Examples Of Narrative Poems - Page 2

  1. 21. Little Red Riding Hood And The Wolf

    Famous Poem

    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.

    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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  2. 22. The Littlest Christmas Tree

    • By Amy Peterson
    • Published by Family Friend Poems April 2009 with permission of the Author.

    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.

    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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  4. 23. The Spider And The Fly

    Famous Poem

    "The Spider and the Fly" is a poem by Mary Howitt (1799-1888), published in 1828. The story tells of a cunning Spider who ensnares a Fly through the use of seduction and flattery. The poem teaches children to be wary against those who use flattery and charm to disguise their true evil intentions. The gruesome ending in this cautionary tale is used to reinforce the important life lesson being taught.

    in Famous Children Poems

    "Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly;
    "'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you may spy.
    The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
    And I have many curious things to show when you are there."
    "Oh no, no," said the little fly; "to ask me is in vain,
    For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

    "I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high.
    Well you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly.
    "There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
    And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
    "Oh no, no," said the little fly, "for I've often heard it said,
    They never, never wake again who sleep upon your bed!"

    Said the cunning spider to the fly: "Dear friend, what can I do
    To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?
    I have within my pantry good store of all that's nice;
    I'm sure you're very welcome - will you please to take a slice?"
    "Oh no, no," said the little fly; "kind sir, that cannot be:
    I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

    "Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise;
    How handsome are your gauzy wings; how brilliant are your eyes!
    I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf;
    If you'd step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
    "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say,
    And, bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

    The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
    For well he knew the silly fly would soon come back again:
    So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly,
    And set his table ready to dine upon the fly;
    Then came out to his door again and merrily did sing:
    "Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with pearl and silver wing;
    Your robes are green and purple; there's a crest upon your head;
    Your eyes are like diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

    Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,
    Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
    With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer grew,
    Thinking only of her brilliant eyes and green and purple hue,
    Thinking only of her crested head. Poor, foolish thing! at last
    Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast;
    He dragged her up his winding stair, into the dismal den -
    Within his little parlor - but she ne'er came out again!

    And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
    To idle, silly flattering words I pray you ne'er give heed;
    Unto an evil counselor close heart and ear and eye,
    And take a lesson from this tale of the spider and the fly.

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  5. 24. The Widow-Maker

    Famous Poem

    Published in "Tote-road and Trail" Ballads of the Lumberjack in·1917, "The Widow-Maker" by Douglas Malloch uses vivid imagery in this narrative poem to captivate the reader. We witness the loose limb of a pine tree, tumbling and zigzagging, while the red stain upon the snow reveals a tragic fate. The poem engages us with its use of repetition, as the words echo in our minds, reflecting the characters' conversations and their gradual forgetting. As time passes, the poem shifts its focus to the widow, capturing her palpable emotions through the beat of her heart and the jolt of each step upon the stair. The poem masterfully blends rhyme and rhythm, taking us on an emotional journey where themes of love, regret, and forgiveness come alive.

    in Famous Narrative Poems

    A loose limb hangs upon a pine three log-lengths from the ground,
    A norway tumbles with a whine and shakes the woods around.
    The loose limb plunges from its place and zigzags down below;
    And Jack is lying on his face—there's red upon the snow.

    They'll dress him in a cotton shirt, they'll cross his horny hands;
    They'll dig a hollow in the dirt within the forest lands;
    They'll put him in a wooden box; they'll wonder whence he came,
    And build a monument of rocks without a date or name.

    "He got a letter, that I know." "I wonder where it is."
    "I heard him speak not long ago about a wife of his."
    "Employment agent shipped him up he didn't have a cent."
    "He was a most peculiar pup." "He was a gloomy gent."

    And so they'll talk around the fire a little longer yet;
    But even idle tongues will tire, and even men forget.
    A season passes, and a year. "Why, yes, now thinkin' back,
    A widow-maker hit him here. We used to call him Jack."

    And far away, 'mid city streets Jack staggers down no more,
    A heart, a woman's, madly beats, each knock upon the door.
    She's back with mother in the flat. She thought she wouldn't care.
    Why does she always jump like that, each step upon the stair?

    "For anger burns so quick a flame the year that you are wed.
    I said some things just as they came I never should have said.
    It takes a little time, I guess, the married life to live—
    To want your way a little less, to suffer and forgive."

