Doug the Bug lived in a cozy little crack behind the kitchen cupboard. It wasn’t much, but it was home. Doug loved his home. It was warm, safe, and always smelled like fresh cookies.

One sunny morning, Doug was feeling adventurous. "I wonder what's outside," he thought. He'd heard stories from the other house bugs about the backyard. Some said it was full of tall grass, and others whispered of giant ants and bees. But Doug was curious.

He crawled out from under the cupboard, across the shiny kitchen floor, and toward the door. A soft breeze blew through the gap at the bottom. Without thinking, Doug squeezed through.

Suddenly, everything was huge! The sky stretched out forever, and the ground beneath Doug’s tiny legs felt different—soft and crumbly. Tall blades of grass waved like trees above him. Doug took a deep breath. The air was fresh and smelled of flowers.

"Wow," he whispered. "This is amazing!"

Doug wandered through the grass, climbing over pebbles and exploring tiny holes in the dirt. He spotted a shimmering butterfly fluttering above him and waved with one of his little legs. "Hello!" he called out, though the butterfly didn't notice him.

As he explored, Doug came across a large patch of clover. "This must be the biggest leaf I’ve ever seen!" he said, crawling up one of the stems. From the top, he could see everything—the flowers, the tall grass, and even a tiny pond glittering in the distance.

But as Doug marveled at the view, a gust of wind blew through the backyard. It pushed him right off the clover and onto the ground with a soft thud.

"Oof," Doug muttered, brushing himself off. He looked around and realized something terrible.
"I’m lost!" he cried.

Everything looked different now. The grass was too tall, the sky too big, and Doug couldn’t remember which way he'd come from. He scurried in circles, growing more and more worried. What if he never found his way back home?

Just then, Doug heard a rustling sound. Out of the grass came a beetle, much larger than Doug. The beetle had a shiny black shell and a kind smile.

"Are you lost, little bug?" asked the beetle.

Doug nodded. "I came from inside the house, but I don’t know how to get back!"

The beetle chuckled. "You’re not far, young one. Just follow the path back toward that big tree over there. The house is right behind it."

Doug thanked the beetle and hurried toward the tree, his tiny legs moving as fast as they could. Soon, he saw the familiar shape of the house in the distance. His heart leaped with joy.

Squeezing back under the door, Doug scurried across the kitchen floor and into his cozy crack behind the cupboard.

"Phew," he sighed, curling up in his bed of soft dust. "The backyard is amazing, but there's no place like home."
​
And from that day on, Doug the Bug decided that his next adventure could wait—at least until tomorrow.

By Robert Stanhope

A day at the fair,
a day away from my office chair,
the aroma of fried food in the air,
rides left, right, and everywhere,

The bumper cars and the Tilt-a-Whirl,
my head spins like a squirrel
when I see the Merry-go-round, a fair pearl,
but it's the Ferris wheel I want to ride with my girl,

Spinning round and round and round,
the crown jewel of fair days is found,
from our seat up high we can see all around,
as we sit close and celebrate the love we found,

Through years, we've shared many fair days,
looking back and above as we stargaze,
recalling days gone by sure does amaze,
now we have grandkids that enjoy fair days.

By Robert Stanhope

​On a journey at sea
I was searching for me,

Staring into the fog
I heard a monologue,

My voice expressing the words
to trust in self, let down my guard,

"As long as there is light,
You will have the will to fight.

As long as there is light,
You will never have darkness through night,

As long as there is light,
You will find alternatives to finite."

In days long past, when dreams took flight,
In Alaska's heart, a land of might,
A tale was etched, a fevered rush,
For gold that gleamed in Dead Horse's hush.

The promise whispered in every breeze,
Fortunes vast among ancient trees,
Prospectors came, their hearts ablaze,
Seeking riches in myriad ways.

Through rugged trails and icy streams,
They chased the sun's elusive beams,
Pick and shovel, hope in hand,
They carved their fate in this wild land.

Dead Horse Gulch, a treacherous gorge,
Where dreams met fate, a fatal forge,
A bridge of faith, a span so frail,
Collapsed beneath ambitions' sail.

Into the abyss, dreams were lost,
Fortunes vanished, an icy cost,
The bridge gave way, a heart's lament,
As prospectors' dreams downward went.

Yet, beyond the gulch, the world moved on,
Echoes of loss through time were drawn,
Fortunes scattered, hopes adrift,
In the shadows of dreams, souls sift.

For not all gold is metal's gleam,
It's in the journey, the hopeful dream,
In tales we tell of lessons learned,
In hearts that blaze, undeterred.

Alaskan gold rush, a chapter bold,
With stories of riches and bridges old,
Though Dead Horse Gulch holds secrets deep,
In its memory, life's treasures keep.

So let us remember those who fell,
In pursuit of dreams, a daring spell,
And honor the spirits who still roam,
​In search of fortune, a heart's true home.

By Robert Stanhope

​I am the lost one,
On a journey to find me,
Footprints are my past.

Photo by Robert Stanhope
​Location: Hardee Lakes County Park, Bowling Green, Florida

By Robert Stanhope
​
Look at me, look at me,
Who do you see? Who do you see?

A youthful man or a wise gent,
Both live in my bathroom mirror,

Time would like to disagree,
Time sees the future clearly,

My hours and hours all spent,
Minutes and seconds flurry,

Time used to be consistent,
Today the clock is warped,

Hands wave for my attention,
Time tick-tocks like a bomb,

Will I defuse my demise
Before ashes fall from clouds,

Look at me, look at me,
A memory, a memory.

By Robert Stanhope

With more frequency,
as the days grow brief,
I'm convinced my mind
has a short or two,
I think my wires are crossed
transmitting my actions,
and my reactions,
to lifelong habits,

"What was I going to do?"
"What was I going to say?"
"Where was I going?"

I try to retrace my steps
as they fade with a blur,
I have a seat and concentrate,
yet I'm lost in vacant thoughts,

"What have I forgotten?"
"What am I repeating?"
"Where am I?"

I bought a journal,
I take notes,
reminders when
​I have a short.