ROCK ROOM
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Mom Wrote me a letter with this poem in it saying that kate had written it and she was only eight years old. Apparently she knew that Mom had written a poem about the rock room and wanted to try her hand at it.

     
Rock Room
By Jean Cole (But Really by Kate Mooney)

There is a room that I stay in when I visit my
son, and oh, how nice it is. It's a room with lots of
rocks. My son Tom calls it the rock room. Oh and that's the very room I stay in when I visit him.
And that's his own little room in his own little house
in pretty Arizona. How nice it is to look at all
the different kinds of rocks. But I wanted to
tell you this, it is the very room I stay in when I visit Tom. And of course you know,
it is called The Rock room.





Rock Room

By Jean Cole

Sometimes I sleep in the rock room.
    It is peaceful there and safe,
         a place of security.

    Fish fossils line the walls
                and hide in closets.

    Rock instruments lean companionably
           against stereo systems, their noise
           muted.

    Against the wall lies a bed of such comfort
           one is tempted never to leave.
   
    This refuge is only available at certain times
    These times are always the times that I need it.

    In addition to inside, the outside is filled with
          swaying branches, soft breezes and night music.

    Such music comes echoing from the rock instruments
          but filtered through the leaves it leaves a softer sound.

THEN THERE APPEARS TO BE A LONGER VERSION. PERHAPS IT IS I, TOM, WHO IS THE MASTER WHO VISITS TWICE A DAY.

    Sometimes I sleep in the rock room.
    It is peaceful there and safe,
         a place of security.

    Fish fossils line the walls
                and hide in closets.

    Rock instruments lean companionably
           against stereo systems, their noise
           muted.

    Against the wall lies a bed of such comfort
           one is tempted never to leave.

    During my first rock room stays, I was very ill.
           The rock room master visited me
           twice daily -- before work and after work.

    My weak, transparent arms were grasped
           each day by a rock-hard arm and fist,
           lending strength.

    The rock strength seeped deep into my body,
           maintaining my sanity, my health
           and my love.

     Now each time I visit the rock room I remember.
     Now it is a place of assurance -- of reminders that
           always there is a strength greater than mine,
          
     Now each time I sleep in a place of safety and love.

    Today I am three-thousand miles away, but I can still
           feel the strength in that arm, beckoning me back,
           telling me there is always a place for me in the
     Rock room.
    This refuge is only available at certain times
    These times are always the times that I need it.

    In addition to inside, the outside is filled with
          swaying branches, soft breezes and night music.

    Such music comes echoing from the rock instruments
          but filtered through the leaves it leaves a softer sound.