    They'll dress him in a cotton shirt, they'll cross his horny hands;
    They'll dig a hollow in the dirt within the forest lands;
    They'll put him in a wooden box; they'll wonder whence he came,
    And build a monument of rocks without a date or name.

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  7. 25. Take Me Home

    • By Rick W. Cotton
    • Published by Family Friend Poems March 16, 2022 with permission of the Author.

    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.

    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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  8. 26. The Ballad Of The Harp Weaver

    Famous Poem

    Edna St. Vincent Millay was an American poet who lived from 1892-1950. This poem is about maternal love and self-sacrifice. Edna St. Vincent Millay's own mother was very sacrificial. She divorced her husband and worked as a nurse to support her children. Even though they were poor, Edna's mother was an incredible support and encouragement. She made sure her children had access to a variety of reading materials and music. This poem won Edna St. Vincent Millay the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1923. At the time, she was only the third woman to receive this honor.

    in Famous Narrative Poems

    "Son," said my mother,
    When I was knee-high,
    "you've need of clothes to cover you,
    and not a rag have I.

    "There's nothing in the house
    To make a boy breeches,
    Nor shears to cut a cloth with,
    Nor thread to take stitches.

    "There's nothing in the house
    But a loaf-end of rye,
    And a harp with a woman's head
    Nobody will buy,"
    And she began to cry.

    That was in the early fall.
    When came the late fall,
    "Son," she said, "the sight of you
    Makes your mother's blood crawl,--

    "Little skinny shoulder-blades
    Sticking through your clothes!
    And where you'll get a jacket from
    God above knows.

    "It's lucky for me, lad,
    Your daddy's in the ground,
    And can't see the way I let
    His son go around!"
    And she made a queer sound.

    That was in the late fall.
    When the winter came,
    I'd not a pair of breeches
    Nor a shirt to my name.

    I couldn't go to school,
    Or out of doors to play.
    And all the other little boys
    Passed our way.

    "Son," said my mother,
    "Come, climb into my lap,
    And I'll chafe your little bones
    While you take a nap."

    And, oh, but we were silly
    For half and hour or more,
    Me with my long legs,
    Dragging on the floor,

    To a mother-goose rhyme!
    Oh, but we were happy
    For half an hour's time!

    But there was I, a great boy,
    And what would folks say
    To hear my mother singing me
    To sleep all day,
    In such a daft way?

    Men say the winter
    Was bad that year;
    Fuel was scarce,
    And food was dear.

    A wind with a wolf's head
    Howled about our door,
    And we burned up the chairs
    And sat upon the floor.

    All that was left us
    Was a chair we couldn't break,
    And the harp with a woman's head
    Nobody would take,
    For song or pity's sake.

    The night before Christmas
    I cried with cold,
    I cried myself to sleep
    Like a two-year old.

    And in the deep night
    I felt my mother rise,
    And stare down upon me
    With love in her eyes.

    I saw my mother sitting
    On the one good chair,
    A light falling on her
    From I couldn't tell where.

    Looking nineteen,
    And not a day older,
    And the harp with a woman's head
    Leaned against her shoulder.

    Her thin fingers, moving
    In the thin, tall strings,
    Were weav-weav-weaving
    Wonderful things.

    Many bright threads,
    From where I couldn't see,
    Were running through the harp-strings

    And gold threads whistling
    Through my mother's hand.
    I saw the web grow,
    And the pattern expand.

    She wove a child's jacket,
    And when it was done
    She laid it on the floor
    And wove another one.

    She wove a red cloak
    So regal to see,
    "She's made it for a king's son,"
    I said, "and not for me."
    But I knew it was for me.

    She wove a pair of breeches
    Quicker than that!
    She wove a pair of boots
    And a little cocked hat.

    She wove a pair of mittens,
    She wove a little blouse,
    She wove all night
    In the still, cold house.

    She sang as she worked,
    And the harp-strings spoke;
    Her voice never faltered,
    And the thread never broke,
    And when I awoke,--

    There sat my mother
    With the harp against her shoulder,
    Looking nineteen,
    And not a day older,

    A smile about her lips,
    And a light about her head,
    And her hands in the harp-strings
    Frozen dead.

    And piled beside her
    And toppling to the skies,
    Were the clothes of a king's son,
    Just my size.

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  9. 27. Keepsake

    • By Mac Mckenzie
    • Published by Family Friend Poems September 2014 with permission of the Author.

    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.

