Examples Of Narrative Poems

Published: July 2017

Narrative Poems - Poems That Tell A Story

52 Narrative Poems - Poems That Tell A Story

Narrative poems are stories in poem form. Narrative poems are one of the oldest forms of poetry and indeed all literature. 

Narrative poetry was used in ancient times as a means of passing down important stories. Many people did not how to read and write and captivating stories told rhythmically, with repetition and rhymes were a way to ensure that stories important to the culture were remembered and passed down through the generations.

This collection contains narrative poems by famous and modern poets. 

1 - 20 of 51

    My sister Kelly was paralyzed when she was 16. For the next 25 years she was totally dependent on others. Even though she got dealt a bad hand, she remained strong and dignified throughout her life. That is why she'll always be "The Strongest Girl I Ever Knew." Kelly, I know you're dancing in Heaven.
    In Loving Memory of Kelly Doe

    The Strongest Girl I Ever Knew

    Inspirational Poem About Disabled Sister

    in Inspirational Poems

    She never got to dance
    Or go to her own prom.
    She never got the chance
    To forget where she came from.

    She never got to kiss,
    A man she idolized.
    She never felt love's bliss,
    'Cause she was paralyzed.

    She never got to talk
    About love with a smile.
    She never got to walk
    Down a church's aisle.

    She never got to say
    Those precious words, "I Do."
    But she was far and away
    The strongest girl I ever knew.

    She couldn't brush her hair
    Or put make up on her face.
    She couldn't hold you dear
    Or give you a warm embrace.

    She couldn't clasp her hands
    As if in the form of prayer.
    She couldn't understand
    Why she was in a wheelchair.

    She never showed her fears
    Or let you hear her cries.
    She never showed the tears
    That fell down from her eyes.

    She never looked for pity
    Or sympathy from you.
    That's why she'll always be
    The strongest girl I ever knew.

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    The poem was very touching. I enjoyed reading it, and it reminds me of someone I know and is part of my life. She is none other than my sister. She was always on her feet doing things just...

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    Annabel Lee was the last poem written by Poe. Like many of Poe's poems, this one is about lost love. It was published in 1849 shortly after his death. The subject mourns the death of his young love, Annabel Lee, and blames the angels for killing her out of jealousy for their love. He has since then slept by her grave, unable to accept her death.
    Edgar Allan Poe once said that the death of a beautiful woman is "the most poetical topic in the world". In this poem, the subject's lover, Annabel Lee was killed. The subject of the poem affirms that the love between him and Annabel Lee is so strong that even death can't separate them.

    Annabel Lee

    in Famous Narrative Poems

    It was many and many a year ago,
    In a kingdom by the sea,
    That a maiden there lived whom you may know
    By the name of Annabel Lee;
    And this maiden she lived with no other thought
    Than to love and be loved by me.

    I was a child and she was a child,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
    But we loved with a love that was more than love—
    I and my Annabel Lee—
    With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
    Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
    So that her highborn kinsmen came
    And bore her away from me,
    To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
    Went envying her and me—
    Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
    In this kingdom by the sea)
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
    Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
    Of those who were older than we—
    Of many far wiser than we—
    And neither the angels in Heaven above
    Nor the demons down under the sea
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

    For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
    Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
    In her sepulchre there by the sea—
    In her tomb by the sounding sea.

    Annabel Lee By Edgar Allan Poe

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    I have always enjoyed reading the poem of Anabelle Lee. One day my grandson came home and told me he had to memorize and recite it for a 7th grade competition. I was delighted to help him. In...

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    One of the most famous poems ever written, "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe is a delightfully spooky, dark poem. What makes this poem so remarkable? There is a certain romance in darkness and melancholy. There is something mysterious about that which is hidden and unknown. Dark poems seek to romanticize sadness and depression. There is much room for creativity in this genre.

    The Raven

    in Famous Narrative Poems

    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
    "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
    Only this and nothing more."

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
    Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
    Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
    This it is and nothing more."

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
    "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
    That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—
    Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
    This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—
    Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
    Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
    'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
    In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
    "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
    Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
    Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
    Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
    With such name as "Nevermore."

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—
    On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
    Then the bird said "Nevermore."

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
    Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
    Of ‘Never—nevermore'."

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
    Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
    But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
    She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
    Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
    Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

    "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
    Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
    Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

    "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
    By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

    "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
    "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
    Shall be lifted—nevermore!

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    "A Boy Named Sue" is a poem by Shel Silverstein that has been made popular by Johnny Cash. Cash was at the height of his popularity when he recorded the song live at California's San Quentin State Prison at a concert on February 24, 1969. The concert was filmed by Granada Television for later television broadcast. The audio of the concert was later released on Cash's At San Quentin album. Cash also performed the song (with comical variations on the original performance) in December 1969 at Madison Square Garden.

    A Boy Named Sue

    in Famous Funny Poems

    Well, my daddy left home when I was three,
    and he didn't leave much to Ma and me,
    just this old guitar and a bottle of booze.
    Now I don't blame him because he run and hid,
    but the meanest thing that he ever did was
    before he left he went and named me Sue.

    Well, he must have thought it was quite a joke,
    and it got lots of laughs from a lot of folks,
    it seems I had to fight my whole life through.
    Some gal would giggle and I'd get red
    and some guy would laugh and I'd bust his head,
    I tell you, life ain't easy for a boy named Sue.

    Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean.
    My fist got hard and my wits got keen.
    Roamed from town to town to hide my shame,
    but I made me a vow to the moon and the stars,
    I'd search the honky tonks and bars and kill
    that man that gave me that awful name.

    But it was Gatlinburg in mid July and I had
    just hit town and my throat was dry.
    I'd thought i'd stop and have myself a brew.
    At an old saloon in a street of mud
    and at a table dealing stud sat the dirty,
    mangy dog that named me Sue.

    Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad
    from a worn-out picture that my mother had
    and I knew the scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
    He was big and bent and gray and old
    and I looked at him and my blood ran cold,
    and I said, "My name is Sue. How do you do?
    Now you're gonna die." Yeah, that's what I told him.

    Well, I hit him right between the eyes and he went down
    but to my surprise he came up with a knife
    and cut off a piece of my ear. But I busted a chair
    right across his teeth. And we crashed through
    the wall and into the street kicking and a-gouging
    in the mud and the blood and the beer.

    I tell you I've fought tougher men but I really can't remember when.
    He kicked like a mule and bit like a crocodile.
    I heard him laughin' and then I heard him cussin',
    he went for his gun and I pulled mine first.
    He stood there looking at me and I saw him smile.

    And he said, "Son, this world is rough and if
    a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough
    and I knew I wouldn't be there to help you along.
    So I gave you that name and I said 'Goodbye'.
    I knew you'd have to get tough or die. And it's
    that name that helped to make you strong."

    Yeah, he said, "Now you have just fought one
    helluva fight, and I know you hate me and you've
    got the right to kill me now and I wouldn't blame you
    if you do. But you ought to thank me
    before I die for the gravel in your guts and the spit
    in your eye because I'm the guy that named you Sue."
    Yeah, what could I do? What could I do?

    I got all choked up and I threw down my gun,
    called him pa and he called me a son,
    and I came away with a different point of view
    and I think about him now and then.
    Every time I tried, every time I win and if I
    ever have a son I think I am gonna name him
    Bill or George - anything but Sue.

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    Johnny Cash was the right person to sing these lyrics. He made an interesting song from an awesome poem. Very entertaining. Love it!
    Jac. Judy A. Campbell

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    Ernest Lawrence Thayer worked for a newspaper, and "Casey at the Bat" was written as part of his column in 1888. It did not gain a lot of attention at first. DeWolf Hooper, a comic actor, recited "Casey at the Bat" 15,000 times over the next 50 year, increasing its popularity. This is the most famous baseball poem that has been written.
    "Love has its sonnets galore. War has its epics in heroic verse. Tragedy its sombre story in measured lines. Baseball has Casey at the Bat." - Albert Spalding

    Casey At The Bat

    in Famous Narrative Poems

    The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
    The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
    And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
    A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

    A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
    Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
    They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that--
    We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

    But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
    And the former was a lulu, while the latter was a cake;
    So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
    For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

    But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
    And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
    And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
    There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

    Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
    It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
    It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
    For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

    There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
    There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
    And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
    No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

    Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
    Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
    Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
    Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

    And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
    And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
    Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
    "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

    From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
    Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
    "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
    And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

    With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
    He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
    He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
    But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

    "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
    But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
    They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
    And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

    The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
    He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
    And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.
    And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

    Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
    The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
    And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
    But there is no joy in Mudville--great Casey has struck out

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    This poem is about the circle of life and the bittersweet realization of how time and life pass by so quickly.

    Family Circle

    • By Melissa G. Nicks
    • Published: February 2006
    Cycle Of Life Poem

    in Father Poems

    When I am born, you are here
    In your eye, I see a tear
    Time flies and already I'm two
    "Look, Daddy, I can tie my shoe!"

    Before you know it, I'm five
    Every day, you thank God I'm alive
    Pretty soon, I turn eight
    You tell me I'm never allowed to date

    I'm already twelve in my preteen years
    Which means you'll help me with all my new fears
    Now fourteen with my permit to drive
    Waiting to hit the big one-five

    Too early comes sixteen, with my license now
    It went by too fast, you just ask how

    You want to meet my boyfriend when I'm eighteen
    I pray to God that you're not too mean
    The same guy two years later asks for my hand
    I'm relieved when you say, that's just grand

    About a year later, you walk me down the aisle
    Through all the tears, you bare a smile
    Three years later, you're gonna be a grandfather
    You show love and pride for your new granddaughter

    Another year down the road
    Mom dies, oh the many tears that flowed
    You're not doing so well without her
    Less than a year later, you forgot all about her

    Alzheimer's sets in and it scares me so
    Not long after, you decide to go
    Now I'm regretting not saying goodbye
    Every time I think about it, I start to cry

    The cycle has begun again
    It has started over with little Megan
    The other day, she turned two
    And said, "Look, daddy, I can tie my shoe!"

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    Wow! Words cannot describe the quality of this poem. It is touching and another thing is that it co-relates with life's reality. Thanks a lot and thumbs up for the great job!

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    A story based on a real dog who still watches over our yard in his own way.

    The Ballad Of Rum

    Poem About A Loveable Guard Dog

    in Cute Poems

    A dog wandered into our garden one day,
    A friendly old mutt, didn't look like a stray.
    We never discovered whence he had come,
    But we brushed him and fed him and the kids called him Rum.

    Now as family members, even dogs must work hard,
    So we put Rum on duty next door in our yard,
    Bright eyed and watchful by night and by day,
    But not much of a guard dog, I'm sorry to say.

    He barked at the cats and he'd bark at a toad,
    He barked at the cattle outside on the road,
    He barked at the horses - so where did he fail?
    You see, Rum liked people, and he just wagged his tail.

    He liked the yard labour, an amiable bunch.
    They fed our dog tidbits and scraps from their lunch.
    Rum wolfed it all down, but to our dismay
    He seemed to get fatter with each passing day.

    Then one night when Rum was laid at his ease,
    A burglar crept in just as quiet as you please.
    He saw no alarms, heard no siren howling,
    No guard dog for sure, there'd be barking and growling.

