Best Prospector Poems
Prospector Pete had roamed the hills fer years searchin' fer gold!
He and his faithful burro, Fred, were both growin' weary and old.
He'd looked fer color in many a mountain and stream in Colorado,
Lookin' fer that mother lode, that elusive vein, his own El Dorado!
Oh, he'd found a few nuggets here and there, but didn't amount to much.
Those he did find he'd blown on gamblin', women, whiskey and such!
Pete would save a bag of dust or two from his many wanton toots,
To grubstake himself to re-supply his picks, jeans, shovels and boots.
He staked his claims along ripplin' streams and left many holes along the way.
The mountains and valleys are pocked with his many diggin's to this very day!
He'd come up dry, nothin' there, and move on to more appealin' pickin's,
Burrowin' and pannin' with elbows flyin' workin' like the dickens!
Pete would winter in his cabin 'til spring then he'd begin his annual quest,
Packin' his tools on long-sufferin' Fred and headin' fer the hills to the west.
If he didn't find that elusive bonanza this year he swore that he would retire,
To his ramshackle cabin at the foot of Mount Pisgah and enjoy the blazin' fire!
Years passed and Prospector Pete wasn't seen 'round town much anymore.
One wintry day his friends found him froze to death upon his cabin floor!
They dug Prospector Pete's grave and buried him outside his cabin door.
Eureka! Six feet down was that vein of gold that he'd been a-lookin' for!
Prospector Pete had roamed the hills fer years searchin' fer some gold.
He and his faithful burro, Fred, were both growin' weary and old.
He'd looked fer color in many a mountain and stream in Colorado,
Lookin' fer that mother lode, that elusive vein, his own El Dorado.
Oh, he'd found a few nuggets here and there, but didn't 'mount to much.
Those he did find he'd blown on gamblin', women, whiskey and such.
Pete would save a bag of dust or two from his many wanton toots,
To grubstake himself to re-supply his jeans, shovels and boots.
He staked claims 'long ripplin' streams and left many holes 'long the way.
The mountains and valleys are pocked with his diggin's to this very day!
He'd come up dry, nothin' there and move on to more appealin' pickin's,
Burrowin' and pannin' with elbows flyin' workin' like the dickens!
Pete would winter in his cabin 'til spring then he'd begin his annual quest,
Packin' his tools on long-sufferin' Fred and head fer the hills to the west.
If he didn't find that elusive bonanza this year he swore that he'd retire,
To his cabin at the foot of Mount Pisgah and enjoy the blazin' fire.
Time passed and Pete wasn't seen 'round town much anymore.
On a wintry day his pals found him froze to death upon his cabin floor!
They dug Pete's grave and buried him just outside his cabin door.
Eureka! Six feet down was that vein of gold that he'd been a-lookin' for!
A spot of fresh blue water
Flows off rocks backs jewel covers
Fossils of dormant brown doubles
Captivate earthen brothers
Mining, panning gold treasures
Jewel covers rocks pleasures
Dunged up hammered measures
Crystal blue waters pressures
7/25/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Written for project North Omaha Writer’s Group assignment 2019©
The Prospector:
He packs his tack in a great canvas sack
And then drives away in his car.
Nobody cries as they wave their goodbyes;
They will await his return from afar.
When he reaches the track he will find his way back
With his GPS tuned to a star.
The stories are told how he travels the road
With constant anticipation,
He ignores the snakes as he hammers in stakes,
On the boundary of his location
This man has gone bush, and he shows no rush
To return to civilization.
This modern-gold seeker, with a stick and a beeper
That creates echoes to his ears from the ground.
On his own, he unpacks his gear from his sacks,
He’s left family and friends in the town.
Now the bush replaces their loving embraces
With an encompassing sky and a peaceful surround.
The look on his face shows nary a trace
Of emotion as he unpacks his gear.
He sets up his camp, and primes his lamp,
Lights fire, and watches a dingo draw near.