    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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  10. 28. Us Two

    Famous Poem

    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.

    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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  11. 29. We Are Seven

    Famous Poem

    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.

    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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  12. 30. The Listeners

    • By Walter De La Mare

    Famous Poem

    Walter de la Mare (1873-1956), an English poet and short story writer, enjoyed writing ghost stories. “The Listeners” has a mysterious and eerie feel to it. It was published in 1912 in the poet’s second collection of poetry. A traveler knocks on the door of a house, but no one comes to the door. However, he can sense phantoms inside who listen to him. There is a sense of loneliness depicted in this poem.

    in Famous Narrative Poems

    ‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,   
       Knocking on the moonlit door;
    And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
       Of the forest’s ferny floor:
    And a bird flew up out of the turret,
       Above the Traveller’s head:
    And he smote upon the door again a second time;
       ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
    But no one descended to the Traveller;
       No head from the leaf-fringed sill
    Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
       Where he stood perplexed and still.
    But only a host of phantom listeners
       That dwelt in the lone house then
    Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight   
       To that voice from the world of men:
    Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
       That goes down to the empty hall,
    Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
       By the lonely Traveller’s call.
    And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
       Their stillness answering his cry,
    While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
       ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
    For he suddenly smote on the door, even
       Louder, and lifted his head:—
    ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,   
       That I kept my word,’ he said.
    Never the least stir made the listeners,
       Though every word he spake
    Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
       From the one man left awake:
    Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
       And the sound of iron on stone,
    And how the silence surged softly backward,
       When the plunging hoofs were gone.

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  13. 31. Yaz And Orr

    • By Ronald Doe
    • Published by Family Friend Poems January 2009 with permission of the Author.

    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.

    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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  14. 32. The Man He Killed

    Famous Poem

    How terrible is war? You might meet someone and kill them in war, but if you had met that same person in peace, you might have been friends and even bought him a drink or given him some money.

    in Famous Narrative Poems

    Had he and I but met
        By some old ancient inn,
    We should have set us down to wet
        Right many a nipperkin!

    But ranged as infantry,
        And staring face to face,
    I shot at him as he at me,
        And killed him in his place.

    I shot him dead because--
        Because he was my foe,
    Just so: my foe of course he was;
        That's clear enough; although

    He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
        Off-hand like--just as I--
    Was out of work--had sold his traps--
        No other reason why.

    Yes; quaint and curious war is!
        You shoot a fellow down
    You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
        Or help to half a crown.

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  15. 33. Long To See Your Sweet Face

    • By Kim Perry
    • Published by Family Friend Poems January 2012 with permission of the Author.

    This poem was written for our child we lost at 10 1/2 weeks due to a miscarriage. Grieving a child you never got the chance to meet is absolutely the hardest thing I have ever had to go through. With this loss there are no memories to hold on to help with the grief. This poem is an outlet for me to start that grieving process.

    in Miscarriage Poems

    Two pink lines, we knew it was true,
    Sooner than later we would meet you.
    I yelled for your Daddy and smiled just so.
    He stood there in shock and a glorious glow.
    We made lots of phone calls and shared our great news.
    I had lots of symptoms and even some clues.
    Then one day as I was taking out the trash,
    Something came over me and I knew in a flash
    Everything was wrong and I prayed it wasn't so,
    So I called up your Daddy and said we must go
    To the hospital to check on your stats.
    Waiting so patiently for the results to come back,
    We were told the bleeding was normal, you were just fine.
    Worrying uncontrollably because you were mine,
    Waiting for the doctor seemed to take forever.
    I guess she just thought she was being so clever.
    Up on the screen we could see your silhouette.
    The doctor made a grave face, and I said no, not yet.
    "There is no heartbeat," are the words we dreaded most.
    The tears started to fall and I felt like a ghost.
    I wanted to run, and I wanted to hide.
    I wanted you there standing at my side.
    I long now to hold you and hear your soft cries,
    Play with your belly and hear your faint sighs.
    Never will I have the chance to kiss your sweet lips,
    Wrap your sweet legs around my soft hips.
    I know you are in Heaven and safe you will always be,
    But oh, I long to touch the baby I will never see.

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  16. 34. The Lost Soul

    I wrote this about a homeless man I used to see on my way to work every day. I later found out more about who he was from people in the neighborhood who knew him before he fell on hard times. It was a very sad tale and made me realize we should be careful how we judge others.

    in Compassion Poems

    Seven AM and I sat at the light,
    Watching the train chugging by.
    A day like the rest, on the way to my job,
    Just routine with no feeling inside.

