This Here Rock
Who’s girl are you?
The old timer will ask,
But, this here rock don’t
need no family name
to place my shaved hair
and tattooed skin
in this holler,
where I belong.
Always did.
This here rock won’t say,
“Well now,” or
“That so,”
when I say
I’m Mike Hansel’s girl.
Luther Johnson’s granddaughter,
owned the Cowshed Trading Post.
Remember Barbara Mullins?
Worked at the Board of Education.
That’s my grandmother.
No, this here rock and me,
we know we’re carbon copies
damp and blue out of the press.
Stamped with time,
and a permanency
that predates names.
7 thoughts on "This Here Rock"
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Love the voice in this poem, which is nailed down really well by the reptition of “this here rock.” Great poem!
Thank you very much. There’s a rock I pass on my evening walk. He helped me write this poem. 🙂
You have a way. There is something steady, solid. “No, this here rock and me, / we know we’re carbon copies /
damp and blue out of the press. / Stamped with time, /
and a permanency / that predates names.” The way it lays on the page drips the point bit by bit, and down to me like water coming off cave rock, this is really lovely work. Thanks for posting it. 🖤🖤🖤
Thank you very much for spending time with my words.
This poem sounds like home. <3
Or should I say, “This here poem sounds like home.” 🙂
🙂 I am glad.