Staring into the embers, he starts to remember
Other campsites like the one he has here.
He wakes in the morning, stretching and yawning
As he extracts his bones from the ground.
His muscles will strengthen as the days lengthen
While he walks the grid; listening to sounds.
Bright are his eyes, as he unearths the prize
His detector, signals it there to be found.
When his eyes behold the nugget of gold
As he digs in the earth for this prize
They sparkle and shine as he takes out his twine,
Knotted, for measurement of size.
The tail of his shirt removes unwanted dirt
And hessian covers rock from prying eyes
As he looks to the ground; there is more to be found!
Shards that catch the bright setting sun.
He puts some in a pot, then marks this fine spot,
So he can find it again when he’s done.
For the task of recording his find in the morning,
He must leave; he feels he should run.
From the past he has learned, he knows he’ll return
After the assayer sees what's in his sack.
There is quiet celebration, with this revelation
As he phones his partner to say she should pack.
They both go to sign on the dotted line,
Then together they travel the track back.
Wordancer
Greed overtakes any prospector looking for gold.
Here I am above the Arctic Circle braving the cold.
The bitter freezing is enough to kill anyone young or old.
The river flows under a very thick sheet of ice.
Temperatures at fifty degrees below zero are not nice.
It is late morning, and the sky is a crepuscular gray.
That golden orb called the “sun” has gone away.
I won’t see it again for weeks as it is below the horizon.
That big husky dog with me is much like his timber wolf cousin.
To keep warm, chewing tobacco is of no use.
Anyone can grow a beard from frozen tobacco juice.
It is unlikely the subzero temperatures will get any higher.
Until I get back to camp, I will just have to build a fire.
Based on the short story “To Build a Fire” by the late Jack London
Succumb to a rabbit hole, avalanche perception
Compiles tiles sliding, interchanging hues
Collapses cement rigidity command of tension
Cube covers corners interior cog subdues
Determined digits dive in darker dire dimension
Coming to glinted dug river bed treasures
Coalesce of pleasures drift in liquid suspension
Culminate in mind crowned proud avenger
Clever surface turner ensures dirt spurns limits
Combative burrow tunnel richly delivers
Coherent limber fingers edges can never inhibit
Campaign clocks widening prize winner
Squander of wonder prevents viewpoint shifted
Deficient Virus solution outrage renews
Seething bacteria rehashed in plastic indifferent
Daunt of grainy agitation, a cure debuts
13th January 2021
Kai Michael Neumann's
' If The Rubik's Cube Was Round'
It was just another road construction
Of a brand new super highway,
Only seconds just saved from destruction
On that cold, cloudy winter day.
The back hoe was about to crush it sure,
When the archeologist whoaed—
And they gently pried open and then tore
The pine box so long ago sowed.
Inside were some old fragile human bones,
And shreds of a prospector’s clothes—
An old hat and boots brown with earth’s tones—
Someone long dead from the gold rush’s throes.
Construction was briefly halted right there
For sonar searches of that land—
Finding echoes from more graves safe from care,
Laid to rest by a loving hand.
And so the decision will then be made
To cover or just move them all—
As the simple plans of man are then laid
For a graveyard or shopping mall.
And the story will so quickly just dim
Of that lost prospector’s demise—
As none care what ever happened to him,
As a gull wings out toward the west and flies.
a prospector
of both time
and space
deeply
in search of
your embrace
I wonder often
what do you do with them,
the many jewels mined
from my rankled mind.
Jagged edged gems scraping,
my brain further chafing
as you unearth each disturbing bauble.
I wonder often
if your excavation
reveals some personal fruit
or some prized, torture bred treasure.
What do you do
with your collection of stone and marl?
Do you display your torment born trinkets?
Do they sit in your studio, up high
on a laminated shelf and buffed
to painstaking perfection,
reflecting the light of your merciless labor
Herr lover’s pride and joy?