    The morning was frigid and snowy,
    Just thinking how cold he must be.
    But there I could see him wrapped up on the stoop,
    In that blanket he found on the street.

    That cold, concrete stoop, at that old, empty store,
    The place that for years he called home.
    He sat there each day, never meeting your eyes,
    Just contented to be left alone.

    The weeds by the tracks were his bathroom,
    His food was a bottle of wine.
    His clothes were all dirty and tattered.
    He was drunk or passed out all the time.

    To see him you'd think he was no one.
    He was barely a man anymore.
    A failure to the ones who once loved him,
    And a burden to the rest of the world.

    But those who once knew him in the days long gone by
    Would tell you how wrong you would be.
    For in fact, it's quite true that this lost, broken soul
    Was once just like you and like me.

    He woke up every morning in a home of his own
    That he shared with his son and his wife.
    He worked every day as a painter by trade
    And thanked God every night for his life.

    People who watched him admired his ways.
    He was caring and decent and good.
    He worked harder than most to provide for his son,
    And for neighbors he did what he could.

    Life was a struggle, and times could be bad,
    But he always found strength to go on.
    He wanted the best for the people he loved,
    Never dreaming that soon they'd be gone.

    It happened in winter on a dark, snowy day,
    In a storm that had moved in quite fast
    That his wife ventured forth to pick up their son,
    And neither survived when they crashed.

    From the day they were buried his friends rallied round,
    But he was lost despite how much they tried.
    And even today when they speak of him still,
    They say it's as if they all died.

    And when I last sat at that light, by that stoop,
    I saw he was no longer there.
    The store still sat empty and was now boarded up,
    And I wondered if anyone cared.

    But later I learned on that stoop where he lived,
    That place that he once made his home
    He too passed away on one cold winter's day,
    Long forgotten and left quite alone.

    So should you pass by a lost soul such as this,
    Be careful how harshly you judge him.
    For you can't ever know how loved he once was,
    Or how valued his life may have been.

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  17. 35. Mama's Christmas Miracle

    My mother means the world to me. She is fighting for her life because she has cancer. I wanted to honor her with this poem. She came from poverty beyond what most could imagine. When she was a little girl she wrote a letter to Santa. She didn't use postage. She just placed it in the mailbox. The mail man read the letter and got together with a local church to make mom's dream come true. Her dad was a very proud man that would not except charity, however, this one time he graciously accepted.

    in Christmas Poems

    Mama told me a story a long, long time ago, not like any that I'd ever heard,
    all about a little girl mama used to know, how I remember every word.
    Seems like a lifetime ago, though I remember it so well.
    It was a Christmas Eve I'll never forget as far as I can tell.
    We were sitting at the kitchen table, it was only my mother and me.
    I was dreaming of Christmas morning and all the presents under the tree.
    Dad wasn't doing that well and money was scarce that year.
    Mama found a way of telling me without me shedding one tear.
    She told me a story of a little girl and a Christmas long ago,
    who came from far away, a place where it rarely snowed.
    Santa was just a dream to her, but she believed so much inside,
    that Christmas was going to be special, so she knelt by her bed and she cried.
    "Lord, let Santa remember me if not just this one time.
    I promise I won't ask for much, maybe a dolly I can call all mine."
    She closed her prayer and thanked the Lord for all that she received.
    She knew that Santa would really come if only she believed.
    She wrote a letter to Santa, unfamiliar to most girls and boys.
    Though her list was long and full, on it there were no toys.
    Only things we take for granted, like new shoes or underpants,
    hair bows for her sisters and gloves to warm her brothers' hands.
    At the bottom of her list she asked, if it not be too much,
    for a brand new baby doll she could hold and love and touch.
    Then Christmas morning came and she looked beneath her tree,
    Not a present to be found as far as she could see.
    She didn't give up hope as she heard a knocking sound.
    When she opened up her door, a great big box she found.
    She called out to her mother and dad, brothers and sisters too,
    She said, "My prayers were answered, there's something in here for all of you."
    Her daddy got brand new boots, her mother new underpants, her sisters got beautiful hair bows, her brothers warm gloves for their hands.
    Buried deep beneath the box was a brand new baby doll and a note that said, "Merry Christmas, I love you one and all."
    I'll never forget that story because much to my surprise,
    I saw the true meaning of Christmas shining in my mother's eyes.
    For those of you who are wondering, as if you didn't know,
    The little girl in Mama's story was my mother long ago.

