By Robert Stanhope
The depth beneath my skin, not more than a few inches to my fleshy heart, is far more shallow than my mind can see into the abyss of my aching thoughts, where the beating stops before love is found, and sacrifice is no more.
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By Robert Stanhope Dogs roam the junkyard sniffing bones of the relics rusting into the earth, tree limbs vine through cracked glass while a photographer finds light bouncing off a shiny trim of chrome-- life in a heap of twisted metal. Photo by Herbert Aust
By Robert Stanhope
Black magic permeates the mind leaving behind a fog rolling in heavy on a desperate soul lost in a dark cove of sunken ships, only the sound of a horn will break the curse, guide the spirit to a clear sea free to sail away on tranquil waters. By Robert Stanhope
I live between the whispers where the silence shouts from the deep darkness of the hollows of my heart, still, on the pale surface of my earthly body, my scream faint like a mouse's breath as the prowler nears it's soul, I'm torn, heaven or hell. By Robert Stanhope
It had been a long time since anyone had visited the attic. There was an exterminator that Dad hired from Craigslist to remove a rat and her babies. If memory serves me correctly, his name was “Vermin Vernon”. I’m not sure what odor was worse, his body or the rat’s afterbirth. He wasn’t a clean man, but he was efficient at removing rodents. Plus, he was affordable. Mom offered him fresh meatballs and he accepted, refusing cash for his services. I remember him carrying a closed cardboard box of rats in one hand and a Ziploc bag of meatballs in the other as he walked across the front lawn, his ass crack showing as his pants slipped without a free hand to pull them up. Dad passed a couple of years ago and Mom’s mind isn’t too sharp these days. Now it’s my responsibility to rid the attic of a rodent. I’ll see if “Vermin” is still on Craigslist. I’ll search “pest control” under the services section. Only three results. “Got a rat? Let’s Chat!” is the first post. “Have a Rodent Problem? We have a Potent Solution.” is the second result. Do these guys go to poetry school? Ah, this one must be “Vermin Vernon”, “A Man Has to Eat, I’ll Remove Your Critters.” Click. Sure enough, a short description of service and a phone number to call Vernon. “Go for Vernon!” said a raspy voice on the line. “Hi Vernon, I’m Valerie Moses. I don’t know if you remember me, but you removed some rats from my parent’s attic a few years ago.” “Sure do, Ms. Moses. Your Mom makes a mean meatball. Sure am sorry to hear about your Dad passin’.” “Thanks, Vernon. We sure do miss him. Mom isn’t cooking these days. The reason I’m calling is because a neighbor saw a raccoon crawling into the attic. We hear him scratching and making a ruckus. Can you remove it for us?” “A raccoon, huh?” asked a hesitant sounding Vernon. “Yes,” I replied and asked, “Is that beyond your services?” “You mentioned your Mom isn’t cooking these days. How are your meatballs?” “Vernon, I’d be happy to pay you cash.” A disappointed Vernon replied, “I think I’ll refer you to “Rascal Rick” for this one.” “I saw his ad on Craiglist. Is he a good man?” I asked. “He’ll get the job done and treat ya fair.” “Okay. Thank you for the referral, Vernon. I need to tend to my apple pie in the oven now. Take care.” “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Did you say apple pie?” exclaimed Vernon. “Sure did,” I replied. “I’ll be right over to take care of your raccoon problem, Ms. Moses.” I planted seeds last week,
I’m no gardener, I watered the seeds, I’m no irrigation expert, I weeded around the seeds, I’m no farmer, I saw a sprout today, I’m a visionary, I spoke to the sprout, I’m an encourager, I saw a seedling today, I’m a believer. I listened to the seedling, I heard God. He said, “Grow.” By Robert Stanhope
I was born on Summer Street in The Sunshine Town of Newport, New Hampshire in the month of May. To southerners, I was born a Yankee. I was briefly moved to other Norman Rockwell-esque towns in the Granite State and the Green Mountain State of Vermont. Returning to Newport in the second grade, I began school at the red brick building rising on the hill. I was home. I was home, where I played marbles in the dirt near the aluminum slide and the swing set with black rubber seats. I was home, where a classmate strummed a guitar and sang Peter Paul & Mary’s Puff the Magic Dragon one hundred miles from the sea. I was home, where I kissed a blonde schoolgirl under cover of a concrete pipe converted to playground equipment. I was home, where I could walk the streets from one end of town to the other in under a half hour. I was home, where I could buy a Coronis Market ham grinder that is often imitated, but never duplicated. I was home, where a barber named Spunky cut my hair once my bangs covered my eyes. I was home, where I went to school dances at The Rec, sat in a metal folding chair along a cinder block wall before working up the nerve to slow dance to Total Eclipse of the Heart, socially distanced arm’s length apart, hands on the waist per blunt instruction from parent chaperones. I was home, where one teacher taught me to appreciate art, another taught me to be a storyteller, and another told me not to swap spit in his classroom. I was home, where I couldn’t breathe when my future wife took my breath away when she walked into my homeroom in tenth grade. I was home, where I graduated a year early because home wasn’t where I was meant to be. Home wasn’t southern New Hampshire for college. Home wasn’t the cities or the small towns where I lived in apartments, or where I bought homes, and raised a family. The signs were all there from birth. Summer Street. The Sunshine Town. Newport was a town for my proper upbringing. It’s a small town perfect for some. I could count on neighbors for a lending hand. I could count on thin walls and a gossip train too. I could count on brutally cold and snowy winters up to six months of the year. The winters were how I knew Newport, New Hampshire, New England, wasn’t my final home. It took me a better part of forty years to come to this realization. I’m a southern soul. Yes, Yankee at my core. I’m a Yankee that needs warm weather twelve months a year. I need a home with sandy beaches and palm trees. I need a home where my feet can be bare and my pants can be shorts. I need a home where the music is a little trop rock, a little blues, a little swamp rock, or any genre I choose. I need a home where the seafood is same-day fresh and the sweet tea is ice cold. I need a home where I’m inspired to create by the locals and the transplants. Much like me, the transplants have realized their southern soul. Image by Myriam By Robert Stanhope
The words were scorching, the lines flowing like lava, singeing the pages like wooden matchsticks, the plot igniting, turning to ashes in the wind, on the barren land, one ember smolders, sparking another story.
By Robert Stanhope
Image by Markus Distelrath
I walk steady
except when I trip, I fall, I walk steady accomplish what I can, but most of all, I walk steady, moving straight ahead, through my shortfalls. I feel the years in my aching feet, relief comes in rainfall. |
Robert Stanhope
Writer and photographer. Archives
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