair that no one saw. 
When no one was looking, I was silently and gently lifted from my hopelessness
By a Power that has many names. 

I Am From
by Ann Wade
I am from
A world of mixed messages
I love you
Go away

I am from parents who were phonies
Everyone thought they loved each other deeply

I am from a deep gene pool of hard workers, sadness and pain
I am a product of my environment

I am just another white girl from the suburbs
From the 1 st planned model community
Park Forest, Il
Where everybody drank and smoked and said things that they didn’t mean

I am lucky to be alive
Driving drunk on back roads
In cornfields of Will county

I am now from the hills of Vermont
I made a big circle back to where I lived as a baby
And just starting to grow into the person
I was supposed to be
All along

Here’s How It All Started
by Ann Wade
Here’s how it all started
A woman at the pool gave me a phone number
I think she was tired of listening to me
“Call her “she told me
“She’s a life coach, and a really good one”

Then I had to answer pages of painful questions before she would see me
A friend let me stay in her house in Rockland for a long weekend
And that’s where the purge began

Flopping around the streets of Rockland Maine
Like an injured bird
With a broken wing
People were nice to me there
They didn’t seem to judge
More accepting than home
That’s how it all started
 
I wanted to get better
I wanted to change
I felt it after our very 1st session together
She told me that she could see me flying
And I am!

I thank Jenn and Adelaide to this day
But they refuse to take any credit
They say I did it myself
But I know that’s not the truth
I’ve had so much help along the way
My Higher power dropping me
Bread crumbs my whole life
Letting me hop along until I was ready to fly

My broken wing is still under construction
But the cast is off
I need to preen my feathers
Everyday.

What Matters Most
by Ann Wade
What matters most
Is that I’m here
Safe, sound and warm
So grateful for being in sound mind and body
My heart aches for people suffering with mental illness

The town has been whispering about a young woman who took her own life
I passed by the parked truck off Rt. 110 many times, and found it curious
More details, more questions
More, more, and then I think
There was a time not that long ago
When I too contemplated taking my own life
In order to relieve myself from the anguish of being a caretaker
and losing myself to alcohol, depression
and self-loathing.
 
Well,
What matters most now is
I have a new lease on life
I’m sober, happy and free
winning through surrender.

What matters most is
That I surround myself with a bubble of white light
To protect me from negativity and evil
Keep my eye on the prize
And move in a positive direction

This minute what matters most is that
I breathe

I Could Only Wait So Long
by Donna Moran
I could only wait so long. And I did not wake this morning with the notion that today would be
the day.

The pressure of making a mistake. The shame, far outweighed the pressure of doing nothing. Doing nothing was very costly. You are a victim, caught in the continuous unsteady cross fire, of yes, no, maybe!!  Ripped to shreds with your uncertainty. Left, with nothing but a saving grace.

I did not have to make a decision. My options ran out, and landed me in an exit off I-70, New Castle Indiana.

(I left the car to go to the restroom, walked out the back door of the rest-stop and ran into the cornfields. I just kept running. And no one came looking.)

I am walking through a freshly tilled corn field; damp, cool, reflecting the early morning sun, rows and rows, miles and miles.

I knelt and touched the blackened gold. I smelled it, and I touched it with my tongue. It was real.
It was real. And it was the first, real thing I had felt in three years.

So taken was I with the moment, I laid upon the bed of heaven. In the middle of the field, somewhere in Indiana. My lungs burst. FREEDOM! Freedom, with two dollars in my pocket, and my freedom. How rich am I. I am FREE!

Here Is Why It Is So Hard to Forgive
by Donna Moran
Innocence, once stolen, never, EVER can be returned to the child. The child may run for your arms, but the innocence has left. The mind has been altered. The mind, the body and the soul. The child, will occupy the balcony of the mind to all she will ever meet. All, who will never know the spiral staircase of going down. The endless volcanic eruption of more to stop the coming down.

Yet, speak to the child, and you will be unaware of the split. Her eyes will search yours for the truth. Truth means nothing, to a robbed child. There is no understanding why. Why, they do not even ask why. Remote control. The innocent child, no longer innocent. Not by design but the execution of a plan by, the predator. The predator, is not discreet: dad, grampa, nana, teacher. The sentence, of life in prison, is that of the child not the predator. And yet, one must forgive. One, must forgive those that took the life of innocence. YES. One, cannot let them take your garden. The weeds, once planted, forever will rob you, of your freedom. You, will become a slave. A wanderer, until you find an EXIT, maybe in Indiana

Go, lay in a field of freshly tilled soil, under a June Bride sky. Cry, and leave the poison, the hate, the shame. Plant your seeds of
Freedom.

