I wish to share a story
of when I nearly met my fate-
A tale of an adventure,
and a quest I had to make
A story of an abandoned mine-
A search for silver and gold-
Of prospectors, and the miners-
And the secrets they must hold
My father used to pan for gold
in the mountains and their streams-
And found enough of the elusive stuff
to make my mother's wedding rings.
I thought that I would try my hand-
to see what I could find-
So I set out to seek the entrance
to an old, abandoned, mine
I left for Arizona,
to Prescott, I wished to go -
Crossed the Rio Grande,
on thru New Mexico.
Finally got to Phoenix -
800 miles and count'n,
then north, up to Prescott,
Thumb Butte, and Granite Mountain.
I pitched my tent on Granite Creek,
with great anticipation-
Checked the notes from my father's quotes,
and began the exploration
With my father's tin pan packed in a bag-
and his pic-ax at my side-
I felt like a real "old timer",
with heaven as my guide.
I found the one I was looking for-
with a darkened cave as the entrance door-
And a handmade sign on a rotting board, said
"Welcome Friend, 1894."
Well, I picked and I chipped! and I chipped and I picked!
til the sores on my hands ran red-
When I felt some dirt, drifting down on my shirt-
and some pebbles hit my head.
It only took a second-
for the ground to start to quake-
The dirt was falling faster,
and the walls began to shake.
I ran as fast as I knew how,
toward that entrance door-
When the last crosstimber broke in half,
and came crashing to the floor!
Now, I don't know how much time had passed-
since all of that began-
But felt as if I had been in a trance-
when someone took my hand.
I grabbed my shirt-tail, wiped my eyes-
tilt my head to see-
And saw a sun-dried, weathered face,
looking down on me!
He wore a wrinkled old hat,
an old flannel shirt-
Raggedy old pants, and a mile's
worth of dirt-
He had a beard of silver threads,
with a tinge of ginger root-
His hands were thick, and calloused,
and their color matched his boots.
He gave me a jug of water
that came from the nearby creek
As I began to take a drink-
he began to speak-
"Strange thing about abandoned mines-
they wish to be left alone,
To keep the souls of all of those-
who often called them home."
His voice began to tremble-
as he spoke those woeful words,
He seemed to be recalling
many things he'd seen and heard.
"It isn't greed that brought you here,
I can see that, in your eyes,
it's not just ore, you're looking for-
But another kind of prize."
"You must go back to your domain,
and you'll find that treasure chest-
For it lies deep within your heart-
and in those folks you favor best."
I shut my eyes, said a prayer-
and asked, if what I did was wrong?
When I finished, and said "amen",
that old man was gone.
I never asked him for his name-
or the place from whence he came-
Some things are better left in silence-
and not to be explained.
I went back to take another look,
and gather up my gear-
Tried to find that “Welcome” sign,
but, it too, had disappeared.
I stood in "awe,and wonder,"-
of the place that I had found-
And with my eyes, realized,
I had trod on hallowed ground.
Going home I pondered,
'o'er the words that old man said-
But, did all that really happen,
or was it from the "bumps" upon my head?
I got back home, and cracked a smile,
As I strode up to the door-
And there, hung a handmade sign
on a rotting board, said-
"Welcome Home, 1894!"
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
I wish to share a story
of when I nearly met my fate-
A tale of an adventure,
and a quest I had to make
A story of an abandoned mine-
A search for silver and gold-
Of prospectors, and the miners-
And the secrets they must hold
My father used to pan for gold
in the mountains and their streams-
And found enough of the elusive stuff
to make my mother's wedding rings.
I thought that I would try my hand-
to see what I could find-
So I set out to seek the entrance
to an old, abandoned, mine
I left for Arizona,
to Prescott, I wished to go -
Crossed the Rio Grande,
on thru New Mexico.
Finally got to Phoenix -
800 miles and count'n,
then north, up to Prescott,
Thumb Butte, and Granite Mountain.
I pitched my tent on Granite Creek,
with great anticipation-
Checked the notes from my father's quotes,
and began the exploration
With my father's tin pan packed in a bag-
and his pic-ax at my side-
I felt like a real "old timer",
with heaven as my guide.
I found the one I was looking for-
with a darkened cave as the entrance door-
And a handmade sign on a rotting board, said
"Welcome Friend, 1894."
Well, I picked and I chipped! and I chipped and I picked!
til the sores on my hands ran red-
When I felt some dirt, drifting down on my shirt-
and some pebbles hit my head.
It only took a second-
for the ground to start to quake-
The dirt was falling faster,
and the walls began to shake.
I ran as fast as I knew how,
toward that entrance door-
When the last crosstimber broke in half,
and came crashing to the floor!
Now, I don't know how much time had passed-
since all of that began-
But felt as if I had been in a trance-
when someone took my hand.
I grabbed my shirt-tail, wiped my eyes-
tilt my head to see-
And saw a sun-dried, weathered face,
looking down on me!
He wore a wrinkled old hat,
an old flannel shirt-
Raggedy old pants, and a mile's
worth of dirt-
He had a beard of silver threads,
with a tinge of ginger root-
His hands were thick, and calloused,
and their color matched his boots.
He gave me a jug of water
that came from the nearby creek
As I began to take a drink-
he began to speak-
"Strange thing about abandoned mines-
they wish to be left alone,
To keep the souls of all of those-
who often called them home."
His voice began to tremble-
as he spoke those woeful words,
He seemed to be recalling
many things he'd seen and heard.
"It isn't greed that brought you here,
I can see that, in your eyes,
it's not just ore, you're looking for-
But another kind of prize."
"You must go back to your domain,
and you'll find that treasure chest-
For it lies deep within your heart-
and in those folks you favor best."
I shut my eyes, said a prayer-
and asked, if what I did was wrong?
When I finished, and said "amen",
that old man was gone.
I never asked him for his name-
or the place from whence he came-
Some things are better left in silence-
and not to be explained.
I went back to take another look,
and gather up my gear-
Tried to find that “Welcome” sign,
but, it too, had disappeared.
I stood in "awe,and wonder,"-
of the place that I had found-
And with my eyes, realized,
I had trod on hallowed ground.
Going home I pondered,
'o'er the words that old man said-
But, did all that really happen,
or was it from the "bumps" upon my head?
I got back home, and cracked a smile,
As I strode up to the door-
And there, hung a handmade sign
on a rotting board, said-
"Welcome Home, 1894!"
Request permission to use this poem