Harriette, the words you sowed
on the Cumberland yet grow
but Old Burnside lies buried
beneath Lake Cumberland.
Your voice is still alive
in my mind, as clear as
when you spoke:
I never go into the bedroom
with my characters.
I admire them too much
to spy on them.

Jim Wayne, how much I owe
to you no man nor woman
can ever know who did not
have you as mentor.
Does anyone here know what
a pack saddle is? you asked
that first day in Appalachian
Literature class.
I was the only one to raise my hand.
You took it & led me from there
to values & beliefs I did not know I had.

James, your river led me
to discover Old Seventy Creek.
The squirrels your hunter shot
were the squirrels I learned to stalk.
Your two boys walking thru the stony dark
to get an education & your listening to old
men at stockyards & turning their words
into stories taught me to listen to the men
on the courthouse lawn & dedicate
a poem to an unknown whittler
who carved a miniature, cedar bird.

Jesse, the day in London, England
when you got up from your seat
& took the microphone from the driver
to introduce yourself as a writer
from Kentucky & a student of the world
made me understand that every writer
must be his own—her own best salesman.
50 votes before breakfast helped me know
why my father work at the polls
& the two of us celebrated
the year of your rebirth.

Hollis, you simply taught me
to start from home & not waste time
digging for Jimmy Hoffa’s bones.

-Rudy Thomas