A poem by: Ben Dunk. 1981.
Holcomb Valley near Big Bear, Southern California.
Thriving throngs existed in this wilderness
and rivers ran wild with men and women,
until the ravening crowds made a populace,
scooping in sand and slime for a fortune.
Holcomb, Van Dusen and myriad others,
lucked in gold and claims with fevers,
some shot and graved their pleasures,
resting here forever under season’s glares
Fanatic flames in eyes matched gold’s gleams,
Why care so much for the spirited metal,
mockingly asks the Indian in his Royal Realms,
naively misunderstanding his destruction lethal.
His answer is in the permanent cosmic pulse,
lingering in the eroded-majestic rocks and gravel
recognized by tribal tribunes knowing thus
that frequency of forceful rays travel-
around the moon and to the Sun
everything resides in their path
and the beauty of life is no gun
for sure the rhythm of body is to laugh.
The miners died and did the boom town,
ruddy pastures re-filled the terrain;
until natures leveling foliage soon down
and up the hills and valley’s came again.