    But Rum was awake and he'd seen him alright,
    Delighted with company this time of the night,
    He flew through the yard, his new friend to greet,
    And his weight bowled the burglar right off of his feet.

    The intruder got up and ran off with a wail
    And Rum right behind him still wagging his tail.
    He departed the yard he'd come in to burgle
    Like a champion athlete clearing a hurdle.

    But Rum couldn't jump gates, so sadly instead
    He picked up the thief's wallet and went back to bed.
    Next morning the evidence everyone viewed,
    When Rum brought it to us, (just a little bit chewed).

    Once given the wallet, the police didn't fail
    To capture the burglar and put him in jail.
    His confession like wildfire spread through the town,
    How a big vicious guard dog had knocked the thief down.

    We all howled with laughter when we heard the story,
    And Rum was our hero, he was basking in glory.
    There's been no attempts since to burgle our yard,
    For everyone knows now that Rum is on guard.

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    That is such a good poem. My husband had a large Doberman. Everyone was afraid of this dog, but he would lay on the floor with our children and let them pull on his ears. My Husband said he...

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    Our World War Two veterans are dying at the rate of more than a thousand a week. I wrote this song (yes, it has a melody) as a tribute to them, and the faith that got them through. God bless all who fought for their families, their nation, and their God.

    Take Me Home

    Saying Goodbye To Our Veterans

    in Home Poems

    In the summer of '32
    A little boy, 6 years old,
    Separated from his Mama
    In a five and ten-cent store,
    And he cries as he tries to find her.
    At last, he runs to her arms.
    As she holds him close, he says, "Mama, take me home."

    Take me home, take me home.
    I'm so tired, take me home
    To the place where I am loved, where I'll never be alone.
    Take me home, take me home.
    I'm so tired, take me home,
    I'm leaning on your arms to take me home.

    In the winter of '44,
    In the war-torn town of Bastogne,
    Shivering in a foxhole,
    The young man waits all alone.
    All his buddies have fallen around him,
    Their blood spilled red on the snow.
    As the bullets fly, he prays, "Lord, get me home."

    Take me home, take me home.
    I'm so tired, take me home
    To the child I've never seen. Lord, I want to watch her grow.
    Take me home, take me home.
    I'm so tired, take me home,
    I'm leaning on Your arms to take me home.

    Well, the years go by, and God does not fail.
    The young man and his family grow
    'Til the day he's a grandpa, telling his grandson
    'Bout his wartime days in the snow.
    "Grandpa, weren't you afraid they would get you?
    When you wanted to hide, where'd you go?"
    Grandpa smiles and says,
    "Boy, to the best friend I'll ever know."

    In the Springtime of '05,
    A man full of years, grown old,
    His body is swiftly failing,
    But his family is safely grown,
    And his wife has gone on before him.
    He knows that his time has come,
    He smiles and says, "Lord, when You're ready....take me home."

    Take me home, take me home.
    I'm so tired, take me home
    To the place where I am loved, where my loved ones all will go.
    Take me home, take me home.
    Lord, I'm tired, take me home.
    I'm leaning on Your arms to take me home.
    I'm leaning on Your arms to take me....home.

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    This poem was published in Revolting Rhymes, a collection of six Roald Dahl poems published in 1982. Each poem is a parody of a traditional folk tale. He provides a re-interpretation and surprise ending instead of the traditional happily-ever-after ending. In this poem with gory twists, Roald Dahl combines the characters in the Three Little Pigs story with Little Red Riding Hood.

    The Three Little Pigs

    in Famous Funny Poems

    The animal I really dig,
    Above all others is the pig.
    Pigs are noble. Pigs are clever,
    Pigs are courteous. However,
    Now and then, to break this rule,
    One meets a pig who is a fool.
    What, for example, would you say,
    If strolling through the woods one day,
    Right there in front of you you saw
    A pig who'd built his house of STRAW?
    The Wolf who saw it licked his lips,
    And said, 'That pig has had his chips.'
    'Little pig, little pig, let me come in!'
    'No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!'
    'Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!'

    The little pig began to pray,
    But Wolfie blew his house away.
    He shouted, 'Bacon, pork and ham!
    Oh, what a lucky Wolf I am!'
    And though he ate the pig quite fast,
    He carefully kept the tail till last.
    Wolf wandered on, a trifle bloated.
    Surprise, surprise, for soon he noted
    Another little house for pigs,
    And this one had been built of TWIGS!

    'Little pig, little pig, let me come in!'
    'No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!'
    'Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!'

    The Wolf said, 'Okay, here we go!'
    He then began to blow and blow.
    The little pig began to squeal.
    He cried, 'Oh Wolf, you've had one meal!
    Why can't we talk and make a deal?
    The Wolf replied, 'Not on your nelly!'
    And soon the pig was in his belly.

    'Two juicy little pigs!' Wolf cried,
    'But still I'm not quite satisfied!
    I know how full my tummy's bulging,
    But oh, how I adore indulging.'
    So creeping quietly as a mouse,
    The Wolf approached another house,
    A house which also had inside
    A little piggy trying to hide.
    'You'll not get me!' the Piggy cried.
    'I'll blow you down!' the Wolf replied.
    'You'll need,' Pig said, 'a lot of puff,
    And I don't think you've got enough.'
    Wolf huffed and puffed and blew and blew.
    The house stayed up as good as new.
    'If I can't blow it down,' Wolf said,
    I'll have to blow it up instead.
    I'll come back in the dead of night
    And blow it up with dynamite!'
    Pig cried, 'You brute! I might have known!'
    Then, picking up the telephone,
    He dialed as quickly as he could
    The number of red Riding Hood.

