Final Secret
By g.l. bass (the ghostbear still lives)
4/87 ed. 5/0

Hours in the dark,
We mark
Twist and turn
Against stark

We’ve lost track
Of small town faces,
Heart’s truth
We pay such prices
To find,
In these journey’s
Of turn and wind,
Traces of signatures
We’ve thought,
For all this time
We had left

In these hours
Fact to face,
We understand
The hour
Of the Wolf,
Lasts long
On days of mist and rain.
Between us
The secret in
Ghost gray mornings,
Thunder and storm,
We are truly torn,
“Should we continue on?
This is more than we planned!”
We are committed
To why we came.
If there’s pain,
We are bound
To promises and questions
Before dawn.

Even without sun,
There can be
No turning back.
The purpose
Will always remain
The same.
Once begun,
The search for a secret,
A birthright place,
Cannot be left
Unanswered or undone,
Purpose is a test
With it’s own set
Of values and sums.

The Texas Colorado-
A River with a stolen name-
Dammed up,
Holding back,
Lake Buchanan,
Backwashed to depths
Brimmed by hundred foot
Black bluffs,
Swelling lake
Out of deep,
Lost Canyons.
The backwash seeps,
Filters and flows,
Poured into reaches
Of backdoor coves,
Hidden amongst shoulders-
Bluffs of rough
Red granite
Stripped in veins
Of pink and white marble boulders.
The Texas Colorado
As if in final secret,
Through a backdoor,
Down to a pit’s bottom,
Where twisted, barren,
Gray bodies,
Trees petrified
Waist deep in backwash,
Scattered twisted, torn,
Anchor in the canyon’s
Lost, forgotten floor.

On this day,
Of last second decisions,
Down, round
Tight ribbon
Gravel roads,
We lost our way
In and out of
Shores and bays,
We searched from
Before dawn ‘til noon,
Until we find,
This hidden backdoor
To Buchanan’s final
Secret floor-
Devil’s pond.
The last drop,
Where final backwash
Pours deep
Into Devil’s pit.
Up from deep
The Aquifer’s spring
A fountain spring
Rising again and again.

This place,
Ink’s Lost Lake
The secret our search
Depends on.
Out of a moment’s sleep
You turn,
“Still continuing on?
How important’s this
Osprey anyway?”
My reply
Ignores a reason why,
“What they say,
Osprey’s nest where
Outlaws laid to rest
Their treasure chest.
Sam new every
Nook and cranny
Where no one
Could ever find-
Better stay awake,
We’ve found the bottom
Of Ink’s Lost Lake.”

Through gray mist and rain,
This place stirs
In me
Old and forgotten memories,
It was a different place,
It was a different time.
This secret’s why we came.
Dead barren Oaks
Waded chest deep,
Rather than rot and die,
By some twist of fate,
They’ve turned
To stone
And become the color
Of gray bone.
Perched high atop
A stark finger
Of Oaken stone,
The Osprey has claimed
This hidden marsh
His home.
He hunts
And names
This secret place
As his own.

Crouched half over,
I struggle down
Through thorny bracket,
Grabbing Prickly Pear,
And low Mesquite,
Up and over
Downed Oak limbs,
Bound amongst
Rough granite
By strings and ropes of twisted vine,
Fist sized marble boulders
Hinder my every effort
To be secret and cautious
In my climb.
I try not to disturb
The purpose of this time,
Great shoulders
Of Red Rock
Hold and hide,
A secret
Where Ink’s Lake
Joins an Aquifer spring.
This marsh forms
A clandestine meeting-
Texas hard rock and red sand,
Meld with the heart
Of northern marshlands.
The Osprey migrates
From winter ice and snow,
This journeyman
Finds a compatible,
Yet secluded
Southern home.
His discovery,
For me,
Is quite easy to see.
Why he would have
Such an affinity
For this place
Of marshland secrecy.
I too
Am but a refugee
From beloved
Northern Marshlands
And inland seas.

The final secret
Occurs to me
To be-
The Osprey and I
Have a much
Deeper community
Than at first
Meets the eye.
Beyond time,
We wear
A more sacred sign,
Like a birthmark
Imprinted upon
Our lifeline-
A secret place,
Deep in the heart,
We have a need,
Just as strong
As hunt and survive,
As live and die,
The final secret’s
Of these stronger ties
That bind.
We search,
Journeymen of life,
To find
Our birthright
And place in kind.
Treasures are really
Discoveries of the mind.

Along the water’s line,
The sun’s break shines
A narrow seam,
Spot against the sky,
The beam outlines
The Osprey’s
Pale white silhouette.
Even as hard
As I try,
It is not possible
For me to hide
From this hunter’s
Eagle eye.
Off he flies
Where sun streams
Meet his climb
A spot
In the noonday sky.

I am glad we met.
Even though
I failed in my attempts,
There is so much
I have gathered since,
Our hide and search
First began,
The final secret’s
A faith shared
By Osprey and man.
So these ties,
It seems,
Are meant
The purpose
Of a journeyman’s
Real commitment.
For within
What it means,
For us to be,
It appears,
There is
A much deeper unity.
The final secret
We understand,
Is as our birthright
Bound to,
Part of,
A special bloodline with,
The breath and soul
Of this Texas land,
Both of us the hunter,
Both of us the journeyman.

g.l.bass (p.s. I never did find Sam’s gold)





Website Copyright Alannah K Ashlie 2005