From the Start

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a poem. This is also a story, as told in the form of a poem. A poem that tells a story.


From the Start


Searching through papers,

Rifling through drawers,

A young scavenger grabs for vapor,

As he pokes his head into doors.


But what is it he’s looking for?

He’s obviously in some rush.

Among the dust on the floor,

Hangs an eerie hush.


Turning on his heels,

Shrugging off the emptiness,

The scavenger suddenly feels,

One untouched place among the mess.


In the corner of the room,

Tucked away by the home’s darkness,

Is a folder that looms,

Cream-colored against the wall starkness.


And so I found what I seek,

That I’d been looking for a week.

Old enough to be antique.

Delicate pages that speak.


In these pages are my grandfather’s words;

The things he loved and the stories he’d heard.

The pages are stained and the lines are blurred,

Yet among these drafts is a life interred.


He died before he ever released them,

He died before anyone knew about them.


This was something he had taken to the grave,

And left for someone like me to consider them saved.


I saved something else of his, though,

His memory.

Now I think of one I know,

In this century.


My grandfather’s funeral,

Took place when I was young.

I consider it suitable,

For the lyric of a man unsung.


If I could’ve spoke that day,

I would’ve posed a question.

“Was there anything he could say today,

That would be deemed a confession?”


“Did he have any regrets?

Did he die at peace?

Did he settle all of his bets?

Did he have any trouble with the police?”


“But seriously,

There's something so mysteriously,


Odd to me?

That he never had stories of his life?

For a man with two degrees,

Did he at least tell his wife?”




“My grandfather, he was a funny man.

He would always start stories from the end,

And almost never the way they began.”

He was like that, cried an old family friend.


“He was a good man!”

“He made lots of money!”

“He gave me a ride in his van!”

“He knew how to harvest honey!”


“That was all true,”

Said a man called his son.

“But nobody ever really knew,

The man named Mike Dunn…”


After the burial,

After the mourners had gone,

After the dirt had settled on Sunset Hill,

My grandfather rose with every dawn.




Excerpts from Riptide, dated approx. 1974 (listed as being written in 1930’s)


Submitted: September 23, 2018

© Copyright 2020 Dan Zuniga. All rights reserved.

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