Here I stand

A lone survivor with a crew of others shipwrecked by their own disaster, many more fatal than mine

Guilt for my weakness for my suffering despite the gifts I’ve been given....that others have not been so lucky…but yet my pain feels so real

"Comparison keeps us separate" I heard once from a wise fellow traveller

It is time to let that go so that I may resume my role here … as a wonderful perfect flawed agonized and elated part of this intricate collection of molecules and thoughts and particles and energy and vibrations

Surrounded with love support and kindness I can flow on the wavelength of life 

Remember that I am connected to you all 

to your pains 

and to  your joys 

when you suffer I suffer 

through your joy I receive the vibration of your passion

One particle bounces down, another reacts against it.. akin to an electrical charge that can restart a heart

Ours beat together in perfect rhythm and synchronicity. 

Ask me to explain it all I cannot. 

it’s a trip, that’s for sure, being in the middle of it all. 

So majestic the glory. So painful the agony. So sweet the wonderment.

Here I am in the middle of it all. 

Just a pinprick, over there, you may have to stop moving to see it!" he said.

Or some such equivalent. The wind was too loud.

Every pine needle multiplied by every branch and tree on the mountain,

in one voice, had become fluent in freight train.

My toes were cold, they were frozen I think, or maybe wet.

In that way that you can't tell which, but I was pretty sure I could still wiggle one piggy.

"We got this! Left! Right!" the wind carried behind him, a phantom drill Sargent.

And so they did. Left foot, right. Left foot, right.

Two dead trees post-holing in a concerted effort forward.

Out of this cold and wind and pain.

Out of this nothing good, static-brained, insanity.

Everything still hurting and begging for release.

But stopping there in the artic maelstrom I could see it.

The light is getting brighter.

Sonofabitch was right.

I'm going to tell you all the reasons why, you should put down the drugs and stop getting high.

I love you so much and I know that you're sick, but this is going to hurt and it won't be quick.

your life is important and I hope you understand, that life doesn't always go according to plan.

just believe in yourself and soon you will see, that you do have the strength to fight this disease.

there are people that love you and care about you so, if there's one thing in this world I want you to know.

that you have my support and you will forever, I won't give up on you no not ever.

Climb the tree

bemuse the maypole

trundle aghast

In a brew of artifice

Regard the microbes

ember pollen August spray

trim the sails for

a bumpy night

turn on a classic

sit back breathe deeply

Realize the universe is not a contest

You are stardust

And another thing

you know the one

with popcorn-cranberry

n sixties era icicles

fractured memories like

the time my DAD cut the tree

off too short, mis measured

and I toe-nailed the top back on

Then a week after Christmas

sweeping up the dry needles

to his quiet tears

and hauling out the tree

into the frozen welcoming

Most nights I could not sleep

Knowing I had reached my inevitable defeat

The days would pass

As would night

I didn't have the strength to put down the pipe

Always strung out never stayed in one place

Feeling like my life was a constant race

Disappointment and guilt fill my veins

I can't seem to hold on to the reins

Always wondering when I would get my next fix

I will do whatever it takes, even lies and tricks

This person you see, the one inside of me

Is a creation of this monster we call a disease

It was all so detached

At first just a hint of

Trust not delivered

Sitting on a rock

The waiting is onerous

You would think that by now

We should know better

Twisted into a mirror

Wished upon a car

Can you just listen for once

We know that the risk

was real

the infection was brittle

you can not dismiss

gravity, fire

the flood is real

real is real

repent from the dream of screams

“Just how does that work?” asked the doctor, letting go of all expectations,
dropping the deck of cards

onto the pile of lonelinesses- tomorrows which never came, did not come, have not, will not, cannot, would not, ought not.

To the stable with the barrow boy-
out with the rifle, don’t stifle, this trifle,
this connection, this appointment with hate, with the labyrinth at the end of time-

at the end of the hall,
turn right for hate room 101, or 108, I forget which- you will remember- just follow the barbwire-

laid-low rosary
leading the way to kingdom come, to Valhalla, the hate bomb,
the eight ball- don’t get stuck

behind the shadow Sisyphus got stuck behind, getting his inverse, reverse tan on the hill to the beacon-
comb your hair stallion,

meet me where the shadows are long, where the asphalt ends,
where the fun starts,
the angels land-

light as feathers,
deft as daffodils
before they are blown-
don't pass me up because my skin is sallow,

because I didn't swallow, because I didn't change my Carhart tutu
for the real deal!

