 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.
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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 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.  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 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.  Image by Jeroným Pelikovský 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.”   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.
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Robert Stanhope
Writer and photographer. Archives
August 2022
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