What is it

It's fingers touching a face that
melts hearts.
It's putting lace on,
and taking lace off.
It's undoing what has been done.
It's escaping to that place
where every dream
is yours to keep,
and only those who dare
will be invited.
It's brushing aside doubt,
and letting someone's
warmth surround you.
It's feeling that place of
wild abandon.
It's putting yourself in
a pleasurable position.
It's binding but doing it lightly.
It's knowing how
to be soft, yet tough.


Robert
2016

 

Week 34

The creative door is always locked from the inside

Trust your inner unknowing

Did you write this morning?

Everywhere we look is creativity

 

Its not about making a mistake, its about holding that space

The truth has many disguises

The process never stops

 

 

I saw my heart

 

 

 

Robert

2016

 

Dumb Stuff

If you were locked in a room and forced to write, what would it be about?

Hopefully it would be about how much you love me, but in case it's not what would you desperately want to say? I'm not going to put ideas in your head, the little voices of your own will need to handle that. What do they whisper to you as you first awaken, before your mind has a chance to process too much? What do they say as you get ready to start your day, or maybe as you make your morning coffee? Those little voices are what I am writing right now, and this is what they are saying to me. "The dog is barking, I don't want to get up, I'm still tired, shit, man, fuck." Wow, now what do I do with that?

The dog is barking
I don't want to get up
I'm still tired 

Shit, man, fuck...


I might have a chorus to a song here, now I need to build from that. I need to tell the story of what happens next. I just lie here tapping on my telephone notepad writing something stupid, I should probably get up and go let the dog out.

I'm so lonely
That I just lie here
Tapping on my telephone
Writing something stupid like this
I should probably get up

And let the dog out to piss

Now we're cooking with gas, let's see what's for breakfast or what's on the radio. What am I going to wear today blue or black jeans? The t shirt I slept in needs to be cleaned. You look cute when you wear my old shirts. When I wear em I look like a jerk...

Turn on the heat cause
We're cooking with gas
Let's see what's on the radio
And what's for breakfast
Do I wear the black or blue jeans
And the t shirt I slept in
needs to be cleaned
You look so cute
When you wear my old shirts
When I wear em

I look like a jerk...

Now let's get in the car and drive to the next stop. I hope we are legal cause we just drove past a cop. The car is running but needs to get fixed and the radio don't work I think it is jinxed. The car smells like last night’s cigarettes and booze. Fuck it, hit the gas pedal and away we will cruise

Let's get in the car
And drive to the next stop
I hope we are legal
cause we drove past a cop
The car is running
But it needs to get fixed
It smells like last night’s booze
And stale cigarettes
Hit the gas pedal and

Away we will cruise...

Ok, this is another pretty dumb exercise but it gives me ideas and it keeps my brain moving forward. It is just like playing a sport where you have to practice to be ready to play in the game, and the more you practice the better you get. What happens next is when the magic begins and the good stuff comes...

Hopefully, if not I just start over again with dumber stuff, and as you should know by now if you keep up with me or this blog, good or bad, I like to write and say dumb stuff...

Robert
2016

 

Week 33

It's 4 am in the morning. What is my voice and where do I find it? Why am I even searching for it and why do I feel compelled to write? I have been asking myself these questions for a while now and felt a need to write about it, I have heard much discussion on this topic of finding your voice, and that each one of us has a unique voice that no one else can share with the world. I would say that it's probably safe to assume that 99 percent of the world’s population goes without ever finding their voice or even thinks about it. Is the rice farmer toiling in the paddies in Southeast Asia finding his voice, or the tanker captain out in the North Atlantic, is he trying to discover and share his unique voice? Is the voice a real tangible thing that has to be written or is the voice to some written and played by going through the routines of their daily existence? Is it possible that when I'm standing in line or waiting for the cashier at the grocery store that I am witnessing voices being written and played right in front of me? The need for all of us to express ourselves is displayed in many forms, some written, some sung or painted, and some kept to ourselves.

Some voices are so strong that they catch your attention without having to be heard, like our favorite baseball player when he hits a home run and thousands cheer, his voice is loud and clear and he has just sung out in the way he does best. Is there a need for him to go back to the locker room or later at home to write about this experience, or is he content to have just lived it and accept it for what it was at that moment in time? This I suppose is what makes writers and artists different. There is some inherent desire to not only live the moment but to savor in it and share it with others who may not have been a witness to feel and to be a part of.

I may not understand completely all aspects of creativity or finding your voice but I do understand the complexities of life and the effort that it takes to just get through each day for most of us. These voices are the voices of the masses unheard and not played on the radio, unashamed and pure voices being written just by living and showing up every day in a sometimes uncaring and unforgiving world. These are the voices that intrigue and delight, and other times bring a tear to our eyes, these are the voices that inspire us to write, to paint, or to express our creativity and voice in whatever manner we choose. Tell the story of the baby in the incubator who just wants to live but doesn't know why yet, and tell the story of the terminally ill patient who does not want to die but has accepted fate with grace and dignity. Tell the story of what it felt like when you were told "I love you" by someone, or tell the story of what it felt like when someone said " I don't love you". These are the words, these are the stories, these are the voices to be written, sung, and painted on canvas or with words. These are the voices that I want to hear, see, touch, and feel.