    'Hello,' she said. 'Who's speaking? Who?
    Oh, hello, Piggy, how d'you do?'
    Pig cried, 'I need your help, Miss Hood!
    Oh help me, please! D'you think you could?'
    'I'll try of course,' Miss Hood replied.
    'What's on your mind...?' 'A Wolf!' Pig cried.
    'I know you've dealt with wolves before,
    And now I've got one at my door!'

    'My darling Pig,' she said, 'my sweet,
    That's something really up my street.
    I've just begun to wash my hair.
    But when it's dry, I'll be right there.'

    A short while later, through the wood,
    Came striding brave Miss Riding Hood.
    The Wolf stood there, his eyes ablaze,
    And yellowish, like mayonnaise.
    His teeth were sharp, his gums were raw,
    And spit was dripping from his jaw.
    Once more the maiden's eyelid flickers.
    She draws the pistol from her knickers.
    Once more she hits the vital spot,
    And kills him with a single shot.
    Pig, peeping through the window, stood
    And yelled, 'Well done, Miss Riding Hood!'

    Ah, Piglet, you must never trust
    Young ladies from the upper crust.
    For now, Miss Riding Hood, one notes,
    Not only has two wolfskin coats,
    But when she goes from place to place,
    She has a PIGSKIN TRAVELING CASE.

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    This is an unanticipated and unexpected poem. Though the title sounds childish, it is a complete transformation of the story Three Little Pigs! Roald Dahl has a creative mind which I...

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    One of my most heartfelt and favorite poems despite the sadness involved in it.
    Yaz and Orr were our childhood sport heroes. Yaz was a Boston Red Sox player whose real name is Carl Yastremski and Orr is Bobby Orr who was the greatest hockey player ever. Both are still Boston icons and in the Hall of Fame of their respective sports.

    Yaz And Orr

    Poem About 2 Brothers Once So Close

    in Brother Poems

    My brother was always my best friend,
    We would play sports and we'd just pretend.
    I'd hit a homer, a goal he'd score,
    You see I was Yaz and he was Orr.

    As we grew up in The Project Courts,
    Nothing mattered except for sports.
    We never once thought about a girl,
    As we lived in our fantasy world.

    For in the courtyard in which we'd play,
    The next Bobby Orr would proudly say.
    "Ronnie, someday when I'm all grown up,
    I'll help The B's win The Stanley Cup.

    Score the winning goal in the last game,
    And all of Boston will chant my name.
    But till that day comes I guess once more,
    You can be Yaz and I will be Orr."

    Butchie and I played hockey for fun,
    And we weren't out to hurt anyone.
    But then came drugs, fast money and girls,
    And playing sports wasn't in this world.

    Because as the years went flying by,
    Butchie's goal was to be a Wise Guy.
    With the new meaning of the word "score",
    They'd be no more Yaz and no more Orr.

    I saw Butchie in the project court,
    Where we had played every single sport.
    His eyes were bugged and his vision blurred,
    And when he spoke his speech was slurred.

    His face was pale, his expression blank,
    He told me he was robbing a bank.
    I said, "Butchie, what about poor Ma?
    Her heart can't take another scar".

    But the madness in my brother's eyes,
    Brought out the sadness in my cries.
    For there was hatred not seen before,
    Back when I was Yaz and he was Orr.

    And on the day he was sent to jail,
    I had a vision that seemed so real.
    I pictured him on a breakaway,
    I saw him wink and I heard him say.

    "Ronnie, someday when I'm all grown up,
    I'll help The B's win The Stanley Cup.
    Score the winning goal in the last game,
    And all of Boston will chant my name".

    As fate would have it, it was his name,
    That truly was Butchie's claim to fame.
    But in my heart I just wish once more,
    I could be Yaz and he could be Orr.

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    This poem was published in Revolting Rhymes, a collection of six Roald Dahl poems published in 1982. Each poem is a parody of a traditional folk tale. He provides a re-interpretation and surprise ending instead of the traditional happily-ever-after ending. This poem shows a different side of the Cinderella story that everyone knows. It has some gory twists and turns.

    Cinderella

    in Famous Funny Poems

    I guess you think you know this story.
    You don't. The real one's much more gory.
    The phoney one, the one you know,
    Was cooked up years and years ago,
    And made to sound all soft and sappy
    just to keep the children happy.
    Mind you, they got the first bit right,
    The bit where, in the dead of night,
    The Ugly Sisters, jewels and all,
    Departed for the Palace Ball,
    While darling little Cinderella
    Was locked up in a slimy cellar,
    Where rats who wanted things to eat,
    Began to nibble at her feet.

    She bellowed 'Help!' and 'Let me out!
    The Magic Fairy heard her shout.
    Appearing in a blaze of light,
    She said: 'My dear, are you all right?'
    'All right?' cried Cindy .'Can't you see
    'I feel as rotten as can be!'
    She beat her fist against the wall,
    And shouted, 'Get me to the Ball!
    'There is a Disco at the Palace!
    'The rest have gone and I am jealous!
    'I want a dress! I want a coach!
    'And earrings and a diamond brooch!
    'And silver slippers, two of those!
    'And lovely nylon panty hose!
    'Done up like that I'll guarantee
    'The handsome Prince will fall for me!'
    The Fairy said, 'Hang on a tick.'
    She gave her wand a mighty flick
    And quickly, in no time at all,
    Cindy was at the Palace Ball!

    It made the Ugly Sisters wince
    To see her dancing with the Prince.
    She held him very tight and pressed
    herself against his manly chest.
    The Prince himself was turned to pulp,
    All he could do was gasp and gulp.
    Then midnight struck. She shouted, 'Heck!
    I've got to run to save my neck!'
    The Prince cried, 'No! Alas! Alack!'
    He grabbed her dress to hold her back.
    As Cindy shouted, 'Let me go!'
    The dress was ripped from head to toe.

