Examples Of Narrative Poems - Page 2

21. Little Red Riding Hood And The Wolf

• By Roald Dahl

Famous Poem

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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22. The Littlest Christmas Tree

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

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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23. The Spider And The Fly

• By Mary Howitt

Famous Poem

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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26. The Ballad Of The Harp Weaver

• By Edna St. Vincent Millay

Famous Poem

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,

A-rock-rock-rocking
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
Rapidly,

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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27. Keepsake

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

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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28. Us Two

• By A. A. Milne

Famous Poem

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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29. We Are Seven

• By William Wordsworth

Famous Poem

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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33. Long To See Your Sweet Face

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

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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34. The Lost Soul

• By Patricia A Fleming
• Published by Family Friend Poems October 2019 with permission of the Author.

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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35. Mama's Christmas Miracle

• By Kathy J. Parenteau
• Published by Family Friend Poems November 2011 with permission of the Author.

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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36. Brave American Knight

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

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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