Here is my interview with Buddy Tetro

Source: Here is my interview with Buddy Tetro

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When I write…

When I write I come to the empty page with respect and a lurking sense of dread that for some reason I will not be able to create or convey what my mind and heart want to say anymore
When I write it’s never clear enough, or powerful enough, or clever enough, or enough My writing is an obsession that pulls at my mind day and night, sending me into fits of verbal entanglements and run on sentences… still running
When I write, and then read my work, I wonder if anyone else really feels my writing, or are they just politely listening and waiting for their turn to read their own words.
Writing is air and I breath in deep gulps and relish in the freedom of it and the ability to create or destroy a world that has never been seen before or experienced a look inside my writing shows the turmoil and laughter of my soul my writing is a shadow of my heart in print and on display for the world to see I am not famous but when I read my writing sometimes, I think perhaps someday, far down the road, that maybe my writing is not so bad and it could possibly rise out of the slush pile and be printed and actually become… Thoughts like that make my simple head spin and make me dread becoming a known author because part of what makes my writing worth reading is my anonymity and my loneliness I’m not ashamed in the slightest to admit I write for money so that perhaps one day I won’t have to tell my children, no, all the time, and my wife can have the things she deserves but is too selfless to ask for Not to be rich, but comfortable enough to take a breath and enjoy life without facing the everyday challenges of borderline poverty
I look forward to the day were I can take time to write and not always feel like I’m running out of time to write and I can carefully, and thoughtfully weigh each word for substance and impact The dream to wake and write and write some more and not have to go anywhere or do anything but write and write well is what keeps me writing into the deep watches of the night, and up again at four to write some more

This heavenly gift, this unnerving fluke a delightfully consuming obsession to write and be a writer of worth is what I aspire to attain with my pen and my squirrely mind, and the ever elusive imagination cloud that only brings its silver spun rain every now and again

I write to hold back my minds decay and to breathe and to exist
My words come from my soul’s well, partly dark and lined with sorrow and sparkling memories swirling in crystal water

Jagged and edged, my words bite and prick and know and whisper into your inner thoughts, flitting about and gone, leaving a stain of comprehension
Would that I could write something that would change the world and wake up the masses my writing is a secret lover that’s not always in the mood and often times an ass one evening we dance and create the next evening we are shy strangers awkwardly trying to get to know each other once again

What to write, who to trust, what to say, and who do I want the world of readers to think that I am

My writing my words, my words, my heart in my words, and into your mind, my writng goes on and grows and evolves and becomes… when I write

R.B Tetro   ©7/15

He used to be a soldier

He used to be a soldier.         He used to fight for America, and what America used to stand for.      Steely eyed and terrified, he put his life on the line, day after horrific day, without asking anything in return.    He used to be a father, with the prettiest wife in the neighborhood.      He used take his sons to play baseball, before the night mares turned into daytime episodes.      His family noticed it first, which would always hurt him the most, because he loved his family more than he loved his country, but he served his country anyway, because that’s what a soldier’s supposed to do.      Eventually, the fragile wall between sane and insane began to crumble down around him, and his beloved country forgot his service.      Finally, his family lost the man that they loved more than anything, to the monster that the military had created.      In the end, the man that gave everything he had to his country, lost everything in return.      Now, the man is a wanderer. Teeth clinched, doggedly surviving, stubbornly holding onto the last thing he has, the very thing he fought and lost everything for… his freedom.      Will you stop and help the man that gave everything for America? Will you go to him and listen to his life tale, and appreciated what he gave… so that we wouldn’t have to give up anything?     The man is hungry and lonely. His family, has had to move on.      Every now and again, you can see him in the mission chapel, praying silently, with tears in his eyes.      Maybe, when you see that man, you could tell him thank you, and give him a hand up, and be grateful that there are men and women out there that are willing to give away everything they hold dear to their life’s- so that we can be free.      When you see that man- or someone like him- instead of laughing at his tattered clothes, and broken soul, you might try and remember… he used to be a soldier.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      R.B Tetro                                                                                                                                                           © 7/15

Death…

Death is terribly final… especially to the dead and the dying.
Death is unbeatable, except by God, and even he had to sacrifice his own precious son to defeat it.
Death is intricately woven into the fabric of life. We write about death, try and depict death, fear death, even yearn for death at times when our soul is beyond repair, and yet death mocks us, ignoring us until our appointed time
I do not fear death…is what I like to tell myself. But I know it’s there, at times too close for comfort, always lurking about, waiting…watching…checking the sand left in my hourglass.
Death has no mercy, no compassion. Does death get time off for good behavior… or is it death for life? Who does death work for…the light or the dark? Does death have a retirement program, does it punch a clock with other deaths and go home to Mr. or Mrs. Death and little junior deaths, and satellite TV, and beer. Does death have higher aspirations… or is death proud of being death and bringing death?
“Death ain’t no joke,” my grand-pappy used to be fond of saying. He found out that was all too true first hand when I was still a child.
Death took my son when he was fourteen, after letting him suffer for almost two years, without so much as a thank you… or kiss my ass.
The truth of it is, deaths a motherfucker with no sense of humor and terrible timing. If you feel him coming for you fight back and fight back hard, because there is only death in death and no more for some…. no more.
Death is the purveyor of the process. It’s the one that takes you to the dance on the other side of things, than leaves you to face the music.
It doesn’t matter to death what happens to your soul after killing you.
All that death knows or cares about is death, and bringing death, and being death… and darkness.
Death is imminent…for all of us…including you.
©9/15                                                                                                                                           R.B. Tetro