    She ran out in her underwear,
    And lost one slipper on the stair.
    The Prince was on it like a dart,
    He pressed it to his pounding heart,
    'The girl this slipper fits,' he cried,
    'Tomorrow morn shall be my bride!
    I'll visit every house in town
    'Until I've tracked the maiden down!'
    Then rather carelessly, I fear,
    He placed it on a crate of beer.

    At once, one of the Ugly Sisters,
    (The one whose face was blotched with blisters)
    Sneaked up and grabbed the dainty shoe,
    And quickly flushed it down the loo.
    Then in its place she calmly put
    The slipper from her own left foot.
    Ah ha, you see, the plot grows thicker,
    And Cindy's luck starts looking sicker.

    Next day, the Prince went charging down
    To knock on all the doors in town.
    In every house, the tension grew.
    Who was the owner of the shoe?
    The shoe was long and very wide.
    (A normal foot got lost inside.)
    Also it smelled a wee bit icky.
    (The owner's feet were hot and sticky.)
    Thousands of eager people came
    To try it on, but all in vain.
    Now came the Ugly Sisters' go.
    One tried it on. The Prince screamed, 'No!'
    But she screamed, 'Yes! It fits! Whoopee!
    'So now you've got to marry me!'
    The Prince went white from ear to ear.
    He muttered, 'Let me out of here.'
    'Oh no you don't! You made a vow!
    'There's no way you can back out now!'
    'Off with her head!' The Prince roared back.
    They chopped it off with one big whack.
    This pleased the Prince. He smiled and said,
    'She's prettier without her head.'
    Then up came Sister Number Two,
    Who yelled, 'Now I will try the shoe!'
    'Try this instead!' the Prince yelled back.
    He swung his trusty sword and smack
    Her head went crashing to the ground.
    It bounced a bit and rolled around.
    In the kitchen, peeling spuds,
    Cinderella heard the thuds
    Of bouncing heads upon the floor,
    And poked her own head round the door.
    'What's all the racket? 'Cindy cried.
    'Mind your own bizz,' the Prince replied.
    Poor Cindy's heart was torn to shreds.
    My Prince! she thought. He chops off heads!
    How could I marry anyone
    Who does that sort of thing for fun?

    The Prince cried, 'Who's this dirty slut?
    'Off with her nut! Off with her nut!'
    Just then, all in a blaze of light,
    The Magic Fairy hove in sight,
    Her Magic Wand went swoosh and swish!
    'Cindy! 'she cried, 'come make a wish!
    'Wish anything and have no doubt
    'That I will make it come about!'
    Cindy answered, 'Oh kind Fairy,
    'This time I shall be more wary.
    'No more Princes, no more money.
    'I have had my taste of honey.
    I'm wishing for a decent man.
    'They're hard to find. D'you think you can?'
    Within a minute, Cinderella
    Was married to a lovely feller,
    A simple jam maker by trade,
    Who sold good home-made marmalade.
    Their house was filled with smiles and laughter
    And they were happy ever after.

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    Yes, Roald Dahl has a whole book of revolting rhymes like this one. You should read it. Hilarious.

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    In this poem, Roald Dahl shares about a pig that contemplates his purpose in life. When he realizes he is going to end up on someone’s dinner plate, he takes matters into his own hands. Roald Dahl’s poems and stories are known for dark humor and unexpected endings.

    The Pig

    in Famous Funny Poems

    In England once there lived a big
    And wonderfully clever pig.
    To everybody it was plain
    That Piggy had a massive brain.
    He worked out sums inside his head,
    There was no book he hadn't read.
    He knew what made an airplane fly,
    He knew how engines worked and why.
    He knew all this, but in the end
    One question drove him round the bend:
    He simply couldn't puzzle out
    What LIFE was really all about.
    What was the reason for his birth?
    Why was he placed upon this earth?
    His giant brain went round and round.
    Alas, no answer could be found.
    Till suddenly one wondrous night.
    All in a flash he saw the light.
    He jumped up like a ballet dancer
    And yelled, 'By gum, I've got the answer! '
    'They want my bacon slice by slice
    'To sell at a tremendous price!
    'They want my tender juicy chops
    'To put in all the butcher's shops!
    'They want my pork to make a roast
    'And that's the part'll cost the most!
    'They want my sausages in strings!
    'They even want my chitterlings!
    'The butcher's shop! The carving knife!
    'That is the reason for my life! '
    Such thoughts as these are not designed
    To give a pig great peace of mind.
    Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
    A pail of pigswill in his hand,
    And piggy with a mighty roar,
    Bashes the farmer to the floor…
    Now comes the rather grisly bit
    So let's not make too much of it,
    Except that you must understand
    That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
    He ate him up from head to toe,
    Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
    It took an hour to reach the feet,
    Because there was so much to eat,
    And when he finished, Pig, of course,
    Felt absolutely no remorse.
    Slowly he scratched his brainy head
    And with a little smile he said,
    'I had a fairly powerful hunch
    'That he might have me for his lunch.
    'And so, because I feared the worst,
    'I thought I'd better eat him first.'

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    I like this poem because it is contrary to what is normal, as the pig tries to eat the farmer instead of the other way around and it shows the power of humans over all other living things....

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    Clement Clarke Moore wrote this poem in 1822 for his own children. It is also referenced with the title, "A Visit from St. Nicholas". The poem is the origin for many of the modern notions of Santa Claus, his plump and cheerful white-bearded look, the names of his reindeer, and even the tradition that he brings toys to children.

