Golden Game Poem by James Ronan

Fading scars mark an offended earth,
In tailings exposed on distant hills,
Bearing past witness of a metal’s worth,
Its memorials decay as aging ore mills.

Donkeys bray under burdensome loads,
Where picks and shovels are snugly framed,
Boots worn thin from treading off roads,
Seeking payback on grubstakes claimed.

Long days searching for elusive clues,
Where earth covets her golden prize,
Patience pays off with just dues,
Amid gamboling feet and lustful eyes.

Maps are kept secret of this sacred ground,
As looters endeavor to jump its claim,
Lips seal tight if nuggets are found,
Where winners are losers playing this game.

Dark dank shafts sink deep underground,
Where men pursue thin yellow lines,
Fortunes are made when a load is found,
While dreams lie waste in barren mines.

Gold fever drives a miner’s ambition,
In thoughts of wealth he’s far from alone.
A flash of yellow betrays his salvation,
Where a forlorn hole becomes his gravestone.