Ken Holland
Hill O'Beans
My grandfather, a minute,
a minute before I get to him,
my grandmother first,
fierce woman, big,
three of my grandfathers
in a sack and you’d have her,
felt God through her missing teeth,
sang gospel through the gaps,
said the Lord liked the way
she whistled her words,
the Bible a love shack
where she poured herself
thick and sweet, raised
her voice to the radio,
drowned the choir beneath her lungs
'til God’s breath was gone,
and angels, winded, hollow-eyed,
turned that emptiness
to my grandfather, a slight
man with a billow of silvery
hair the color of chimes,
head canted to the silvered
knell of his own death,
left behind his walnut pipe,
his railroad cap, the poorly
etched case of a pocket watch,
the disease that attends
the mining of coal, and the
sharp-honed tongue
of my grandmother who
told us in her hill-sung voice
that all the fighting they’d done
didn’t amount to a hill o’ beans
and I’ve had forty years
to think about that phrase
just how high the hill
just what kind of bean
and why she thought it all
so meaningless.
Ken Holland has published work in journals including Tupelo Quarterly, Rattle, and Atlanta Review. His poetry is forthcoming or has recently been published in Willow Springs, Poetry South, Tar River Poetry, South Carolina Review, and Catamaran. He was a finalist in Black Lawrence Press’ 2025 Chapbook competition, the 2025 Moonstone Press chapbook competition (which Moonstone subsequently published), and Bicoastal Review's 2025 single poem competition, among others. He has received three Pushcart nominations. kenhollandpoet.com