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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.
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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.  Steel Cantilever Bridge, White Pass, 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
"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
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Robert Stanhope
Writer and photographer. Archives
April 2023
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