    This poem is about a childhood memory I will never forget. God bless all the mothers in this world, and may all your Christmases be ones to remember.

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  18. 36. Brave American Knight

    • By David G. Moore
    • Published by Family Friend Poems November 2019 with permission of the Author.

    Too often we see the stranger in a fatigue jacket on the side of the road begging, and it is very easy to pass him off as a scam artist or bum. Could be! But news reports tell us that many veterans are found living under overpasses and cardboard box villages to just simply ignore. I wanted to say something about our (my) own negligence in this matter. I am a veteran. That could have been me on that corner.

    in Inspirational Poems

    Driving home one day after hours of monotonous office work,
    Saw a man sitting by the road; looked as one down on his luck.
    Paid small notice to the figure; my lonely life was in a rut.
    He was just another beggar holding out a shiny tin cup.

    But something was rather uncharacteristic about this scene.
    His old camouflaged fatigues were those of a U.S. marine.
    No legs dangled from his wheelchair, but he sat tall, proud, and upright.
    Many ribbons bore evidence of America's finest knight.

    Walked up to the stranger - what was left of a man sitting there.
    No others near, just us two, and the pall of pathos in the air.
    His hair unkempt, a shaggy beard, he stared as each car would stop,
    Lest he miss a coin or, pray, a bill into his cup one might drop.

    In horror saw that the cup was held by an artificial hand.
    An ear had been severed; thumb on other hand, one eye was blind.
    He acknowledged my presence, tipped his military cap.
    As he did, I observed scars occupied most of his scalp.

    Asked how life brought him to this intersection on life's highway.
    From boot camp was deployed to "play in the sand" in land over there.
    "Sir," he said, "From high school my great desire was to serve my country.
    Fighting with my buddies one night, my jeep hit unseen IED." 

    "In flames and smoke I fought to breathe; felt that my life was slipping on.
    Could barely hear, could scarcely see, and knew that my right arm was gone.
    My head was bleeding profusely; could not feel my legs or left hand. 
    I begged God to let me die on the sands of Afghanistan."

    "The corpsman came with tears rolling down his face and with choking voice,
    Said soldier, it's your legs, I have to amputate, I have no choice.
    There are other injuries, got to rush; choppers are on our right,
    You hang in there, Marine; I salute you, brave American knight."

    The more he spoke, the colder the chills that ran up and down my spine.
    Thoughtlessness and selfishness exposed a depravity of mind.
    Self-pity, self-indulgence, resignation had poisoned my soul.
    Changed by man with no legs, he stands ten feet tall on my honor roll.

    Perhaps next time a soldier we meet at the mall or on the street,
    Honor and salute those who served, even died, that we may live free.
    Army, Air Force, Coast Guard, Navy or Marine, guards of freedom's light.
    Grateful for those who wore the uniform, brave American knights.

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    What a beautiful poem. God bless all the veterans: dead, alive, and the ones still fighting. To all of you, a proud salute, my prayers, and love.

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  19. 37. The Cage

    • By Jodi M. Kucera
    • Published by Family Friend Poems November 2019 with permission of the Author.

    My friend's dad was a WWII vet who was part of the 14th Armored Division serving under General Patton. They were known as the Liberators because they freed many POWs. A man came up to him many years after the war ended and recognized him as being the soldier who opened his cage.

    in War Poems

    A man walked up to me some time ago.
    He had a story he wanted me to know.

    He reached out his hand to shake mine,
    And it took me back to a place and time.

    He told me he was a soldier in World War II,
    A POW in Moosburg; sad but true.

    As he began to tell the story, I could see in his eyes,
    He'd gone back to that place in his mind.

    He said "110,000 men walked through those gates.
    The Nazis were filled with nothing but hate.

    The camp was thronged
    And we knew our stay there would be long.

    The floor was hard and the nights were cold.
    Young men grew malnourished and old.

    They must have feared me because I was put in a cage,
    And all I could do was pray.

    I cannot tell you how many days I was there,
    Only that every day I said the same prayer.

    I asked the Lord to send someone our way,
    to get us out of there and take us far away.

    On April 25,1945,
    He sent someone just when I was ready to give up and die.

    The Fourteenth Armored Division came crashing through.
    It was The Liberators, with a job to do.