Writing prompt entitled, A simple touch…

They are the nobodies of the world, the nothing’s, the ones that don’t count. You know the ones I’m writing about. You might very well be one of the ones that I’m writing about.
The people that don’t seem to matter, the ones that remain hidden in plain sight, right in front of those who do matter. The humans that are not the prettiest or maybe they are too big and scary, or without formal education or too small or not too bright or quick with a joke.
The ones that do your tax returns and read your books, and take care of your houses, and go about their daily life surrounded by people that take them for granted, that forget their even there from time to time.
It’s easier for those people to live inside of themselves, to shore up their walls of inadequacy and self- doubt with loneliness and imagination.      No one can see how special they are. Or maybe there not special which makes them even more special.      Perhaps you could spare them a smile, not the fake one that say’s to them, I wish they would quit coming around, but one that says to them, you used to be a nobody too, and that you still remember …how it feels to be invisible.
I wonder sometimes if maybe there is a special place set aside in heaven for the loners of the world, the ones that can count their friends on one hand and still have fingers left over.    I wonder if God has a special place in his heart for the ones that everyone else doesn’t want to be around. The ones whose only interaction with the world, is when they have to pay for gas, or when they actually get up the nerve to not go through self -checkout.
Or you one of those people? You know the ones, the ones that show up at the party and never feel welcome, because they’re not really, because they can never feel welcome anywhere.
It is often the quiet ones that have the most to say and to offer, not because they have any more than anybody else to say or offer, but because the loners are seldom heard and what they know and have to share with the world, is often unexplored thus never appreciated.
If your one of those people, those lonely solitary people, than you know the priceless value of an encouraging word, a pat on the back, you know, a simple touch, perhaps a steady hand on the shoulder that says, I know you are here thank for coming I’m glad that you are alive.
When a loner writes, I think that it is their way of saying to the world… I am alive, and I count for something, and I am somebody, and here is some of what I am. If you care to read my words you can see inside of me and my soul and perhaps learn from me or maybe just appreciate my existence.
Remember in your busy, popular day to acknowledge the loners, the ones who drift in and out of your life randomly, just enough for you to know their faces, but never enough for you to really know them.
Don’t forget the power of a smile, a nod, a simple touch. © 9/15   R.B. Tetro

Love is…

Love is… Jesus Christ A mothers embrace A soldiers ultimate sacrifice Shed blood on a cross An eternal vow at the altar Patience and selfless giving Knowing when to shut up and listen Knowing when to back away, but still be close by if needed A fathers pride A mothers tears Unconditional forgiveness A mighty shelter in a storm A child’s adoring stare Undeserved grace The opposite of heart dissolving loneliness Heartache and desperation Saying no to the good looking stranger Terrifying Exhilarating Smiling when your child erases your novel The only thing that matters The only thing worth dying for My oldest son in heaven Hate’s only solution
I searched for love when once a youth and thought I found the light… that slips through your finger and puts holes in your heart that delicious candy and bitter root, I chanced upon, and met, and did try and gain the better of In desperate attempt to vanquish loneliness, I did step into the breach, and was stung, and shattered by loves powerful back lash, my tender heart smashed on the rocks of despair A lifetimes journey did I wait, and search, and false find, and agonize, and realize through pain, that I had not indeed touched loves real light, nor stood in its glorious radiance As I became seasoned, I learned to love, and gained love, and gave love, and now am enveloped in loves warm, comforting, genuine embrace My wife and children, my faith, and a home, and a place to call home, is my love, and let’s not forget my writing, my new found love, that’s been waiting on me, in an unopened room in my mind

Love is a completion of harmony and union Love is the answer Love will find a way Love is… God’s greatest gift to humanity Love is… God’s greatest gift to me Love is…eternal Love is…evil’s kryptonite                                                       R.B. Tetro ©8/15

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Love is…
Jesus Christ
A mothers embrace
A soldiers ultimate sacrifice
Shed blood on a cross
An eternal vow at the altar
Patience and selfless giving
Knowing when to shut up and listen
Knowing when to back away, but still be close by if needed
A fathers pride A mothers tears
Unconditional forgiveness
A mighty shelter in a storm
A child’s adoring stare
Undeserved grace
The opposite of heart dissolving loneliness
Heartache and desperation
Saying no to the good looking stranger
Terrifying
Exhilarating
Smiling when your child erases your novel
The only thing that matters
The only thing worth dying for
My oldest son in heaven
Hate’s only solution

I searched for love when once a youth and thought I found the light… that slips through your finger and puts holes in your heart that delicious candy and bitter root,
I chanced upon, and met, and did try and gain the better of In desperate attempt to vanquish loneliness, I did step into the breach, and was stung, and shattered by loves powerful back lash, my tender heart smashed on the rocks of despair.
A lifetimes journey did I wait, and search, and false find, and agonize, and realize through pain, that I had not indeed touched loves real light, nor stood in its glorious radiance
As I became seasoned, I learned to love, and gained love, and gave love, and now am enveloped in loves warm, comforting, genuine embrace
My wife and children, my faith, and a home, and a place to call home, is my love, and let’s not forget my writing, my new found love, that’s been waiting on me, in an unopened room in my mind

Love is a completion of harmony and union
Love is the answer
Love will find a way
Love is…
God’s greatest gift to humanity
God’s greatest gift to me
Love is…evil’s kryptonite
R.B. Tetro ©8/15