Open a door for
Her graceful entrance. Admire her gleaming smile By reflecting yours. Listen to her voice While having a conversation. Hold her soft hand When you walk together. Respect her space When she needs me time. Embrace her in your arms When she wants us time. She is royalty Without the crown. Treat a lady Like a Queen.
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A fresh start requires work.
Like a new job. Like a new relationship. Like a new pair of underwear. There’s a fit issue, Discomfort at first, Adjusting can be a challenge. Strange faces. Strange customs. Strange waistband rub. Irritation is natural, Blood pressure may rise, Habits difficult to manage. Stay focused. Stay calm. Stay comfortable. Listen to The Beatles When you’re in “times of trouble.” “Let it be, let it be.” A daring life is exhilarating
Measured by chancing fate, A sacrificing risk for reward. The plane could crash and burn. The parachute may not deploy. You might not stick the landing. Odds are slim if you are calculating, If you dare risk premature demise. Without risk, you begin a slow demise, Life without a reward greater than just being. No Scooby snacks if you harbor your ghosts. Crack the lock and open the gates. Venture to your inner tomb, Searching for golden inspiration Among the serpents and booby traps Within the chasm of your mind. Dare to grab the treasure and let your life shine On the edge of a cliff, sweat on your brow, Heart throbbing in your dry throat, Unable to muster a droplet of spit. Swallow hard. I dare you! Take the leap! Discover a new song -
Something good, Something new. Close your eyes - FEEL the beat, FEEL the emotion. Let the lyrics Paint a masterpiece In your open mind. Embrace the soul - Experience the energy Of the melodic story. Ride the crescendo - Wings carry your spirit, Float on a wave. Get lost in the moment. Once the music stops, It’s with you forever. They met, purely by chance,
Two men, sharing the same glance. One, a free spirited gypsy, The other, from Poughkeepsie. They shared the love of a blonde, Though neither had made a bond. Whether she was drinking hot coffee, Or eating a chewy piece of toffee, The men knew just one thing, Neither had seen her King. No man to hold her hand, On her finger, no wedding band. She was happy as could be, This they could clearly see. She walked with intention and pride, Their paths were about to collide. On a bench they all sat, Only a hello in their chat. They both admired her scent, As if it had blown from a vent. She started to get a little nervous. All she wanted was the bus service. After a moment or two passed, The bus arrived at last. She leaped from her seat, Carrying her favorite sweet. Still in a trance from her aroma, The men had missed the bus to Tacoma. She was gone from their lives forever, Two men, without nerve to be clever. My eyelids are heavy
As I attempt to write Another poem. Milliseconds between yawns, Errors as I type This will never make sense. Are you still reading? Am I still awake? Where will I go with this poem? Is there a destination? Or, is it just a goal? Write a poem a day. How hard can it really be? I just woke to the sound Of a man snoring. Focus! This can be done. Write about a small piece of your day. Write about a challenge. Did I overcome a challenge? Did I meet my goal? Yes, yes I did. The streets are familiar,
The people are familiar, Yet, some are still strangers or maybe just strange. A small town of characters That I’ve known since I was a CHILD – Friends and acquaintances. My education was by teachers, Now retired, now volunteering, Giving back to their community. Village Pizza, Salt hill Pub, Coronis Market and The Country Kitchen - Great places to eat and shoot the shit. I’ll take a Village Special, no anchovies, A Pig’s Ear and Dublin Fries, Two Ham Grinders and -- A #3, over easy, wheat, and patties. The ball fields bustle all seasons, A football town to be certain, Tailgating in orange, black and white. Tiger Pride runs deep in tradition, The cats always hoping to one-up the birds. Roar, baby roar! There are four seasons, Six if you count Black Fly & Mud. None are as long as winter. The first snow, so beautiful, Coating the evergreen trees. There are always inches, or feet, more to come. The white stuff, some fluffy, some wet, Piles up storm after storm and It’s cold! The Polar Vortex Dropping temperature, wind chill, or ‘feel like’. As the calendar is flipped to January, The townspeople grow weary, some literally angry, Until the Winter Carnival dampens their spell. Festivities for a week, bringing Frigid souls out to the Town Common, bundled up Ice skating, sledding, and skijoring. It’s a glimmer in an otherwise gray season. Many plan escapes to the tropics, Florida, Cancun, or The Islands. I did the same for many years, Reclaiming my sanity on the sands of A beach with no chance of flurries or frost. After forty years of winter burden, I traded in a shovel for sunshine, Winter boots for sandals, pants for shorts. It’s early April as I write. My hometown had snow last night. I sit shirtless on my patio, surrounded by palms. I left the familiar for a new town, a new home. It has been seven months – winter’s duration back ‘home’. This winter, I worked on my tan. The departure wasn’t easy, Leaving family behind never is. They know where to find me, Just follow the scent of the sea. The streets are becoming familiar, New friendships have been forged. There are still many strangers and characters, Yet, that number is shrinking. As I walk in the wee hours of the morning
I find the simplicity of starting a day’s journey. There’s a calmness in the atmosphere, Light breeze, crisp fresh air, and quiet. The squirrels rustle about for a few nuts, Birds forage a worm or two for their chicks. My mind doesn’t wander, it observes The flower petals open wide absorbing the dew – The bees pollinating the pistil, Buzzing away, knowing I’m not a threat – The bustling ants in and out of their hill, Fearing a rain could bring their operation to a halt – The vultures circle the nature preserve With precision vision on unsuspecting prey – Fiddler crabs dig out their dens after high tide, Twice a day, showing no signs of frustration. My walk is three miles, from start to completion, Three to four times a week without hesitation.
I’ve lost my way
On a path of clarity. Crystal clear from the beginning, Fog has now rolled in. In a soup of mist, Only foot to pavement visible. A path of shells crunches Under my callous soles. A wave of cool, refreshing saltwater Envelopes my toes as shells turn to sand. Waist deep, I now stand I feel touched by a gentle hand. As the fog lifts, the hand lifts. Now alone, I’m adrift – no clarity. |
Robert Stanhope
Writer and photographer. Archives
October 2023
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