June 2015
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/.
Corked
Bordeaux, it fills the bowl on stem on base,
so shaped from swirl to scent and hand to hold.
‘Tis glass one and cork is put back in place.
The nose, it dips in; rim against the face,
the waiting lips apart, then swallow slow.
Bordeaux, it flows from bowl on stem on base.
The flavors friendly, sipping picks up pace.
The tannin’s body full, a fine Bordeaux.
‘Tis glass two and cork is put back in place.
The stomach warm, a comfortable space,
where words are willing, lights are lazy low.
Bordeaux, it spills from bowl on stem on base.
With laughter, soda launders white of lace.
The last of drops on tongue, flirtations flow.
Glass three, cork recklessly put back in place.
The moon of midnight shows its sunlit face
as shyness fades and bodies come in close.
Bordeaux, it fills the bowl on stem on base.
Glass four emptied, no cork put back in place.
Stemless
Sightline on Angelou poetry,
I reach where wine presumably awaits.
Fingers stretch and grasp air,
realizing the stemmed glasses remain
in the cupboard; and I oddly
selected stemless--
sitting fat, its ass on the table,
rather than perched atop a slender stand.
I curiously move my glance to glare
at its unyielding shape and snatch
it up manlike, taking a long slow pull,
like Bukowski on a young slut’s slit--
he’d be proud of this poem.
-originally published by Poetry Super Highway, Poet of the Week series, Feb. 23, 2015.
Footnote to a Footnote
Jacuzzis are holy.
Garage door openers are holy.
Back-up cameras and recycle bins—all holy.
Putting the red flag up on the mailbox, waving at the elderly
getting my toes wet with dew—holy, holy, holy.
Keeping my eyelids open and trying to sleep like fish,
signing my name with less letters and more scribbles,
counting crows feet, counting yellow toenails,
counting haircuts, counting plucked whiskers,
counting constantly.
Bookshelves are holy.
Missing dust covers are holy,
magicians and black and white T.V. shows,
Penn Jillette theories and Andy Griffith justice,
Uncle Walt songs and Ginsberg poems—holy, holy, holy.
Drinking beer before noon, drinking liquor right after,
drinking it warm (or on ice) with a friend (or not).
Waking up drunk, waking up sober,
waking up tired, waking up hungry,
waking—always holy.
Table wine is holy.
Candle sticks are holy,
dishwashers and cloth napkins,
the folk art cricket made from wire and a railroad nail,
rock salt from the salt flats in a salt cellar—holy, holy, holy.
Opening an empty cedar chest to still moths and crumbs,
staring at stretched cobwebs immersed in the sun,
swallowing nests, swallowing nectar,
swallowing chimes, swallowing saliva,
swallows—always holy.
Self-portraits are holy.
Ceramic urns also are holy.
Tape recorders and keyboards,
drawing pads and gold-plated ball-point pens,
calligraphy and stipple—holy, holy, holy.
Unfolding a letter, unfolding a chair, unfolding
into downward dog, from child’s pose, into corpse pose.
Picking apricots, picking green grapes,
picking out a husband, a shower curtain,
selection—always holy.
Twist-off caps, dresser drawers, remote controls,
carpeted stairs, revolving doors, product recalls,
keycodes, passwords,
restaurant reservations,
last-minute invitations,
cell phones, voice recognition,
land minds, and secrets—holy,
holy word, holy water, holy book,
holy soap boxes, bathtubs, soap dishes—holy,
holy drains and draining, empty.
-originally published by Chagrin River Review online journal, Lakeland Community College, Fall 2013.
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©2015 Trish Hopkinson