poetry of rock

A rock is king of its own salt -- washed again and trembling
Malaise, early bird bonds, frustration and raspberries kept
The mineral still for thirty three thousand years
Oh, how it hurts!

Has seen infants turn into old men and women
Been climbed time and time again, defied
Was unable to help the boy who wanted to impress a girl
When he skidded, hit his back and fell flat to the ground

With a thousand legs like ghost limbs -- so real
Just trying to keep a balance and a distance
Disappointed because skin turns into sand little by little by little
Yet the soul remains a stone forever

Wet and cozy refuge for furry lichen -- clothes you might be afraid of
Becoming bread as pebbles and twisting with ice hot frenzy
Has a skeleton indeed but not a single eye
Unable to feel what time feels like but for the painstaking erosion:

A rock is queen of its own grief...

And that's about it


arthur grobb (Decatur, IL, 1991)