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/.
When do we press pause on mourning?
Why does it seem we only rewind sorrow,
reduced down emotions gone slow motion,
our soreness backed over with the weight
of tractor tires in summer-warm mud.
Time is not the healer proposed.
It sits firm with leaded foot pushing the peddle,
the transmission in reverse.
I’ve tried coming at it fast, adjusting my mirrors,
scraping the bugs and film from the windshield,
but no matter my efforts in moving forward,
my grip slips like oil slick, like black ice.
No one wants to outlive their beloved,
the empty passenger seat, the cold side of the bed.
We imagine it will never happen to us.
We imagine a road that curves the earth,
the orbit unending.
—Published in In Transit: Poetry of People on the Move. Border Town Press. October 2014. Print.
- For Joann -
Like a name etched in marble
your memory is marked,
unwashed by the sun, to not fade away--
vivid as Technicolor Oz, as golden and solid,
as close as if it were yesterday
and as distant—on another plane.
From your cells to my cells,
from your birth to my birth,
always living. Living in each think,
each step, each sleep, each breath--
my cells and my cell’s cells,
my birth and what I birth,
always growing, extending, over-shining
to shimmer and reflect all
I perceive, touch, reveal, be.
Solid like vapor, like air, like spirit,
not a ghost, but Real—here.
The present—marked in me.
Ed. Note: In an email to me about the following poem, Trish wrote: Goodbye Maytree was inspired by the character Lou Bigelow in Annie Dillard's novel The Maytrees. Annie really created a character just so full of grace, I couldn't help but to write about her.
I summited the monument again today.
As I looked out over the ocean, over
the weary shacks and the dunes, I felt small.
This task of letting go,
of resisting bitterness and finding peace,
is something I can do.
It is not my failing when others find love.
It is not my flaws that cause others to leave.
I will climb this monument every day
until the work is done, until I am whole.
This is something I can do.
This is a task, a task of letting go.
—Published in Pieced Into Treetops (a chapbook by Trish Hopkinson). SLCC Community Writing Center. 2013. Print.
Eyes of Life
Bewildered by the unwavering stare of life,
with gems for eyes, they seek apathy and affection.
They gaze upon the tapestries of the mind
and with undaunted effort, gaze right through them.
Stimulating intellectual sensuality,
they see me vividly, distinctly,
clutching flowers in a field of uncertainty.
This was when life’s eyes were kind to me.
Shuttering with fear, life’s eyes were teary.
Weakness and addiction—the innocence lies weeping,
seeking shelter, bravery, and a little common decency.
Tried and failed, love’s foundation was unhealthy.
Broken down and unkempt,
the knot of freedom slipped.
Petals fell from fingertips.
Life’s sweetness slept.
All the wiser, peering out at reality’s grin,
mystery and fear faded, and the experience sets in.
Magic and tranquility, only when the heart is open.
Creation, honesty, contentment with satisfaction.
Life’s fluttering lashes were soft and kind again.
—Published in The Community Writing Connection, Salt Lake City Community College, Spring 2007, Vol. 5, No. 1.
©2014 Trish Hopkinson