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Broad shoulders collapse
Under a guilty burden Too weak to hold A mountain of mistakes. An avalanche plunges Down a steep slope, Snapping the trees In your forest of friends. Piles of rubble Anchor your feet On an island Of solitude. You bury your emotions That must flow freely Like a pristine stream To a sea of opportunities. Raise the sails while Praying for wind. Set your course To brighter days.
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Can you keep a secret?
I’ve kept one for years. This secret is mine. I own it. I’m not willing to share With anyone. My secret is vaulted In my heart. My best friend, my wife Might have an idea. She might catch me Thinking about my secret. She might observe me Daydreaming, lost in my secret. She’ll now wonder, What is his secret? If she asks, I’m not sure I’ll share. I have only one secret. This secret is mine. Our Mother
Covered in toxins, Weeps for a cleansing. Her skin, dry and cracking Thirsting for love, Moisturizing and rejuvenating. A rising fever, Melting away Her patience. Fading fast, She’s crying out, Warning her children. Storms are brewing, She’s lashing out, About to release her fury. She won’t go Without fighting. Her world matters. A mirror reflects,
Without prejudice, The storms we’ve weathered. He walked into the bar,
Ordered Jack and Coke, Threw it back, Turned, Assessed the room, Blondes, Gingers, Brunettes, The young, the divorced, the widows. He nodded at his attraction, Shy, naïve, and inexperienced, Walked over to her, Shoulders back, strutting tall. Stopped, looked into her eyes “Let’s dance,” he said Grabbed her and danced Body to body for the tango. Twenty years of marriage, He had always believed in Love at first sight. The night in the bar Affirmed his confidence. She’d only seen his swagger once, In a bar, walking into her heart, A Clark Kent romantic. I found your face in the clouds over the Atlantic.
Rosy cheeks provided by a setting sun. I heard your voice in the gusty wind, Blowing through the English Channel. Your heart throbbed in the distance, As lightning struck in a brewing storm. Your footsteps clogged across the deck As the ship moaned in the surf. I survived knowing the hallucinations Would be replaced by your loving embrace On firmer footing near the edge of a cliff. I hoped to hear music in the air as We sailed into port at King’s Dock. I hoped to see you smiling and waving At a sailor soggy and groggy from a Fishing expedition that nearly took my life. To my disappointment, our love wasn’t Strong enough to withstand absence. You found another suitor, a replacement For a man that said he would return. My heart forever broken, My love never ending, I still see your face in the clouds, A reminder that beauty shines forever, Yet love is delicate in nature. After sliding on my sunglasses,
I tip toed through the powdery white beach sand To the Gulf shoreline, Gazed at the tropical blue waves And smiled. I had found my peace. There was a man
From French Lick. He could shoot. He could pick. Near perfection From the line, On the fast break He played so fine. Born a Hoosier, Basketball was his game. He wore #33 Bird was his name. The voice of the Celtics, A legend named Most, Knew Bird’s game, Never one to coast. The day he retired, I turned off the t.v. set, An era was over, One I’ll never forget. Nature is calling,
Not on a smartphone, Not with Skype, And not with Facetime. Nature is calling With fresh air, Miles of open trails, And brilliant sunshine. Paddle a kayak Down a sleeping stream. Take a vivid pic With the blink of your eyes. Scale the face of a mountain, With a white knuckle grip. Celebrate your selfie Overlooking a densely forested valley. Go for a therapeutic walk Along a soft sandy beach. Receive an instant message From the tweet of the seabirds. Blog your relationship With the great outdoors After you lie in a tent Gazing into the Milky Way. Unplug from the gadgets Connecting you to a wired world Filled with visual noise And life’s dramas. Plug in to a world That’s not complicated To follow or like. Plug-in to nature. I’m just a man
Living a simple life With basic needs And minimal desires. I’m just a man Watching the sun rise in the east And setting on the western horizon - The moon lighting the evening sky. I’m just a man Walking on a trail of shells To a blue-green shoreline Just so I can smile. I’m just a man Writing notes on a tablet, Constructing sentences and paragraphs For a story of innocence and heartache. I’m a man in a mirror Staring at my likeness, Seeing on a stranger Holding a pen and pad of paper. |
AuthorRobert Stanhope started creative writing during his Junior year of high school. In his twenties, he became a motorsports journalist and was published in a number of local, regional, and national trade publications. Now in his early 40s, Bob has returned to creatively writing, including embarking on his first novel, The Last Lie. Archives
October 2018
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