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/.
Growing up poor is tough,
tough as dry lips and stale bread crust.
It’s hand-me-down clothes,
name-calling and skinned knees,
moving fourteen times before turning ten,
summers spent building forts and blanket tents,
free school lunch and nothing
but pancakes on weekends.
Growing up poor
builds cinder block memories.
My first pair of store-bought jeans,
unexpected, homemade birthday presents,
leaving everything we knew
to move cross country,
the Santa sub doorstep Christmas
and our first live Christmas tree.
Growing up is real,
Tiffany lamp authentic
and vintage Levis genuine.
Life is torrential, memories are survival,
the umbrella covering my brain,
an inflatable raft for my soul.
Adults float like fallen limbs.
Kids, they swim.
Early winter willow
crushed like white
velvet. Autumn leaves
beneath catch weighty flakes,
spine-sticking and sugar wet,
sagging sad, snow-heavy limbs
bend in an arc before breaking
at the back. Branch arms pull apart
and split the stalking torso, tumbling
tops to death drifts, wistfully
awaiting cherry-picker trucks
©2015 Trish Hopkinson