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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.  Ferris wheel photo captured at the Manatee County Fair in Palmetto, Florida by Robert Stanhope
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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."  A foggy sea photo I captured on a cruise to Alaska.
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. By Robert Stanhope nickels and dimes have no rhyme when they jingle in my pocket it's the quarter that brings the beat to the tune it's the dollar that muffles the spoons a song is better than empty pockets a bad poem never launched a rocket  By Robert Stanhope Cities never sleep, they nap, one ear and one eye open to sounds of an alley cat squabble, of a city bus's brakes squeal, of a loudmouth shouting out his window on a hot summer night, as steam rises from the urban underbelly, a pressure cooker.  By Robert Stanhope I mourn today with a single tear in my eye, a memory of the only moment you ever said, I love you.  By Robert Stanhope
"Dear John", it was on the table, a small white envelope with her handwriting, I placed it in my desk, unopened, I know what it reads, I expected it, Gone forever, a mutual love, broken by mutual lies. 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.  |
Robert Stanhope
Writer and photographer. Archives
April 2023
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