Our parents!

our parents! 2011



our parents wern't rich but we didnt go with out

a roof over our heads we had with out a doubt

the laundry was hung to dry on the hill

we never went hungry our bellys they'ed fill

our mother was special and us kids knew it was so

she would sacrafic her needs so we would all grow

and make us all mind with a kind but firm hand

when we'd disrespect she'd take a firm stand

our dad was the greatest our souls he would care

take us to church and pray with us there

kept us all safe he woud watch us all grow

never leave us alone he loved us all so

we wish they were around we miss them so dear

up to heaven they went to be with god there

but miss them we do we we wish they were here still

even thou time passes there love never will.

dedicated to our parents your love and care made us who we are today

we love you both always and you will never be forgotten



Author's Notes/Comments: 

this one is the second poem i wrote i wanted to tell others about my parents it was writen 2 years after my dad passed away i loved writing this poem i hope you like it


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*To The One I Love*


 Trisha Barrek Hopkins


From the day we met

I was so thankful to have found

Someone as sweet as you 

I knew then my heart was set


God has sent me an angel

From up above 

One thats so true

One I could love


I am so greatful God has sent such a wonderful father

Who has brought such happiness into my soul

Together we are meant to be

You are filled with so much kindness

This I hope you see

To you only all is what I give

To you I give all


To make your world so wonderful

I promise to stick by you 

Through thick and thin

I promise to try not to hurt your heart 

I promise to take care of it 

When it happens to fall apart 


Why you may ask the way I feel

Because I knew I loved you 

From the very start 



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*Violence To Ones Own*



 Trisha M. Barrek Hopkins

Waiting for him, sitting in the car
Under the erie moonlight
Imagening what he'll do 
Seing him in the distance, seeing him in the night
His mind shouting "I'm going to get you!"

He sees himself going after the man
He sees himself dragging him, dragging, dragging
Tying the man up
Everything is so dim
Under the erie moonlight


Torching him almost like he did her
His little baby girl, his little sweet girl
Remembering the scars he left behind
Making sure he'll never see another star


Under the erie moonlight
He opens the door
Seeing him more clear in the night 
Wanting to murder him more


Coming around the corner
The daughter spots the father
But she goes into the store to see the owner
He had suddenly spot her


The daughter yells "Dad"
"SHHH!" the father says
Knowing they been had
Knowing that they are goig to be dead
Finding out the guys name is Thad


The guy hears the calls
Looks in the fathers gaze
The gun goes off...BANG! the daughter falls
Now the daughter is in a daze


The father goes after the guy
Inside he is mad
The father shouts "You're going to die!"
The guy gets away the father is sad


As the father holds his little girl
He tells her "I'm sorry and I love you."
And then she was gone


Now the father starts to cry
Sitting alone with his daughter
He gazes up at the erie moonlight
So round
So bright



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My father's Guitars

Since I had memory, my father has always have a guitar on his bedroom, through the times he had changed his guitars, but in spite of this he had never changed his love for music and he had never been without a guitar. He had always had a strong passion for the rock music, he used to be in a band long time ago when he was at school, and after all that time my dad had never lose the love of playing music just for himself. When I was 10, my father has always played his old 12 chord guitar on the night just before dinner, it was normal to me to always hear music inside the house at any time at the day because of my father, is like I'm in a musician's world, and I don't feel sorry or stuck because I don't play any instrument, because that is something that I know that I was not born to do, but even so me and my mother are the silent audience on any place of the house feeling great to hear those beautiful chords of the guitar, and sometimes he doesn’t even know that sometimes our neighbors wait for the time that my father’s starts to play the guitar. But specially the guitar is the sound that makes me know what is my father feeling in that precise moment, because when he is excited or happy about something on his life like a new big project on work, he plays his old hard-rock music playlists, that are all crazy and beautiful at the same time, but never losing the way he transmit those feelings through the guitar. And there is another days that he feels stressed or having problems with his family or work, and I feel that after all, they are not bad at all, because we as a family knows that our father is stressed, then we sat in the dining room to eat this weir cheese that my mom buys and drink wine with my sister and sometimes with cousins, to listen to their songs a little more relaxed style. Because we know that the guitars that he had are just an object that represent the problems that are constantly changing, I see it somehow that we all have issues in our life’s, and if you stay with them all your life, you’ll be not able to deal with them you’ll be stuck forever on those issues that life gives you, or you will just loose that interest for the things you love to do, in the case of my father to play music with his brand new guitars.