    They were there to set us free!"
    And with a smile he said, "Everyone erupted with glee.

    A soldier came running my way,
    And he reached down and opened my cage.

    After all these years I never forgot that man's face or what he did for me.
    My only regret, I didn't get to thank him when I got up from bended knee.

    Now he's standing in front of me shaking my hand.
    So thank you sir, because you were that man."

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  20. 38. One For All And All For One

    This poem is about my friends from childhood and how each was somewhat of an outcast, but together we were strong.

    in Life Long Friend Poems

    In the neighborhood where I was raised,
    My life revolved around my friends.
    And each day brought new adventures
    And endless games of let's pretend.

    We were just a band of misfits,
    Running wild in the sun.
    Living by our mantra,
    "One for All and All for One."

    Now Ivy was a little girl
    Who lived next door to me.
    She was a sweet and guileless girl
    Who was a loyal friend indeed.

    But poor Ivy had a stutter,
    So even in the midst of play,
    We'd stop and listen patiently
    If Ivy had something to say.

    It never had occurred to us
    To tease her or make fun.
    She was a cherished part of us.
    "One for All and All for One."

    Now Tammy was an aimless girl
    Who dreaded going home.
    Instead she'd cling to all of us
    Or roam the streets alone.

    She was always seen as strange or odd,
    So by many she was shunned.
    But we embraced her strength of spirit.
    "One for All and All for One."

    Terry and Peggy were sisters,
    And just as tough as they could come.
    They were always ready to stand and fight
    Before they would cower and run.

    In the neighborhood, they were infamous,
    Known and feared by everyone.
    But we welcomed their grit and moxie.
    "One for All and All for One."

    Now Dougy was just into puberty,
    And was viewed as a very bad seed.
    He was in and out of trouble
    And always full of tricks and schemes.

    But to us, he was our brother,
    And a better brother there was none,
    For he'd defend us to the bitter end.
    "One for All and All for One."

    Now I was a puny, cross-eyed kid
    Who had always been laughed at and teased.
    But I found my niche in this group of friends
    Who nurtured and watched out for me.

    We were truly a band of misfits
    When all was said and done.
    But we stood for each other through thick and thin.
    "One for All and All for One."

    How I wish today our youth could know
    Such camaraderie second to none,
    Finding strength and unity in diversity,
    Living "One for All and All for One."

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  21. 39. Our Love Story

    I wrote this poem for my husband for our 30th wedding anniversary. The night we met I was out with friends and was not told that I was actually there for a blind date. It was love at first sight for both of us. We married after knowing each only for only 4 months. We have always had a very special and close relationship throughout all these years.

    in Love Poems about Marriage

    You entered the room and my heart skipped a beat
    I knew in an instant we were destined to meet.
    As you looked up from the floor and your eyes locked on mine
    A warm subtle chill crept up and down my spine.

    Another blind date, I was not in the mood
    But given no choice, I waited subdued
    What a surprise though when you opened the door
    So sweetly amazed, I almost fell to the floor

    You walked toward my table, and the closer you came
    The warmer my skin, the warmer the flame
    You offered your hand as you asked me to dance
    And so was the beginning of our sweet romance

    That was the day that our journey began
    As so it was foretold and so was our plan
    As two lives spent alone then became one
    And a love like no other could never be undone.

    You've held my heart in your hands ever since then
    As you proved your love to me again and again
    Four months later we were husband and wife
    And I have always thanked God that you entered my life

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  22. 40. An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

    Famous Poem

    William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) was an Irish poet. This poem was written in 1918, near the end of World War I, and published the following year. In it, the speaker is coming to terms with the reality that he could die in the war. The speaker shares that the war will not make life better or worse. William Butler Yeats was highly involved in Ireland's politics, but the speaker of this poem did not fight in the war for political reasons. Instead, it was an “impulse of delight.” This poem does not have any stanza breaks, but it does follow the ABAB rhyme scheme.

    in Famous Sad Poems

    I know that I shall meet my fate
    Somewhere among the clouds above;
    Those that I fight I do not hate,
    Those that I guard I do not love;
    My country is Kiltartan Cross,
    My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
    No likely end could bring them loss
    Or leave them happier than before.
    Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
    Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
    A lonely impulse of delight
    Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
    I balanced all, brought all to mind,
    The years to come seemed waste of breath,
    A waste of breath the years behind
    In balance with this life, this death.

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