Watching the speed o hover around 110 as the exhaust is screaming, nothing in sight for miles, just the open desert highway and some cactus that never really comes into focus as the truck speeds by. They both hated going to Vegas but loved the drive to get there. A rolling burn out across the dam back when you could get away with that sort of thing and it was on to the city of sin. There’s a spot where you crest the hill and you’re just staring up at the pollution above the city and the lights of the first casino welcoming you to the last place they really wanted to be, you down shift to start your descent into madness and “Where the Streets Have No Name” comes on the radio. I never enjoyed Vegas, or the situations surrounding my travels there but that song still makes me smile every time.

Writers for Recovery is pleased to announce that it has received a $5000 grant from the Vermont Community Foundation’s 2020 Northeast Kingdom Fund. The grant will help to expand writing workshops and other innovative programs throughout the Northeast Kingdom during 2021. We anticipate collaborating with recovery centers, prisons ,and social service organizations throughout the Kingdom to bring powerful writing workshops to folks in recovery. We will also present a number of readings at local libraries and art centers across the NEK. Stay tuned for more!

Something I never expected to find was looking at me with those huge brown eyes. Like an emoji that one would send that doesn’t blink, that doesn’t know what has happened. They were crystal clear, so bold in their shape, their color, their strength. They were running from something that had trapped them in this lifetime. They were looking at me, asking me to free them, but I didn’t want them to run back into my life again. So, where was I to release them? How did I tell them “I will let you go if you run the other way”? So, I looked into those big brown eyes, released the trap that was holding them, only hanging then, and do you know something that I never expected, happened. Those big brown eyes ran the other way. Or were they blue? That would have been something I would have expected!

There he was
So deliciously captivating
I looked over and caught his eye
I had felt him watching me, calling me
Tempting me
The tattoo on his neck should have been a warning sign “ STAY the fuck AWAY!!”
Yet, I felt a warm rush run through me
He lit me on fire
All from one glance.
I immediately was captivated… pulled to him
Like a moth to a flame
I should have known his was a flame that would scorch my soul; but that’s the thing when you start dancing with the Devil
You feel heat in your body down to your loins

and nothing can pull you away
I never expected to go there again
But I did that day. I began a slow seductive tango
We played that game….you know the one…I coyly look into his eyes, he looks up catches mine, I look away
TALK TO HIM my body screamed
I was too afraid
I tried to muster the strength and courage to speak
Words failed...as some part of me knew he was danger
My stop came.
As I stepped off the subway car, I watched him, our eyes still locked
As the doors closed he disappeared quickly, but our eyes remained connected until he slipped away deep into the tunnel…perhaps never to be seen again.
It was fodder for my imagination for months.

It became an obsession.

But the day came...he walked into a room …there we were, together again.

What were the chances?
There we were.
That was the beginning of the end for me.

A brief

ecstatic

soul crushing

rave
The beat of the music pulsed through me while I fell into the hole that was him...
I swore I’d never do it again. But I did. And it gutted me.
The scars remain.

The space between

Rocks

Striatious on a

Cloudy day

The reason for tulips

A wave of indeterminate

Length

Her soft round eyes

Lingering for a moment

On the dash

The bright fate of

My eyebrows

Singed by this shadow

Today I came across a conversation happening between a correctional officer and a few inmates. So, the officer seems to be in depth in the conversation so I dropped in. Just as I had come in to the chat the officer was telling the inmates that addicts make the choice to be drug addicts and that the MAT program is bullshit. That its just another way for addicts to get high. I let the officer continue talking until he brought up Narcan and how its bullshit that people play God by using Narcan to save someone in an overdose. That we should let them die because they made the choice to use and that they know the consequences. They want to be junkies and they know the risk is death. So, I figure I’ve listened enough and no one else is saying anything to this officer. So, I’m like “I’ve heard what you think, now let me tell you what I think. You say it’s our choice to be an addict, well I am an addict. I’ve been addicted to opiates since the age of 15 and I’m here to tell you that I didn’t just wake up one day and decide that I wanted to be an addict the rest of my life. This life is not a choice for us and MAT is not just a legal way to get high. In fact, MAT and Narcan have saved countless lives.” I told this officer that addiction is a horrible disease and there is plenty of scientific proof and scores and scores of information to back this up. Addiction is a disease that is treatable but a lot of people don’t have the patience or the want to help an addict. I think there are so many people out there that do not understand addiction and I think that people have their own opinions about addiction and their own ideas about the best way to handle the epidemic and handle drug addicts. But these people that are biased toward addicts are the ones that still follow the old stigma about addicts and they still believe a very distorted concept of what an addict is. But the truth is, addiction is a very serious disease and I too suffer from this disease. And I am still a good person and am working very hard toward my recovery. It is a very tolling process but it doesn’t help anyone when you act like we are unfixable things as opposed to treatable human beings who have suffered so much without the added stigma. Needless to say the officer didn’t have anything to respond, but if I did change his mind…….that’s one small win. That’s what I think.