Take FREEDOM.....Live

Sometimes It All Becomes Too Much
by Mollie Hoerres
You know it’s too much when
The band around your head
Presses in
You’re sure your brain will explode
And leak out of your ears
Popping the top of your skull
High into the air
This is when it seems
It has all become too much
Life pressing in on you
People talking at you
Everything moving fast
You can’t keep up the pace
The pace
Their pace
I couldn’t keep up
It had become too much
My head did explode
At least in the figurative sense
Too much racing
Too much running
Pretending, lying, hiding
Too much, much too much
The irony of it all is that
Once it all becomes too much
You can let go
You can ask for help
You can slow down
Stop racing
Stop running
Stop pretending, lying, hiding
Just stop
You can begin to breathe
Be carried by unknown hands
Trusting that
Though it sometimes is too much
It will change
You won’t actually explode or implode
If you can stop
Just for a second
And breathe

The Text I Never Sent
by Mollie Hoerres
I never sent the text
Couldn’t have sent the text
Texting didn’t exist
It would have been easier
To type in a few characters
String along a few words
Words that maybe
someone would understand

Click “send”
Swoosh
Away my words would go
What exactly
Would I have said?
Help me?
I’m lost, please find me?
Maybe I would have sent
An “I love you”
Or simply
Thank you
Words that, at the time
Were difficult to
Fall from my lips
Words that weren’t even able
to travel along synapses
Into my consciousness

You could say it was because
I was high back then
But, no
It wasn’t being high
That just made it easier to forget
And pretend
There was no “send button”
No way for me to speak
Think
Or even feel

Early in my life
“Mute” was pressed
On an internal remote
Changing batteries
Didn’t solve the problem
Drugs
Didn’t solve the problem
The mute button
Perpetually stuck
Regularly being pressed by those
Who hoped I wouldn’t hit “send”
Who hoped I wouldn’t find my words

I’m here to say
I am getting a new remote
And a phone that texts
Watch out

When This Winter Is Finally Over
by Mollie Hoerres
When this winter is finally over
I will put my hands into thawed earth
Feel the sun upon my back
I will dig
I will dig
Turning the soil
Smelling heaven on earth
Like life has been breathed back
Into my wintered body

When this winter is finally over

I will plant
Seed by seed
Carefully, tenderly
Placing them into their tiny holes
Where the sun will nurture them
Where the rain will hydrate them
Where the soil will nourish new growth to come

When this winter is finally over

I will bask in the earth’s glow
Relishing the warmth from the wind
As it gently blows through opened windows
That are tired from hanging
So tightly shut
The sweet smell of spring
Filling the kitchen as if
Fresh bread were in the oven

When this winter is finally over

I will watch my garden
Tend my weeds
Even if
Not perfectly.

Here Is Exactly How It Happened
by Kate
I called my aunt Roselyn in Arizona and asked if she had a number for my father. After not being able to talk to him for the past ten years. She told me she did not have a number but the last she knew he was in Georgia avoiding the police. She did have a number to a relative he was staying with in Georgia who I could call. So I tried that number and found it to be another almost dead end. My distant cousin told me that my father was arrested and brought back to Vermont. She said to try calling the jails here to try and contact him.So I did. One place said yes he was there but he had been transferred 6 months ago and now he was in the Windor County Work Prison. So I called there and they confirmed my father who I had been longing for since age eleven was at last found. I thanked the women and asked how to get in contact with him. I wrote him a letter in hopes he wanted to hear from me and that I would get a response. A few weeks later I got that return letter...

What the Ghost Said When She Whispered in My Ear
by Kate
I had recently moved into this 1800’s farmhouse that had been abandoned for the last seventeen
years. The dust was an inch thick. The furniture was all old antiques covered in cloth.  I thought this place is going to be beautiful it just needs some good elbow grease and a few upgrades.

I gathered a crew of friends and family. We started cleaning, painting and sanding the old pine
floors.

Soon it was move in ready. I'll never forget what one of my aunts who had helped me with the cleaning said. “Katie Girl how are you ever going to live in this big old house alone?” “Aren't
you scared it’s haunted?”

I turned to her and said what the ghost had said when she whispered in my ear last night.

