November 2014
I love words and dig poetry slams. I've been writing poetry since I was about 5 years old and my mother tells everyone I was born with a pen in my hand. I am a project manager by profession and reside in Utah with my handsome husband and our two outstanding children. You can read more of my work and follow my poetry adventures here: http://trishhopkinson.com/.
[Waning Morning Moon]
Waning morning moon
slides on telephone wire
trapeze. Tires grind
along newly paved asphalt
in the cool quiet of dawn.
Perched
Garnet glass refracts the day
making my eyes squint to see
the buzzing wings, nearly silent.
Responding to the sweet scent,
timid and thin, the beak leans in
and sips syrup from the funnel.
For a split second the bird’s feet rest,
still to the touch, its weight unnoticed
by the dangling, sugar-filled container.
I don’t mean to, but I blink,
and the perch stands alone.
Calloused
Weakened by you,
I shift discomfort from hip to heel,
shoulders slump and my gaze darts downward.
A familiar new-shoe tightness burns and blisters
between ribs and backbone, stops and smolders
in my soft middle, hesitates, waits
for your response--
either harbored hang-nail tenderness
or diluted dissonance digs in
just left of right lung.
Repaired by you,
I slip into your hand’s heaviness,
temple rests on shoulder, lids relax.
A knitted mitten warmth tugs limbs and lips to you,
dissolves distance between us, salves scorched spots,
bandages beneath skin wrap organs.
Your therapy--
with coolly controlled calculations,
compress and cover injuries, inside
callouses remain.
Oasis
Crusted white in corners,
mouth still sandy from kissing
the grit of your skin.
Tongue swollen with words,
eyes dry, and palms clammy,
I pick my teeth with a cactus needle
in anticipation of flash flood.
Dark clouds sweep in, bursting
spit from lips, draw deep from the
well. God’s faucet opens up and pours
trickling veins, nourishing streamlets,
slipping roots between rocks,
pulling nutrients within,
relinquishing nothing. Helpless
in night’s cool breath and day’s light,
the way it sneaks in and persuades.
A sidewinder mirage caress,
dunes curve into the small of your back,
the jutting bone of your hip.
Your abdomen sinking like quicksand
devours me. You are drought’s enabler,
my thirst for intensity,
the reason for summer’s heat,
autumn’s rusty crackle beneath feet,
veiled in bare branches of winter’s shadow
to soon bare flowers in fragrance of spring.
Tumbling miles between us
keeps no distance of seasons--
all dormant, until you come again.
Waning morning moon
slides on telephone wire
trapeze. Tires grind
along newly paved asphalt
in the cool quiet of dawn.
Perched
Garnet glass refracts the day
making my eyes squint to see
the buzzing wings, nearly silent.
Responding to the sweet scent,
timid and thin, the beak leans in
and sips syrup from the funnel.
For a split second the bird’s feet rest,
still to the touch, its weight unnoticed
by the dangling, sugar-filled container.
I don’t mean to, but I blink,
and the perch stands alone.
Calloused
Weakened by you,
I shift discomfort from hip to heel,
shoulders slump and my gaze darts downward.
A familiar new-shoe tightness burns and blisters
between ribs and backbone, stops and smolders
in my soft middle, hesitates, waits
for your response--
either harbored hang-nail tenderness
or diluted dissonance digs in
just left of right lung.
Repaired by you,
I slip into your hand’s heaviness,
temple rests on shoulder, lids relax.
A knitted mitten warmth tugs limbs and lips to you,
dissolves distance between us, salves scorched spots,
bandages beneath skin wrap organs.
Your therapy--
with coolly controlled calculations,
compress and cover injuries, inside
callouses remain.
Oasis
Crusted white in corners,
mouth still sandy from kissing
the grit of your skin.
Tongue swollen with words,
eyes dry, and palms clammy,
I pick my teeth with a cactus needle
in anticipation of flash flood.
Dark clouds sweep in, bursting
spit from lips, draw deep from the
well. God’s faucet opens up and pours
trickling veins, nourishing streamlets,
slipping roots between rocks,
pulling nutrients within,
relinquishing nothing. Helpless
in night’s cool breath and day’s light,
the way it sneaks in and persuades.
A sidewinder mirage caress,
dunes curve into the small of your back,
the jutting bone of your hip.
Your abdomen sinking like quicksand
devours me. You are drought’s enabler,
my thirst for intensity,
the reason for summer’s heat,
autumn’s rusty crackle beneath feet,
veiled in bare branches of winter’s shadow
to soon bare flowers in fragrance of spring.
Tumbling miles between us
keeps no distance of seasons--
all dormant, until you come again.
©2014 Trish Hopkinson