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. We meet every
Friday night, to critique each
other's work, talk poetry and
basically unwind.
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. We meet every
Friday night, to critique each
other's work, talk poetry and
basically unwind.
| Poetry |
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| Sliver for Haley How does a single blade of grass catch the eye? Is it a blink of light, mirrored in the wet orbs of morning? Is it how the sedge thread bends beneath the weighted flight of a bumblebee or a grasshoppers camouflaged cling? Perhaps it is a shadow of tomorrow, something forewarned in green silhouette, or a slice of memory, thin as a paper cut, yet haunting. Bordering holy. You are that singular strand in a billion, the one that pulls the eye to a sliver in the otherwise unblemished skin of an ordinary meadow. Ellen Hopkins |
| December sinks like grief through flannel and sinew, burrows into the depths of my bones. Neither stew nor bourbon knows the way of thawing marrow. Come, lie with me, blanket me in the thin heat of skin drunk with need evoked. Haunt my bones with ghosts of late September. Ellen Hopkins |
My poetry chapbook, Stones Set Deep in Sand, is available. Warning: some adult content! Contact me for more info |
| The Weight of Thirst for Bill The playa is still, emptied of even the thinnest soundsthe murmur of creeping sand; pillowed spin of tumbleweed; susurrus of feathers trapped in thermal lift. The well is dry, drained to weary echo above desiccated silt. Thirst swells, bloats every cell until the body arcs beneath its weight. The page is blank, scrubbed of metaphor, flawless turn of phrase. Parched within the silence, hungered in a desert without words, I am stranded in your absence. Ellen Hopkins |
| That Time of Day sunlight splashes eastern hills, spills blue into gray, and the kitchen frames snapshots: steaming mugs and marmalade toast; pencils fine-tuning homework; papered German shepherds and barn-bred tabbies, on kibble watch. Hurried reminders preface half-planted kisses, a volley of slams and the crush of sudden silence. That time of day, I open the French doors, step lightly across thin ice veneer, coffee fogging the sage tinted air. I look to the mountain, its ochre, olive and indigo palette hushed against cerulean sky. A hawk banks, bold in early hunt and far across the valley, traffic stirs the morning. Somewhere, I know, time clocks are punched and bells empty playgrounds. That time of day, I bundle up in solitude, borrow the wings of the red-tail. Soar. Ellen Hopkins |
| Into the Ether As evening leans against morning, she grows tired of the wait, folds up her heart again. It isnt the first time shes opened it, gingerly peeled back the flaps like a time-brittled envelope. Inside is a listpromises, withered; hours, crushed into ether; unanswered questions; desire, decayed. He will not come tonight. She closes her eyes, feigns his touch. Skin remembers what the heart must forget. Ellen Hopkins |