    'Twas The Night Before Christmas

    in Famous Holiday Poems

    'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
    Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
    The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
    In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
    The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
    While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
    And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
    Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
    When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
    I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
    Away to the window I flew like a flash,
    Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
    The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
    Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
    When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
    But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
    With a little old driver so lively and quick,
    I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
    More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
    And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
    "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
    On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blixen!
    To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
    Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
    As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
    When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
    So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
    With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too--
    And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
    The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
    As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
    Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
    He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
    And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
    A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
    And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
    His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
    His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
    His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
    And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
    The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
    And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
    He had a broad face and a little round belly
    That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
    He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
    And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
    A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
    Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
    He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
    And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
    And laying his finger aside of his nose,
    And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
    He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
    And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
    But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight--
    "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

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    I remember hearing this poem as a little youngster. I would also read this to my daughter and nephews each year right before Christmas! It is a wonderful poem to share with your family!...

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    Hello everyone. I was raised in Wisconsin among many cold winters and driven to writing by two great, wonderful parents whose imagination left all of their children wide-eyed with excitement during the holidays. I was told by my father that the pines talk when the wind blows....and if you listen...you can hear them. I hope this story will leave your family with an adventure into the woods to hear the pines talking.

    The Littlest Christmas Tree

    A Christmas Story For Children

    in Christmas Poems

    The littlest Christmas tree
    lived in a meadow of green
    among a family
    of tall evergreens.
    He learned how to whisper
    the evergreen song
    with the slightest of wind
    that came gently along.

    He watched as the birds
    made a home out of twigs
    and couldn't wait till
    he, too, was big.
    For all of the trees
    offered a home,
    the maple, the pine, and the oak,
    who's so strong.

    "I hate being little,"
    the little tree said,
    "I can't even turn colors
    like the maple turns red.
    I can't help the animals
    like the mighty old oak.
    He shelters them all
    in his wide mighty cloak."

    The older tree said,
    "Why, little tree, you don't know?
    The story of a mighty king
    from the land with no snow?"
    Little tree questioned,
    "A land with no snow?"
    "Yes!" said old tree,
    "A very old story,
    from so long ago."

    "A star appeared,
    giving great light
    over a manger
    on long winter's night.
    A baby was born,
    a king of all kings,
    and with him comes love
    over all things."

    "He lived in a country
    all covered in sand,
    and laid down his life
    to save all of man."

    Little tree thought of the gift
    given by him,
    then the big tree said with the
    happiest grin,
    "We're not just trees,
    but a reminder of that day.
    There's a much bigger part
    of a role that we play!"

    "For on Christmas Eve,
    my life I'll lay down,
    in exchange for a happier,
    loving ground.
    And as I stand dying,
    they'll adorn me in trim.
    This all will be done
    in memory of him."

    "Among a warm fire,
    with family and friends,
    in the sweet songs of Christmas,
    I'll find my great end.
    Then ever so gently,
    He'll come down to see
    and take me to heaven,
    Jesus and me."

    "So you see, little tree,
    we are not like the oak
    who shelters all things
    beneath his great cloak.
    Nor are we like the maple
    in fall,
    whose colors leave many
    standing in awe."

    "The gift that we give
    is ourselves, limb for limb,
    the greatest of honor,
    in memory of him."

    The little tree bowed
    his head down and cried
    and thought of the king
    who willingly died.
    For what kind of gift
    can anyone give
    than to lay down your life
    when you wanted to live?

    A swelling of pride
    came over the tree.
    Can all of this happen
    Because of just me?
    Can I really bring honor?
    By adorning a home?
    By reminding mankind
    that he's never alone?

    With this thought, little tree
    began singing with glee.
    Happy and proud
    to be a true Christmas tree.

    You can still hear them singing
    even the smallest in height,
    singing of Christmas
    and that one holy night.

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    This poem touched my heart and the story of your beautiful parents behind it... I have only come across it searching online. I will most certainly be reading up on all your other inspiring...

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    This poem was published in Revolting Rhymes, a collection of six Roald Dahl poems published in 1982. Each poem is a parody of a traditional folk tale. He provides a re-interpretation and surprise ending instead of the traditional happily-ever-after ending. Read to find out the gory twist in this Little Red Riding Hood story.

    Little Red Riding Hood And The Wolf

    in Famous Funny Poems

    As soon as Wolf began to feel
    That he would like a decent meal,
    He went and knocked on Grandma's door.
    When Grandma opened it, she saw
    The sharp white teeth, the horrid grin,
    And Wolfie said, 'May I come in?'
    Poor Grandmamma was terrified,
    'He's going to eat me up!' she cried.
    And she was absolutely right.
    He ate her up in one big bite.
    But Grandmamma was small and tough,
    And Wolfie wailed, 'That's not enough!
    I haven't yet begun to feel
    That I have had a decent meal!'
    He ran around the kitchen yelping,
    'I've got to have a second helping!'

    Then added with a frightful leer,
    'I'm therefore going to wait right here
    Till Little Miss Red Riding Hood
    Comes home from walking in the wood.'

    He quickly put on Grandma's clothes,
    (Of course he hadn't eaten those).
    He dressed himself in coat and hat.
    He put on shoes, and after that,
    He even brushed and curled his hair,
    Then sat himself in Grandma's chair.

    In came the little girl in red.
    She stopped. She stared. And then she said,
    'What great big ears you have, Grandma.'
    'All the better to hear you with,'
    the Wolf replied.
    'What great big eyes you have, Grandma.'
    said Little Red Riding Hood.
    'All the better to see you with,'
    the Wolf replied.
    He sat there watching her and smiled.
    He thought, I'm going to eat this child.
    Compared with her old Grandmamma,
    She's going to taste like caviar.

    Then Little Red Riding Hood said, '
    But Grandma, what a lovely great big
    furry coat you have on.'

