Please beat just a few more years
Please postpone their tears
I won't be here to see
But, my loved ones will be

The Lord said
I am handing out brains
Some thought he said
It looks like rain
So they ran and hid

What has streets like in your neighborhood?
What has houses like in your neighborhood?
What has house numbers like in your neighborhood?
What has doors and windows similar to your neighborhood?

There are no mailboxes like in your neighborhoods,
Because these residents don't read,
That's because these neighborhoods consist of,
residents who are never home,
Cemeteries are full of empty houses.
                                                  By Connie Hopkins

Beautiful blades of ice
hanging in the sun
sparkling with dripping colors

The trees bent over and white
as if the snow was scratching
their backs

It is so dark tonight
he lit the candles
and filled the huge cooler
with hot water from the  fireplace

Candles burning
with the fragrance of pine
hanging in the cold air
of our kitchen

The 200-year-old pine walls
and the large beams
showing where the axes
had struck so long- ago
complementing the
whole setting

Just enough light
from the candles
to make it romantic
with sweet music
playing so low.

This is the way
I remember that nite
of the Ice Storm
so long ago.
                              By Connie Hopkins

Growing up having to hide
your tears and fears
from the one person who should
help you, not hurt you more
doing things the way she wants
and then you do things
that you hope will make her
proud of you
or at least happy with you
but nothing works

Being asked if it would be alright
if the man that molested you
spent Christmas Eve night

Would it be ok if you
did not get anything
for Christmas but a
used camera, that belonged
to her

Then Christmas morning arrives
and there are presents everywhere
but not for me.            
                        By Connie Hopkins

I feel I have done more
than just existed
in my life

Your outlook on life changes
when certain unexpected things happen
things that are out of one's control

When you know
nothing will be different
until the day you die

You tend to live
in the middle
wondering which
way to go

                                        By Connie Hopkins