The first poems I read and enjoyed as a child were in the form of stories. Such poems are the whole reason for my taking an interest in poetry myself—poems like “The Dreamer” by Robert Service, “The Legend of the Organ Builder” by Julia Dorr, and “The Last Man” by Thomas Campbell. And it’s strange, since I rarely approach poetry from the angle of storytelling. I’m not sure why this is. As a teenager I tried my hand at short and verse stories, and most of those who read said they enjoyed them and were encouraging.
Over the past seven years I’ve written only a handful of poems that tell some kind of story. Most of them have ended up as meditations or reflections of one kind or another. But writing stories in verse and free verse form has and continues to be a goal of mine as a poet. Maybe I’ve just lacked the courage to try, fearing discouragement. Or maybe I find it more difficult than I used to to come up with ideas, or at least to trust my ideas as they come.
So I’ve decided to trust one and see how it turned out.
deja vu
i’ve been here before
at the foot of this mountain
watching the cranes glide down
there were restless sounds
hissing sharp through the air
forged echoes clanging
a tireless struggle
the lake wimpled bits of sun
thin pines stood breathing by
silent ever solemn silent watch
by the shore gleamed
relentless thrusts and parries
the flash of teeth
whirling plates of armor
no words were spoken
only glances gauging glance
meditating malice and survival
hidden in the branches
robins sang responses to the song
of steel played out on steel
from one high limb a squirrel barked alarm
minutes passed
or was it hours that pushed shadows
slowly through the woods
i remember still
that long pained grunt a gasp that
echoed all the woods to hush
a long loud rolling peel of silence
sudden tears that stung the cheeks
and fell to wet blood spattered lips
a frozen smile pointed to the clouds