At a ceremony on Thursday, September 24., the KidSafe Collaborative presented Writers for Recovery and Scrag Mountain Music with the Janet S. Munt Prevention Award for their collaboration on the Lullaby Project. In the project, WFR and Scrag Mountain helped moms at the Lund family center in Burlington, VT write lullabies for their children. Scrag Mountain then performed the lullabies in a series of concerts across Vermont. It was a magical time, and the moms were incredible. Watch this video, and you can see just a little bit of the magic that happened.

I’m having a blast running a workshop at the Lund family center in Burlington. Even though the classes are on Zoom, the ten-week workshops with approximately twelve women is going great!  The writing comes many times from a place of loss and trauma, but is surrounded by the strength, resiliency and the incredible hard work these women have done to turn their lives around for themselves and their children. The women are writing about their recovery, their reconnection with their children and the strength they derive from being strong Moms. Their writing is vulnerable and proud and insightful.

Love these wonderful ladies!

Thanks to all who are participating!

Bess

Jeff Morse is a long-time participant in Writers for Recovery. HIs work is strange and mystical, and if I said he was one of my gurus, I wouldn’t be lying. Hope you enjoy these untitled works.

 Untitled 1

A wish fulfilled

The action of

stillness

a chance to laugh

Riding the wave

of light oh heck

I would rather

of given my druthers

As my Mom used to say

be given a green

you can

with respect and guidance

be and in that

being for all the saints’ sake

breathe the love and be the love

Untitled 2

To soar

unintended

pre emptied

post pardoned

priest lathe starred

fate faith fissure

wrath of none aboard

strangers welcome

of course

Untitled 3

Just a pinch of ice for the coming

of the clown who,

when pressed, admitted

that his happy face

was sad and his sad

face was bad, that has

been obvious since he was

a child killing ants

in the backyard with a

mirror and the sun

Untitled 4

It is the

breathless and full

everything

Nothing even is

quite active

neurons atoms n such

why even that state is

full in its expressionless

honesty no just step

away from the ledge

and it will be FINE

Untitled 5

The wish

may get you

there fuming

raising a fuss

conjuring up a drama

ghost shape shifting

your way across the

damp dusk

skirting the fetid

air freshening in the

beat of your

steady wings

Torn... Like the equator being stuck between two poles; splitting the earth as they are pulled in different directions from the universe. In-balanced from the fight between light and dark. Much like my past haunting me, turning unexperienced emotions or desires into crushed dreams before they were even an experience.  
       As I’ve said before life has it’s unforgivable misfortunes, I feel they are caused by my lack of direction. My thought are, when you dive head first into so many cultures, people, places and things you find a love for them all.
      Where you never want to let go but, the tighter you try to hold the reins the faster you lose them. Making me feel like I leave that piece Of my heart with them so they don’t have to feel the emptiness that follows once they are past memories. 
        I don’t know what hurts more, the fact that they become past memories I chase, or that I find myself numb and unwilling to experience new exciting yet fearful ventures.         This is caused by the fear that, I don’t know if I can take the loss of something I hold close to my heart. Especially of this existence; where we lose everything in the end. 
        The pieces Of my heart I have left to offer are singular, where I feel I have to protect them, because the pain of losing them would cause me to lose the last piece of myself I have, to whom, or what love I have left to give. As well as where and when to do so.
       I vision This being the love of a lifetime leading to a unalterable demise. Now left cursed with latching onto it; for there is some much I have yet to see, and at the same time Unwilling let myself go to see them. Much like the reins I grip so tightly. I know to experience this love as it is in fact my last, I have to let the reigns go, and let the universe unfold as my higher powers intend. 

“I Am From”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

I am from a place where excellence is expected where if you fall, 10 people saw it and each have something to say.

From a place where if your parents don’t make a lot, you’re not worth too much

From a place where loyalty is simply a word or a tattoo

I’m from a place where once you’re labeled, it’s almost impossible to shake it.

