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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
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 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
"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.  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 Black magic permeates the mind leaving behind a fog rolling in heavy on a desperate soul lost in a dark cove of sunken ships, only the sound of a horn will break the curse, guide the spirit to a clear sea free to sail away on tranquil waters.  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 |
Robert Stanhope
Writer and photographer. Archives
December 2022
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