life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the month “March, 2015”

spaces for re-defining moreΒ 





New beginnings. Springtime joy. Spaces opening. Baggage shedding. Words healing. 

 The future’s so bright…


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beautiful mess


 We can’t find our path without getting messy. Messy comes with the territory. We came in messy. We learn messy. We love messy. We grow messy. We leave messy. I never found my way to clarity without first befriending confusion, in all its chaotic forms. I never found a path that felt like home before falling into quick-sand. I never established a new way of being without trying the wrong way of being on for size. I never found the light without stumbling around in the dark. I never tasted God before getting a little dirt in my mouth. Not that all messiness is good messiness, but some of it is. In the heart of the chaos, is the clay that shapes us home. Chaotic Magnificence!

      – Jeff Brown    





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color guard πŸ’š Β Β 

– Ralph Waldo Emerson


My heart is green

with the fuzz of springtime growth
borning life again
from the rich, bloody soil
it throbs anew
My mind is blue
as the sky in sunshine
like the night full of stars and glittering tears
it diamond sparkles
My life is orange
as flames in a forest
breathing the wind
it grows wild
My love is red
there is no hiding it
real as anything
it woos pilgrims
My touch is gold
hands, lips on wounds
for velvet skin, shared breath
it heals all
My soul is pearl
creamy and warm
to all who come
it opens hearts
My word is platinum
I seek only truth
life with integrity
it unlocks doors
My work is emerald
deep as the world
full of riches
it creates wealth
My legacy is silver
of the finest made
nothing for me
it’s all about You
ACL 3/28/15


True Colors by Eva Cassidy

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The creative process is a process of surrender, not control. – Julia Cameron














 So full of life and beauty today I had to pull over and take a few pictures to remember this gorgeous day!!! Very full heart! So grateful! xo 

The Opening of Eyes


 That day I saw beneath dark clouds 

the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.

It is the opening of eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the heart after years
of secret conversing
speaking out loud in the clear air.

It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.

  The Opening of Eyes by David Whyte



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When wilt thou come unto me, Lord? Oh come, my Lord most dear! Come near, come nearer, nearer still, I’m blest when thou art near. Β  Β  – C. H. Spurgeon


 There is a huge difference between learning about truth and experiencing truth. Touch the source. Your mind can take in endless pearls of wisdom and your mouth can repeat them, but until you have essential experience β€” you only have noise. Talk and even listening are nothing without understanding. We only truly understand what we experience. When people have understanding they tend to be more quiet and seek quietness. Consider the possibility that many of the things you hear and say are utter nonsense and meaningless repetitions of noise. Cut it all out. Quit getting your information second hand. Take any concept, lesson, story, book, quote or conversation and look for a way to touch its source of origin β€” which is always an experience.

β€œWe are uncomfortable with intimacy and connection, which are among the greatest of our unmet needs today. To be truly seen and heard, to be truly known, is a deep human need. Our hunger for it is so omnipresent, so much a part of our life experience, that we no more know what it is missing than a fish knows it is wet. We need more intimacy than nearly anyone considers normal. Always hungry for it, we seek solace and sustenance in the closest available substitutes: television, shopping, pornography, conspicuous consumption β€” anything to ease the hurt, to feel connected, or to project an image by which we might be seen or known, or at least see and know ourselves.” – Charles Eisenstein


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love letters

 As I gaze into the world, I realise

that nothing falters in its
ability to reflect what
I’ve come here to see.


My challenge remains
to admit
to what it is
that I’ve seen.
The Reflection by Nic Askew

 It is time to write.

To blog.

To truthtell.

To confess, expose, reveal…

be real and raw and silly-serious moment by moment me.

Here. Now.      -vs-.       Someday. When.

Someday when I know what I’m doing?

Have it figured out?

Plotted, schemed, planned, blueprinted, outlined?


Ptttthhhhh! You know THAT day, right?

I am a beautiful messy mess heap of chaos and presence

Wanna know something?

My insides are scribbling.

I am scared. Scared of being scared. Scared of being scared of being scared.

Yesterday I shared with friends that I do not comprehend why I get

So. damn. frozen. stuck. stymied. in my lack of tracks

when.ever. I. contemplate coming here                                                                                                 (yes, here, to a wordpress screen, fingers on keys)                                                                               and writing all.

(as clearly evidenced by the chronic non-posts pervading this site, right?)

And I think I must find out what is β€œwrong” and-or β€œwhy oh why”                                                             in order to overcome and be                                                                                                                 the golden-hued, prolific, profound, insightful, inspirational blogging goddess                                       that we all know is in here                                                                                                       somewhere.

(Ohhhhhhhh…. could that be why?!)

They told me to just write. Write me. For me.

Not for you. Or them. Or any grand scheme purpose.

Simply to write. Express. Allow words to come. Flow.                                                                     Have their inexplicable way with me.

So here I am.

Shaking. Criticizing. Condemning. Regretting.                                                                          ALLOWING. Receiving.                                                                                                                     Sharing.                                                                                                                                             (Insert loud screechy horror movie scream here)

Writing words from voices whispering, hollering, quivering and shimmering

Fastwriting over, under, beside and through the scribbley scary insides

Less pretend pretense.

More real raw-been Robin.

I am a writer, after all.

I am also a Leader of Laughter and Guider of Dreams and Creativity Coach.                                       And that scribble and scrape-slops my insides, too.

I just want to hide. Run away. Hibernate. Meditate. Extrapolate.

You have no idea (wait, but maybe you do?)                                                                                         just how much energy I spend resisting

what I’m meant to do.

Fighting, warring, tugging, slugging, ugamugging.

It is ongoing, this internal bickering with all the voices

vying to be heeded and heard,

whining, cajoling, singing, snorting

All these damn voices, yearning.

I am hushing you (shhhhhh now, it’s ok)

setting you free

be unleashed upon a page, a stage,

keep me real, release release

have your way with me.

It is time to write. 


      – Robin OK @


photos and sources found at 

it’s all about the heart

Its incredible how one’s needs can be so contrary from one moment to the next.

Or maybe vociferousness is not for me.

The day was warm and the park beckoned. I reached for the camera but then left it behind.

There was a need for silence. I did not want to capture an outward display of appreciation. Instead, I took it inward. I wanted it to implode within and drown me in its presence. To let it pool in the center of my being and then let it burgeon with the stillness of the woods. Tender, quiet, restful. A balm, a solace, a gathering of the wayward sinews of breath and then, a releasing.

An unraveling, a crumbling of the walls of the fortress. And then, a gentle rebuilding.


The Fortress of One’s Heart by Rama DesaiΒ


photo sources atΒ

it’s that day again…how’s it gonna treat you?


 monday comes

fine as a feather
monday comes
light as a breeze
monday comes
lightning and thunder
monday comes
takes you under
monday comes
fit as a fiddle
monday comes 
like a good riddle
monday comes
one way or other
monday comes
hey to your brother
monday comes
like it or lump it
monday comes
two days to hump it
monday comes
like a dark lover
monday comes
leaves you to suffer
monday comes
still monday comes
somehow monday comes
monday always comes
monday monday
ACL  3/23/15
Monday Monday by the Mama and the Papas
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tell it







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