If that place and didn’t have that silver spoon and longed for anything else to feel as though I mattered

I’m from a place that bored me and sought to find myself elsewhere

To escape the monotony, to escape my labels, to find my other outcasts

I’m from a place that I never felt I belonged and it’s taken me ‘til

Now to realize that where I ran to is simply worse than where I ran from

“Here’s Why I Called”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

Sometimes I find it amazingly difficult to call my family. I came from a family where I am the black sheep. No one in my immediate family has ever been arrested, never mind sentenced to prison. What goes on in here they don’t understand at all. And why should they have to? They expect and assume that the rules of a civilized society can work here and as anyone who’s ever been locked up knows, nothing could be further from the truth. Dealing with argumentative inmates or c/o’s who only want to make life more difficult for us, who wants to hear about that on a 20 min. phone call that costs $2? Why would they want to hear about how their loved one is being treated poorly and fighting against a system stacked against us?
So the “how have you been” question sucks. So I lie 9/10. I tell them I’ve been OK, “just bored” meanwhile I want to rip my hair out. I hear about how people are living their lives, having fun and moving on or about how someone else passed away, is sick or having $ issues. And I’m stuck in here feeling like a bum, missing out and unable to help.

So it’s not always easy to call and go through prompts and entering your inmate# just to talk to a loved one and be reminded you’re being recorded. No being told you’ve only got 1 minute left is painful. But here’s why I called …

I called because I love you. Because I need you. That I want you to know that even at my worst I think of you. I wish I was there and am sorry that I’m not but called just to hear your voice and I want you to know it’s the best 20 minutes I’ll have all day. I love you.

“The Hardest Part”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

The hardest part of making changes to my life is most simply that it’s all I know. My entire live has consisted of the same basic outlines. The places have changed, the people have changed, but I have not. I lie to myself a lot and try to make excuses for why I’m doing the things that I do but the main reason has always been because I’m afraid. Afraid of the unknown. Its sounds weird, but it’s true. I’ve only ever tried to find the shortcuts. My mind works in a very abstract type of way and in my mind I think I’ve figured it all out. Clearly I have not. The hardest part is not acknowledged, that I’ve done, but where do I start? How do you attempt to find that one 1st step to connect almost 15 years of mistakes. Where does the path begin? It’s very overwhelming when you think about it like this. That to me is the hardest aspect of changing my life and a question I am constantly thinking of and do not have a full solid answer yet.

“I’ve Made Some Changes”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

The address remains the same.

You still turn left at the old Lovelace farm, and you still go about a mile before you come to the farm house on the left.

The trees are taller.

Driveway’s in the same place.

But the mailbox is different.

Who or what ever took down the old fence that ran along the driveway did the property a favor.

So did whoever finally mowed the god-damned lawn.

The landscaping is no longer controlled by wind and gravity and the junk pile is now behind a couple of old cars which are now begin a small workshop.

If you’ve passed this way in the last 20 years, you’ll ring the bell and when I get to the door you’ll say “The place looks good.”

“I’ll made some changes,” I’ll say. “Want a beer?”

“I Have a Better Idea”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

I have a better idea, let’s try science!

Fuck all this politics bullshit.

Want a better world? Listen to the data, not the pundits.

I don’t care if you want another Jet-Ski™.

People need to eat.

Got a fancy car?

A big truck that makes up for a small dick?

Good for you.

Stop complaining about the price of gas, you’ve obviously got enough to cover it.

IN fact, let’s raise the price so we can plant some trees and your grandkids can breathe in 50 years.

Got a nice house?

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Want to keep poor people from stealing your shit?

Pay for school.

Pay for re-hab.

Pay your fucking taxes, you selfish piece of shit.

You actually think that’s your money?

Really? You made it all by yourself?

Seriously, who do you think “paid” for the infrastructure, the security of the monetary system, or the cheap-ass agricultural and consumer goods upon which your entire business model is based? Who fought and bled and died and innovated and immigrated and worked and rebelled and agreed to a set of rules that even made your greed possible?

So why do you think it’s acceptable?

What if I’m Wrong?
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

I turned the corner, my bike tracking perfectly with the tire marks left by the truck through the fresh snow.

 After about fifteen minutes, which seems like and hour with frozen fingers and a fogged-over visor, I have convince myself that he didn’t know I was back here, following his every move as he trundled across the county on every back road that looked passable.

As the road climbed toward the transmitter tower for a long-dead radio station, a tower which sprouted microwave transmitters and a cell phone repeater over the last twenty years or so, it dawned on me that he would soon either be force to backtrack or risk some pretty nasty trails if we had much farther to go.

I put down a foot as I carefully stopped, put the bike in neutral and put down the kickstand.

The road was more slippery than I thought, and I wonders how a worn-out set of Dunlops could do better than logger boots.

I paused to warm my hands on the top of the engine before fumbling around to lift the seat and pull the headlight fuses.

“Stealth mode enabled,” I whispered in my helmet, fogging the face shield a little more.

I mounted up again — carefully — and got on my way, hoping he couldn’t see me coming…

(But) what if I’m wrong?