September 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/.
The things I’ve done do not define the person I am
Moving through the world,
like I know every move before I make it,
overlooking my faults, the good I want to have,
the deepest sparkling winters,
the snow-capped stars—a gift
that can be costly to accept--
understanding all I need is
already in me: calm, peacefulness,
beauty, elegance—soft,
fluent elegance.
I don’t always act according
to the knowledge I have.
Kindness and purity turn to white smoke
in the meadow of love and hope--
above a girl with corkscrew pigtails
who can’t live up to her name.
Sometimes, even if I said too much,
I can still go back and fix it.
I can actually learn.
And that’s heaven.
--Found in definitions for the word “grace” provided by customers at Enliten Café and attendees at Rock Canyon Poets poetry reading. Including the last few lines from Inferno (a poet’s novel) by Eileen Myles.
--Originally published by Drunk Monkeys. August 2015.
Blue Daydream
The woods were bluer
than velvet. The sound was
the falling of a tree, cut off
by scissors and heard
by the horrible ear
of the woman singer
with the good tongue,
out in the terrible night--
curious and interesting,
like a good daydream.
She went back to the 7th
floor apartment, hungry
or thirsty or both and still
rolled up on the bottom
shelf where she
has always been.
--Found from lines in the film Blue Velvet by David Lynch. MGM. 1986.
--Originally published by Straight Forward. Issue 9. June, 2015.
“Wouldn’t a flyswatter be easier”
Bare legs stuck to the vinyl seats
like flies on flypaper,
windows rolled down,
hands swooping in the wind,
barely grown-in buck teeth
beneath summer grins
on our way to Pioneer Drive-in.
Mom paid five dollars for the whole
station wagon load, tires grinding
their way across gravel
to a dusky spot near the screen.
Moths had already started to school
like silver fish in projector light
and a familiar cotton candy and
popcorn butter breath radiated
from the rickety refreshments stand.
We climbed atop the oxidized roof,
tossing up a few old quilts
and stained pillows to cushion our ribs
from the luggage rack rails.
My best friend and I had said goodbye
to 6th grade and helllooo to Ralph Macchio.
Hormones swooned into high-pitched
palpitations as he appeared
on the whitewashed boards--
all awkward and Karate-Kid-like.
Mr. Miyagi meant to make him a man.
We meant for him to make us women,
to capture us in his arms—gently,
like a fly in chopsticks.
We dreamt of maturity and sophistication,
the kind that would know
just what to say when we met . . .
The crackle of sun-scorched speaker,
a tinny soundtrack revelation,
and a little brother moonboot
thumping the ceiling from inside
shouting to share the Red Vines
abruptly brought us back—alarm clock style.
We hit snooze and wondered into a world
of Hollywood infamy and young love
where boys and girls held hands
and teens danced in the moonlight.
A world soon rushed away by
windshield wipers in Autumn rain.
--Originally published by Drunk Monkeys. August 2015.
©2015 Trish Hopkinson