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My Father’s Ironman Medals

-       He is a lawyer, a father, a son, a golfer and triathlete. My father’s Ironman medals have become a symbol of him. They are placed in the center of our living ROOMDescription: http://cdncache-a.akamaihd.net/items/it/img/arrow-10x10.png in a special base he selected so everyone can see them as they enter our house. The medals he has earned come from different places; they have different background, different shapes and different stories of pride, effort, sacrifice, and over all success.  Everyday he wakes up at 5 am to train; he swims, runs, does extremely long rides in his bike. He has fallen down, cried, spent hours without sleep, lost weight, gained weight, traveled and competed for every single one of his medals. Knowing that only a few people have the same collection of medals he has makes him proud and pushes him to get more. He knows that he will never end up in first place but it is not about the place he ends up in, it is about the journey, the people, the family support, the cheers, the location, the team, the life style, the pride and the stories that he gets in the end. The medals are just the physical representation of the months of training for the competition. Although for many people this journey represents a total of 140.6 miles, divided in: 2.4 miles swimming, 112 miles riding his bike and 26.2 miles running, for him it is a culmination of all his work throughout the months in one medal. For 14 hours he will be giving every single breath, gram of effort in his body and thought to achieve his goal. He has changed teams, coaches, bikes, uniforms, diets, tennis shoes but he’s stayed with the same mission of traveling around the world competing in as many places as he can and keep on getting life experiences. If his determination has showed me something is that if you want something and its important to you, you will sacrifice things to get that symbol of success that comes from reaching your goal; it might be a medal, a grade or a job. I know that is why the medals will continue to be shown with pride in my house, for symbolizing the effort and the struggle to get to your goal. In some years he will continue to tell the stories to anyone willing to listen and to anyone who appreciates what they symbolize.

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my father´s orang juice

My father drinks orange juice every single day, i dont remember a day i havent seen him. Every morning he wakes up at 7 am for work, he showers and goes to the kitchen for breakfast, of course , the orange juice is always there. When we go out on vacations; on restaurants, hotels, at a friend or famillies place he always asks for orange juice. I call it “hes morning coffee”. The reason i find this odd its because it´s a daily thing and i have never even wondered what he things about his juicy treat. In my house some say he does it because he doesn´t want to get sick, my mom thinks it´s because his mother use to do the same thing, my brother doesn´t seem to care he some times handles it to him and haves a small sip out of the glass, even the cleaning lady thinks that is a supertitious thing , like if something big is going to happen if he doesn´t have it. I dont think thats really a reason why he has it every morning. He has the same name that i do , so thats one of the main reasons that i discard the cleaning lady´s hipotesis.

My father is a farmer. He has been a potato farmer since he graduated from university , here in Monterrey. He started working with my grandfather many years ago. He does almost the exact same things since then, always the same activities; he goes to the field everyday to see how the crops are doing, comes home for lunch always at the same time, has a small nap, goes to the office, plays tennis with his friends on the afternoon and comes home always at the same time, but the one thing that he can´t miss is his very own orange juice, served on a small and wide glass waiting for him on the kitchen counter. As i said my father likes to play tennis, and its also a big Roger Ferderer fan.  When he happens to play in the morning he will stay in bed a Little longer and ask me or any of my siblings to bring him his orange juice and stay with him to watch the game, i´ve never though that a simply morning drink could be a very important part of a man´s life. When i called him this morning to ask him why he is so percistent about it, he said that for him is something to start the day and he finds it very refreshing.


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Crowded Plot

I don't feel at ease here,

Or at peace.

There are no fond memories -

Just an empty spot,

In a crowded plot -

No room for your soul to breathe.

Oh, what a distant memory -

A little girl at the foot of her papa,

The pitter patter of tiny feet -

Ready to jump,

Into the arms - 


Time has since faded -

That little girl is no longer.

A woman when you passed,

Yet a child still at heart.

Memories left -

Scattered -

And I'm left to wonder,

If you feel forgotten,

In this overgrown plot -

With pieces of you missing -


As is your sanctity.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written on 8/27/2014, in remembrance of my father. I sat at his head stone, where not ask of his ashes lay. And I felt as if he were suffocated. 


There is You,
my son, and You.


The You that died;
the You which we see
on rising
in photographs on walls
or framed or there
by the window;
the You staring back at us
from our mobile phones.


There's the You I saw
brought into the world
pink and small
and wanting to feed
and latch on
for the liquid food.


The You growing up
from baby to toddler,
mischievous, but loving.


The You growing
into manhood,
stoic and quiet
and brave, going about
in your own way
to climb many a mountain
of adversity
and reaching the top
and over it
and quietly smile
and unseen
in a corner, sit.


There is the You
of quiet talk,
of gentle words;
You of soft
under the breath swearing,
if the referee
had got it wrong.


There was the You who
became ill so suddenly;
the You who was let down
by medical professionals;
the You we loved,
the You whose heart
flat-lined and died.


There is You,
my son, and You.


The You who was taken
and the You whom we feel
around us still,
walking by
out of the corner
of our red rimmed eye.

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A Little Child


Have to be a little child from my father,

Have to obey Cthulhu evermore.

And all bad things turned into dust,

By my evil and good Father.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Some thoughts.

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