Find your voice, keep writing I am told, this is what I am doing and why I am writing today. This is my voice, these are my words, they might not tell a story but instead they express my thoughts at this precise moment in time at this precise location at this very spot where I sit. This is my reality, and this is my voice. I will keep writing, discovering, and learning to find my voice and when I do maybe one day I will write something that will give someone the same feeling of exuberance or sadness as the baseball player who knocked one out of the park, depending on which team you were rooting for...

Thank you to all who inspire, support, and put up with the insanity. I love you all, you give me the reason to prove to myself that there is more to life than just existing, and that each moment lived and each feeling felt is worth sharing with my own unique voice.

 

 

 Much Love and Peace
 

 

Robert

2016

 

 

Take My Strength

Sitting on a wall
overlooking the city below
wrapped in an embrace
meant to comfort and
keep you warm and safe
from all that you fear.
Take my strength
feel it's power to heal,
to love,
to let you know
that someone cares.
Rest your head
against my shoulder
as the light from a new day
begins to shine.
Hold onto me,
I will not let go.



Robert
2016

Cryptic (Part 17) Simply A Letter

It was simply a letter. Only this letter was meant to explain his feelings, and it was specifically directed to her. He thought carefully about what he would say. Would he simply tell her how he felt or would he tell her how he felt in a way that only she would understand? His words had value to her and he did not want to disappoint. Such a difficult task for such a complex mind would take time, and time was something that he did not have or like to waste. He knew exactly how he felt, and now it was time to set about saying it. As he started to write he could see her face, it was smiling in a way only she smiled, and in a way that he loved. It reminded him of many things but the first and foremost was that he had come to know the person behind the smile and she made him laugh when he wanted to cry, and the voice behind that smile made him want to listen to her, for she had a way of comforting him that no one else could. Then there were the eyes, what lovely jewels they were, staring not only at him but into him piercing through all the built up layers that he had placed to keep people out. She had found a way to penetrate his defenses and get into his mind which only a few people had ever been able to do. She had seen something in him that she liked and was curious to know more, which made him feel comfortable and wanting to not only write the letter but to write it in a way that he had never been able to write before. This letter would need to be written to describe feelings that had been locked away for some time and he needed to think carefully, something that he was not known for, since he had always flown by the seat of his pants and worn his feelings on his shirt sleeve, blurting out whatever came to his mind. No, this letter had to be different, it would be difficult but he knew that he could do it, and he knew how important it was to get it right. So the letter began:

 

My dear .....

 

And then it stopped. Gone were the words that he had wanted to say, taken from him like sand washed away by the tide, grain by grain until there is nothing left. Only a memory, faded but still vivid in every detail was left to guide his words. He struggled, and the more that he struggled the harder it became, like a knot tightening around the very thoughts that he was trying to express with his words. He finally realized that the struggle was what he had been focusing on, not his feelings for her, and it was about to change, she deserved more, and now it was time for him to say how he felt to her and stop writing about the pain that he endured and move on to the next chapter of his life. This letter was one of the most important things that he would ever do, and what he had discovered was that he needed her help, and that is what he had been trying to say all along, and apologize for saying anything else. He loved her and needed to say it in a way that only she would understand, it didn't matter if anyone else would. 

 

It was simply a letter, it had always been and will always be, so why was it so difficult to write?

 

Robert

2016

Corner of Love and Doom

Leaning against a street light
On the corner of Love and Doom
Red lights are flashing
in the windows of every room
Not sure how I got here or
How long I plan to stay
But it’s almost midnight
And it’s been a real long day
Saxophone is playing
Somewhere down the hall
I can hear it wailing
One of my favorite songs
The one about heartache
And the one that’s about pain
Hits a nerve in my body
As I stand here in the rain
Another john another dollar
On the corner of Love and Doom
Hey mister can you tell me
Where a girl can find a room
Bruises on my body
Beatings every day
Not sure how I got here
Or how long I plan to stay
Leaning against a street light

On the corner of Love and Doom

 

https://youtu.be/NWMKN89krrU

(headphones for best sound quality)
 

Robert

2016

 

Love Beneath The Ocean

Tan body exposes breasts
like stone carved by millennia,
as distant mountains are laid bare
against a rocky shore.
Staring into the warm blue sea
arches on a curved wall beckon
with arms wrapped around my heart.
Imagined mermaid rising from the depths
to touch the soil and breath the immoral air.
Trust nothing but this moment,
then descend exhausted never to return.
Take me to the deepest waters
where no man goes unscathed,
or returns to tell the tale
of love beneath the ocean
and life between the waves.



Robert
2016