“Thanks for bringing life back into these old rooms”

Here’s Why I'm Not Giving Up
by Kate
I’m twenty-nine years old
and have given thirteen of those twenty-nine years
to Drugs and Alcohol.
July 6th, 2016 I was given another chance
at this crazy thing we call life.
All the cards were stacked against me
three days in a coma from an overdose.
Doctors told my family and friends
I most likely wouldn't wake up…
Just like those EMTs who kept bagging air into my lungs.
Just like those EMTs that gave me chest compressions
the whole way to the hospital
until my heart started again.
Just like them…
I'm not giving up...
Every day I wake up sober
I’m thankful I still haven't given up…

To Be Completely Honest...
by Lucie Hobbs-Johnson
I feel damn good in recovery. I mean I feel rrrrrrrreeeeeeeaaaaaaaalllllllllll good in recovery. I reckon this that pank cloud I heard the elders talkin' 'bout in them meetings where everyone says they don't have another recovery in 'em, and that God be tha glory! Can't say I've ever wanted this damn sober livin' so bad in the past, but with my wife expectin' and all, figure it's now or neva. Can't remember the last time I kept $20 in ma pocket so long. Yup, this recovery is fittin' me just fine and I thank I'll stick 'round.

I keep searching
for what's at the heart of things.
Pecking away, Pulling on, Grabbing for.
I keep wanting
all that I don't have in front of me.
Looking for, Focused on, Longing for.
I keep needing
the missing-at- days-end part
Holding fast, Touching slow, Letting go.
Just so you know,
That is at the center of things.

I have a lot of ideas, a lot of really great ideas, but nobody cares about it anyway. They’re much too happy living in their fascist fabricated realities.  They call it Democracy, but we all know the truth about what it really is.

Me, I’m a fascist too, don’t you forget it.  The only way to get an entire misanthropic race on only one page is by having only one page to get on to.  I get it, I really do: fascism means death and destruction for the sorry few, rules and restrictions, and no more free thinking, either—well, that’s kinda the point, don’t you think?

Well, I suppose it’s all about putting the proper leader in charge—one who knows what the people need, one who’s oppose to corruption and greed, and one who is, plain and simple, me.  I’d be the ideal leader of the people, don’t you see? but nobody does care about it anyway; they’re much too happy, as I have said, living in a dream.

Me, I had a dream too; I dreamt of truth.  Or was that a nightmare I don’t know.  Either way, though, you should elect Jeremy Void as The government official, The supreme ruling force, The Highest Dictator of your entire free world.  First Order of Business: Kill everyone who stands against My Way of doing things...

It was almost dark before the rain began. Usually Roberto would sleep in his tent but not tonight. Big Red got mad when Roberto gulped the last of the Thunderbird and he made long cuts to the top of the tent. Now whenever Roberto sees Big Red on the street he looks for something hard or sharp in case he wants to talk about the Thunderbird again.

Roberto hurries to the Salvation Army. His friend Billy works there and even though he is a little late Billy will let him in.

It used to bother Roberto the way Billy forced him to say the Lord’s Prayer with the other men. But one night when Roberto was alone looking up at the stars through the rips in his tent the Lord’s Prayer rolled round and round in his head; Our Father, which art in heaven, hollowed be thy name;” and also the part about forgiving trespasses, well, it felt okay that night. Then he began to think of the men at the Salvation Army like a sort of primitive tribe gathered around a camp-fire, each of the men looking up at the faraway stars just like he was doing in the tent and together they’d be praying and hoping that their sad, hard lives might begin to change for the better. Hollowed be thy name, meant to Roberto that there was something so big and so strange that to name it would surely make it smaller than it was. And these men, and him, they were all a part of this gigantic swirling thing. Prayer was just a way to acknowledge the enormity of it all. After that night he began to pray with the other men and not feel bad about it.

Tonight, Roberto is grateful to be out of the rain. He’s not thinking of Big Red, and it invigorates him when Billy leads the prayer. Later he helps Billy clean up the kitchen, after that he plays some cards. Something about tonight feels like a big green pasture set before him. He begins to think maybe, maybe tomorrow morning he’ll go to the Early Risers AA meeting.

After a hot shower Roberto falls asleep. In his dream he is twelve or so, he was with his parents on a street corner but then they were gone. He wants to leave the corner and look for them but he’s afraid. He begins to float away, and he doesn’t want to go, he swims in the air trying to get back, but the wind is pulling him away. He wakes up and the room is crowded with sleeping men. He misses seeing the stars through the roof of his tent.