Grasshopper

By Pen

blade of grass
new roots in earth’s soil
home to grasshopper

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Indian Gold (The Treasure of Chief Sawnee)

By Pen

My journey led me to this place,

a search for fortune and glory,

spurred by imagination

from an Indian legend story.

It was said a great Indian chief

buried his treasure within this mountain

overlooking this north Georgia town.

Within this mountain named after him

great riches were to be found.

 

And so my search began with but a single clue,

passed down through generations,

keeping the legend strong,

the only instructions on what to do:

“the sun rises upon it, the sun sets upon it,

and the sun shines upon it all day long.”

 

The locals whispered that ‘it’ was gold

and, oh, how those locals told and retold

the story of the Indians’ plunder,

of riches, enough to put any man asunder

and the eyes of the locals sparkled with glee

and their faces sweated with greed

and their voices grew hoarse with the storytelling.

 

And I, no better than they, sought out that Indian gold,

treasures in my hand to hold

and the riches of my wildest dreams.

I found myself wading cold mountain streams,

and hiding from wild creatures roaming the night

but no fear had I, sleeping beneath the moonlight,

for I would be rich with the Indian chief’s bounty.

 

Standing atop the mountain in the early morning mist,

Standing in bush and bramble kissed

with a chill morning dew,

I looked about me as the sun broke through.

A vision appeared to me as I looked down

where the town should be at the mountain’s feet

upon this morning there was no town.

The sun glinted off clear mountain streams

like diamonds; the sea of trees swaying in the breeze

were of the richest emerald green,

the blaze of the sapphire skies hurt my eyes

as I watched the flight of an eagle.

With the rising sun, truth dawned upon me:

the Indians did not value gold, no silver did they seek,

they valued the soil beneath their feet,

where they grew the food they needed to eat,

they valued the trees which provided their shelter

and offered them shade from the sweltering sun

and clean water from those mountain streams

beside which they slept and dreamed.

Their treasures were what they made:

vases from the red Georgia clay,

beads and feathers to grace their faces

or to use in trade for food or tools or even weapons

to use against the white man’s purging of their race.

 

The raw smell of the earth filled my lungs to bursting,

the cry of the eagle matched the pounding

of my heartbeat within my ears

and I could hear my own voice rising as I spoke,

“I sought the Indian’s treasure and I have found it,

I am rich! I am rich! I am rich!”

 

The vision left me then, flew apart

like leaves dancing in the wind, a wind

which whispered to my heart:

“Indian gold cannot be held in the hand,

it must be treasured within the heart.”

 

That is why white man will never find it.

©2005 Pen

Years ago when I worked at the Forsyth County News, we once ran a story about a man in the county who had spent most of his adult life searching for Chief Sawnee’s treasure, allegedly buried within Sawnee Mountain. He was not the only one: many people in that area searched for that treasure. The clues in this poem are the clues passed down to find that treasure: “the sun rises upon it, the sun sets upon it and the sun shines upon it all day long.” What no one realized is that these clues are actually a riddle. Chief Sawnee’s treasure is all around. One need simply to open one’s eyes.

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