    'That's wrong!' cried Wolf.
    'Have you forgot
    To tell me what BIG TEETH I've got?
    Ah well, no matter what you say,
    I'm going to eat you anyway.'

    The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers.
    She whips a pistol from her knickers.
    She aims it at the creature's head,
    And bang bang bang, she shoots him dead.

    A few weeks later, in the wood,
    I came across Miss Riding Hood.
    But what a change! No cloak of red,
    No silly hood upon her head.
    She said, 'Hello, and do please note
    My lovely furry wolfskin coat.'

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    Hi, my name is Mary, and I really like to read the Roald Dahl poems because they are really funny.

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    "Which guns?" they asked. Captain Nolan replied with a sweeping wave of his hand. Moments later the Light Brigade began to move. Six hundred men strong, they rode down the narrow valley in what has become a lesson taught to this very day in military academies worldwide about the importance of clear communication. The objective had been to hinder the retreat of the naval guns to the south of the battlefield. Instead, the Brigade was directed to a Russian position, which was a clear death trap. But though the orders were clearly suicidal, the men obeyed regardless and paid a heavy price. Almost half the Brigade was wiped out, and though little was accomplished strategically, the charge went down as one of the most glorious battles in British military history. News arrived in England, and while reading an account of the battle in the Times, Tennyson jotted down what has become perhaps his most famous poem.

    The Charge Of The Light Brigade

    in Famous Narrative Poems

    Half a league, half a league,
    Half a league onward,
    All in the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.
    "Forward the Light Brigade!
    Charge for the guns!" he said.
    Into the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.

    Forward, the Light Brigade!"
    Was there a man dismay'd?
    Not tho' the soldier knew
    Some one had blunder'd.
    Theirs not to make reply,
    Theirs not to reason why,
    Theirs but to do and die.
    Into the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon in front of them
    Volley'd and thunder'd;
    Storm'd at with shot and shell,
    Boldly they rode and well,
    Into the jaws of Death,
    Into the mouth of hell
    Rode the six hundred.

    Flash'd all their sabres bare,
    Flash'd as they turn'd in air
    Sabring the gunners there,
    Charging an army, while
    All the world wonder'd.
    Plunged in the battery-smoke
    Right thro' the line they broke;
    Cossack and Russian
    Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
    Shatter'd and sunder'd.
    Then they rode back, but not,
    Not the six hundred.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon behind them
    Volley'd and thunder'd;
    Storm'd at with shot and shell,
    While horse and hero fell,
    They that had fought so well
    Came thro' the jaws of Death,
    Back from the mouth of hell,
    All that was left of them,
    Left of six hundred.

    When can their glory fade?
    O the wild charge they made!
    All the world wonder'd.
    Honor the charge they made!
    Honor the Light Brigade,
    Noble six hundred!

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    Love the outdoors and family. Believe that there is more than just life to look forward to. I've been writing poems for my family for years, and have been encouraged to share them with other families.
    God and I are OK; He gave me a loving family and friends and a strong belief in his guidance of all aspects of this life and those to come.
    I write to provide smiles and hope that some of my poetry touches someone's life, for the greatest joy is to make someone smile, even if just briefly.

    Keepsake

    • By Mac Mckenzie
    • Published: September 2014
    Poem About Hunting With Dad

    in Aging Poems

    One day my dad was hunting, from his favorite hunting stand;
    'Twas a giant Oak with perfect limbs, under which two deer trails ran.
    Now this favorite spot of Daddy's was as unique as it could be,
    'cause a lightning bolt had burned a giant hole down through that tree.

    As he double checked his deer tags, as he did quite frequently,
    he accidently dropped his wallet down the hole in that old tree.
    Well, his family hunted from that tree ever since they'd been around,
    And there was no way on God's green earth he'd ever cut it down.

    That Oak tree was my "learning stool" as dad was teaching me,
    and most of what I learned 'bout deer was right there in that tree.
    And I finally took my own first buck, right there from that old stand;
    with Daddy sitting next to me to calm my nervous hands.

    "I've taught you everything I know," Dad proudly said to me;
    "Someday we'll bring my grandson here, and teach him in this tree".
    Well, I laughed and poked him on the arm; hell, I was just a kid,
    But Daddy made me feel real good, somehow he always did.

    Well, we shared some twenty seasons, and we watched some good bucks grow,
    But unlike that mighty old Oak tree, on my dad those seasons showed.
    Soon he'd grown too old to really hunt, still he'd sit with me in that stand,
    and it was my turn to hold and steady the shaking in Daddy's hands.

    Then he died at the end of that season, ten years too soon to see
    The grandson that he'd dreamed about get to hunt from that old tree.
    And now it's opening morning, on my son's first whitetail hunt;
    I'm sitting beside him in "Grandpa's Tree" 'cause we both knew that's what he would want.

    Now I'd seen this scene from both sides of that limb, and it happened exactly the same;
    we heard one coming, I steadied his hands, and here that old buck came.
    He handled it just perfect; his Grandpa would've been proud,
    I shook his hand and wiped a tear and looked up at the clouds.

    Then we hung his deer right from our stand, and I took a Polaroid shot;
    And I wanted so badly for Daddy to see the buck that his grandson got.
    Then as I watched that picture develop in my hands,
    I felt a breeze and heard a gentle rustling near that stand.

    Then a little stronger gust of wind whipped the picture from my hand
    and carried it briskly into that tree, above the old deer stand.

    Well, my son said he'd go get it, but I told him "never mind."
    We'd take a few more later, but let's leave that one behind.
    'Cause he could've looked forever, but I knew where it would be,
    Tucked safely in Dad's wallet, down the hole in that old tree.

