Edith Hope Bishop

Poem 26. Nearly finished now. Looking Glass By Edith Hope Bishop, April 2015 Imagine this poem written backwards on glass and you standing near, reading it slowly, reordering the letters almost unconsciously to find meaning mingled with image. That could be the way of things. Made to shatter or wash clean in spring rain. Offering what you knew was there and more.

Day 25. Today's poem is just a list, but it's a list of DELIGHTS. By Edith Hope Bishop, April 2023 A warm cup of chamomile tea with honey. Butt-dialing a friend and getting to hear their surprise and delight when you explain. Cats. Dogs. Extra time when on a tight deadline. Friends who somehow know what to say and say it. Grape skittles. Heated blankets and cocoas after walking home in the rain. Interesting and readable short essays on bizarre science facts. Just breathing. Kindnesses you weren’t expecting: a letter from a distant friend, a stranger’s compliment, a pre-paid toll or coffee, a door held open. Love. All of it. Music that makes you feel like dancing. Nights like tonight. Opening presents. Playing instruments. Quiet mornings after busy adventures. Rainbows. Stories for all occasions, but especially those that need courage. Telling someone exactly why you love them and knowing they heard (and believed!) you. Uncovering the answer to something you’ve been puzzling ove

Poem 24. XO. Yours By Edith Hope Bishop, December 2019 I would be a poet if you’d have me. I would be your poet. If you discovered, for example, on your way out, that you’d lost a word- fallen from your pocket slipped from your grasp- I’d stitch you a new one. Handing it to you- I’d let my touch linger- let our eyes meet- and that night, while you slept, I’d write you again in soft December sun and every blue the sea knows and come morning you’d have me again- slipped under your door- an unsealed envelope.

Poem 23. Just one week left. Gentle reminder that I love your poetic responses (but I also just love you). Here, have a sonnet: The Realist’s Plea By Edith Hope Bishop, November 2015 I think no godly basket will collect, the souls we’ve dared to cultivate. Nor will some cosmic lottery select, which spirits live and join the greats. I can’t see us returned as trees, nor soldiers brave, nor kindly priests. Though some profess eternity, it seems to me that all will cease. What was whole will fall apart. What was real will scatter. Though we love with all our hearts, None of this will matter.   Yet there is Peace in time’s demise, And Peace in life, if we be wise.

April 22. Earth Day. Here's a poem I wrote about loving the earth and all my sisters (including trans, nonbinary, and queer people) in spite of humanity and the patriarchy.   I wrote this poem after election day in 2016. It was later published in the Sirens Benefit Anthology in 2021 titled Villains and Vengeance (still available for $5 on Amazon). I had almost forgotten about it when my dear friend, Sarah Mack , sent me a kind message after rereading it recently. Her message meant so much to me that it prompted me to start sharing poetry again this month. Thank you, Sarah.   Happy Earth Day to all.   Refuge By Edith Hope Bishop, November 2016 Maybe we don’t fight the good fight. We try another route. First, we let the house plants die forget to shut the screen door come home late that sort of thing. Leave them uneasy and off-kilter unsure why there isn’t sugar in the jar or wondering whatever happened to the cat. Then quietly while the game is on we grab our boots our babies the ba

I missed Poem 21. There was a lot going on. But here's a recent first draft. I'm pretty sure I'll revise this one, but there might be some potential here.   The End By Edith Hope Bishop, April 2023 Does love end or does it dull disperse descend falling quiet as April rain on rooftops in the city where No One stands to feel it on her face and hands and bare arms - Does love end or does it morph into something like recognition or respect without the kissing without hands nesting together and the warmth - Does love end or is it misunderstood as something that could ever have a beginning or an end - Can it exist outside of our temporal containers and instead be something we feel not felt not yearned to feel something here - just here.