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/.
Adventures of the Farmhouse on Route 6
When our entire address was “Route 6,”
the road in front of our house was dirt
and rocks, and the irrigation ditch
was deeper than I was tall.
On a good day, the wind would blow
pig-farm stench in the other direction.
On cold days, we’d step out into waist-high drifts,
dragging our worn-out sled behind us
and slide down the hill, right over
the snowed-in cellar door.
On warm days, we could run outside
in our underclothes or take a walk to the pond.
On weekends we’d build forts in the unused ditches,
and scoop up grass-clippings
to fill garbage sack furniture.
When the evenings were warm,
we'd collect fireflies in mason jars,
with a few leaves and stems,
to keep them as two-day pets.
Sometimes, I would feel bad,
(being the oldest, I knew they wouldn’t make it)
so I’d set them free when my brother wasn’t looking.
At dusk, when dad came home,
he’d holler over his CB radio
out a speaker shaped like a megaphone
stuck to his car roof with a magnet.
It was quiet, you could hear his tires
on the gravel road long before
he started his announcement.
We didn’t care; we ran outside
as if we’d never had a better surprise.
About Being (a found poem)
It’s not just about being a mother,
not just about wiping runny noses and making peanut butter sandwiches,
or longing for a play date that doesn’t include sippy cups or diapers,
not just the muted perspective of motherhood that’s warm and fuzzy.
It doesn’t happen overnight or by accident.
It’s a long, and sometimes painful, journey
as a contemporary homesteader,
wrestling with sexism and naiveté,
while carefully observing the rhythms.
It’s the need to be able to step back,
take the long view, go deep--
put it into a larger, more meaningful perspective,
be fearless in confronting the powerful, and
give voice to those who have none.
Found Poem Sources:
Weist, Ellen Fagg. “From here to maternity.” The Salt Lake Tribune 27 April 2014: e-edition.
Daniel, Douglass K. “New John Wayne biography hits target dead center.” The Salt Lake Tribune 27 April 2014: e-edition.
“Utah Lit selection for May: ‘Seven Summers’ by Julia Corbett.” The Salt Lake Tribune 27 April 2014: e-edition.
How to Put a Book Back in Its Place
As I turned the corner and folded it
inward to save my place on the page,
my margins expanded to unknown
angles and my mind bent
at the binding, trying to loosen,
to break free from the hardback
volume of outside obligations.
Why shut myself in this tome
of another’s priorities?
Why not purge the articles, the extra
adjectives, the interjections, and ramblings,
to make way for more images and visions,
themes that spell out my own chapter headings?
Why not flip the edges with a consistent thumbing
and watch the characters move through my
glances with importance and rhythm?
Why, as I put the story back in its place,
do I fold myself inward,
collapse the chapters,
and close the cover.
©2014 Trish Hopkinson