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    My aging husband, who just turned 70 in October, still takes his grandsons out bowing and hunting ever year. He helps build the tree stands and everything, teaching them the way of the...

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    In this poem, A.A. Milne (1882-1956), the creator of Winnie the Pooh, shows that having a friend by your side provides strength and courage. It also removes the fear we experience when we are alone. This is a narrative poem that tells a story.

    Us Two

    in Famous Friendship Poems

    Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
    There's always Pooh and Me.
    Whatever I do, he wants to do,
    "Where are you going today?" says Pooh:
    "Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too.
    Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.
    "Let's go together," says Pooh.

    "What's twice eleven?" I said to Pooh.
    ("Twice what?" said Pooh to Me.)
    "I think it ought to be twenty-two."
    "Just what I think myself," said Pooh.
    "It wasn't an easy sum to do,
    But that's what it is," said Pooh, said he.
    "That's what it is," said Pooh.

    "Let's look for dragons," I said to Pooh.
    "Yes, let's," said Pooh to Me.
    We crossed the river and found a few-
    "Yes, those are dragons all right," said Pooh.
    "As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.
    That's what they are," said Pooh, said he.
    "That's what they are," said Pooh.

    "Let's frighten the dragons," I said to Pooh.
    "That's right," said Pooh to Me.
    "I'm not afraid," I said to Pooh,
    And I held his paw and I shouted "Shoo!
    Silly old dragons!"- and off they flew.

    "I wasn't afraid," said Pooh, said he,
    "I'm never afraid with you."

    So wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
    There's always Pooh and Me.
    "What would I do?" I said to Pooh,
    "If it wasn't for you," and Pooh said: "True,
    It isn't much fun for One, but Two,
    Can stick together, says Pooh, says he. "That's how it is," says Pooh.

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    Well my name is Rahma and my best friend is called Innocent. We have been friends for 10 years now since I was in primary school. He was good at math, and I was great in English. Our...

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    In this poem, Williams Wordsworth (1770-1850) addresses big questions about life and death. The speaker in the poem is talking with a little girl about her family. Two of the children in her family have died, but she continues to tell the man that she has seven members in her family. The man, however, tries to convince her that her family consists of only five now. She will not change her mind - for her brother and sister will always be a part of her family. This poem is written in the form of a ballad, which is generally narrative and follows the ABAB rhyme scheme.

    We Are Seven

    in Famous Death Poems

    ———A simple Child,
    That lightly draws its breath,
    And feels its life in every limb,
    What should it know of death?

    I met a little cottage Girl:
    She was eight years old, she said;
    Her hair was thick with many a curl
    That clustered round her head.

    She had a rustic, woodland air,
    And she was wildly clad:
    Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
    —Her beauty made me glad.

    “Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
    How many may you be?”
    “How many? Seven in all,” she said,
    And wondering looked at me.

    “And where are they? I pray you tell.”
    She answered, “Seven are we;
    And two of us at Conway dwell,
    And two are gone to sea.

    “Two of us in the church-yard lie,
    My sister and my brother;
    And, in the church-yard cottage, I
    Dwell near them with my mother.”

    “You say that two at Conway dwell,
    And two are gone to sea,
    Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
    Sweet Maid, how this may be.”

    Then did the little Maid reply,
    “Seven boys and girls are we;
    Two of us in the church-yard lie,
    Beneath the church-yard tree.”

    “You run about, my little Maid,
    Your limbs they are alive;
    If two are in the church-yard laid,
    Then ye are only five.”

    “Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
    The little Maid replied,
    “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
    And they are side by side.

    “My stockings there I often knit,
    My kerchief there I hem;
    And there upon the ground I sit,
    And sing a song to them.

    “And often after sun-set, Sir,
    When it is light and fair,
    I take my little porringer,
    And eat my supper there.

    “The first that died was sister Jane;
    In bed she moaning lay,
    Till God released her of her pain;
    And then she went away.

    “So in the church-yard she was laid;
    And, when the grass was dry,
    Together round her grave we played,
    My brother John and I.

    “And when the ground was white with snow,
    And I could run and slide,
    My brother John was forced to go,
    And he lies by her side.”

    “How many are you, then,” said I,
    “If they two are in heaven?”
    Quick was the little Maid’s reply,
    “O Master! we are seven.”

    “But they are dead; those two are dead!
    Their spirits are in heaven!”
    ’Twas throwing words away; for still
    The little Maid would have her will,
    And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

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    I read this poem many, many years ago in a children's poem book. When my youngest brother passed...I was broken. At his funeral, someone said, "There are only 5 of you now." I thought of this...

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    Out, Out by Robert Frost is a narrative poem published in a collection of poems titled Mountain Interval in 1916 when millions of young men were losing their lives on the battlefields of World War I. On an American farm a hungry young boy is cutting wood with a buzz saw. Frost uses personification with the saw and an artist's imagery to narrate as the boy loses his hand and then his life in terrible yet mundane detail.

    Out Out

    in Famous Sad Poems

    The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
    And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
    Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
    And from there those that lifted eyes could count
    Five mountain ranges one behind the other
    Under the sunset far into Vermont.
    And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
    As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
    And nothing happened: day was all but done.
    Call it a day, I wish they might have said
    To please the boy by giving him the half hour
    That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
    His sister stood beside them in her apron
    To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
    As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
    Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
    He must have given the hand. However it was,
    Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
    The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
    As he swung toward them holding up the hand
    Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
    The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
    Since he was old enough to know, big boy
    Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
    He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
    The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
    So. But the hand was gone already.
    The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
    He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
    And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
    No one believed. They listened at his heart.
    Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
    No more to build on there. And they, since they
    Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

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    Wow! I like it! It is wonderful. I like nature and science. It's very interesting.

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