Obviously, POETRY is a big part
of my life. In addition to novels- in-
verse, I write free verse and,
sometimes, more formal poetry. I'm
also a member of a great poetry
group, Ash Canyon Poets.
of my life. In addition to novels- in-
verse, I write free verse and,
sometimes, more formal poetry. I'm
also a member of a great poetry
group, Ash Canyon Poets.
| Ghost Town …ashes to ashes, dust to dust… The Book of Common Prayer Here, where ashes transcend stovepipes, and dust infiltrates every pore, some say when the moon, or perhaps the mood, is right, this town offers up her spirits. They speak of the girl, taken young by stagecoach wheels, who amuses herself on drear afternoons, rearranging dolls on attic shelves. They tell of the gambler, snuffed by duel, who wanders the old hotel, trailing tobacco through No Smoking rooms. They sing of miners lost to collapse and nurses swallowed by conflagration, whose boots and high button shoes yet tread the boardwalk. These are storied ghosts. But I find others: the brick remains of Glory Days, listing against sandstone, denying the plumb of horizon; the corpses of ancient forests, dragged underground and left to rot in their humid crypt; the bones of the mountain herself, slit and gutted, chin to tail, like a silver-bellied mackerel. These apparitions are palpable, where death remembers to breathe. Ellen Hopkins |
| Ghosts Even a small bed is too big, alone. She lies half-awake, draws stuttered breath, listens to memory’s bittersweet drone, wonders if silence comes cloaked in death. Not quite awake, she draws stuttered breath, promises shattering on her pillow. She wonders if silence comes cloaked in death, as her storm clouds begin to billow. Promises shattering on her pillow, she conjures the image she cannot dismiss, seeding her storm clouds. They billow with the black remembrance of his kiss. She conjures the image she cannot dismiss, summons the heat of his skin on her skin, the black remembrance of his kiss, desire, abandoned somewhere within. She summons the heat of his skin on her skin, opens herself to herself, in disguise, recovers desire, abandoned within. Heart beating ghosts, she closes her eyes And opens herself to herself, in disguise, listens to memory’s bittersweet drone. Heart beating ghosts, she closes her eyes, knowing her small bed is too big, alone. Ellen Hopkins |
Forty-Six Eyes You arrive early, watch them file into the room, twenty-three boys, sunk into manhood, weighted by histories too heavy to lift onto page or screen. But that’s why you’re there, and as they slouch into chairs, shoulders tilting to accept the cross of over-built arms, forty-six eyes dare you to reach inside, pry loose their stories. Instinct whispers to look away, don’t sound those hungry depths, don’t witch the river raging skin-deep, don’t quarry the stone worried silent, smooth of hope. Still, something compels you to meet those eyes and beg them to draw you down to the place where the fallen seek redemption. You step lightly, stumble upon communion. Ellen Hopkins |
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