Examples Of Narrative Poems - Page 3

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.

Heartfelt Poem About Brothers Growing Up And Apart

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.

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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The Lost Soul
- By Patricia A Fleming
- Published by Family Friend Poems October 2019 with permission of the Author.
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.

Poem About A Homeless Man

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.

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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Heirloom Of Love
- By Angie
- Published by Family Friend Poems May 2008 with permission of the Author.
The mixed emotions of a father on his daughter's wedding day.

Mixed Emotions From The Father Of The Bride

in Wedding Poems

There she sits before her mirror,
Primping in excitement, her face flushed.
Today is her day; she will never know
How much I hurt, how scared I am

There she sits before her mirror,
Primping in excitement, her face flushed.
Today is her day; she will never know
How much I hurt, how scared I am
Of the void she will leave behind.

Will she forget me? I'll be replaced
By someone new, someone who makes her heart
Dance in her chest, a drumbeat.
Will he, can he protect her as I've done?
I have no choice but to trust...

I seethe with an almost-rage,
An unfounded, illogical jealousy, an anger
For what he is taking from me.
I am selfish. She is my joy, my life
I would die for her.

Today I will. A thousand times.

Then she turns to look at me.
In her beautiful face I see worry.
For me? She sees the unspilled tears
She knows. Of course, she knows.
She comes to me.

And with the smallest kiss, the subtle smile
All is well. She is still mine.
She will always be mine
In a different and wonderful way.
She is a part of me.

She will move on, she will give others joy,
And I am comforted knowing her goodness
Will be shared by everyone she touches,
And I am okay and proud, and I take her hand
To give her to her love, her new life.

I swell with almost unbearable pride
To have created something so perfect!
She was never mine to keep, this supreme being
Perfect to me. Shining, golden, priceless...
My heirloom of love.

And there he goes, that handsome, kind man
With his new bride, my daughter, my soul.
Does he know what has been passed to him?
He could not know, not yet,
But time will show him; he will realize.

Someday it will be his turn.
He will have to pass her essence on,
In his daughter, my granddaughter,
Our heirloom of love.
Will he weep? With loss, with anger?

Will he sit alone in his daughter's room
Filled with love and happiness...sadness?
No, content. A deep breath will help him stand
As I do now, and I walk with trembling lips
And chin held high. I leave this room.

I close the door.

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This is exactly what I went through the day of my daughter's wedding. Tears and a sort of rage that her new husband was taking her away from me. I questioned whether he could protect her as I...

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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.

POW Camp In WWII

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,

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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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.

A Forgotten Veteran

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.

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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Take Me Home
- By Rick W. Cotton
- Published by Family Friend Poems March 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.

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,

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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A Precious Christmas Memory
- By Patricia A Fleming
- Published by Family Friend Poems December 2018 with permission of the Author.
I worte this poem about a tradition that my Dad and I had of putting up the Christmas lights together.

Christmas Tradition With My Dad

in Christmas Poems

In the damp, dusty cellar, surrounded by boxes,
Our excitement just grows without measure.
Searching and sorting with loud shouts of glee,
As we uncovered the grand Christmas treasure.

In the damp, dusty cellar, surrounded by boxes,
Our excitement just grows without measure.
Searching and sorting with loud shouts of glee,
As we uncovered the grand Christmas treasure.

Christmas lights in a ball, but Dad's not deterred,
As with a purpose, he heads out the door.
And I spy from the window, for the time has now come,
For Dad to adorn our front porch.

The weather is frigid, his breath floats in the air,
And the sky is the deepest of gray.
The spirit of Christmas can be felt everywhere,
With the promise of snow on the way.

So I watch as my Dad makes his plan of attack,
While I sit comfy, cozy inside.
But I knew in my heart where I needed to be,
Out there shivering, but right by his side.

So I bundle up tight and I head out the door,
Nothing can stand in my way.
And I knew by his smile and his pat on my back
That he truly was glad that I came.

Now perfectionist Dad always knew what to do,
And for him every light had its place.
So together we stood, completing our task,
Precious memories these moments would make.

Under an ominous sky large snowflakes appeared,
And it seemed that the time had just flown.
But we both were determined to finish the job,
Though tired and chilled to the bone.

As the last light was placed, complete darkness prevailed,
We had accomplished our goal just in time.
The smell of Mom's cooking floated by in the air,
And the feeling of success was sublime.

Now into the house, I run with such joy,
To summon all family to come.
And we stand on the street, as Dad plugs in the lights,
Illuminating our world one by one.

For certain it's Christmas and my heart feels so full,
With the beauty of color and shimmer.
But being with Dad sharing time in the cold
Is forever what I will remember!
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My Father's Hug
- By Brian A. Bendall
- Published by Family Friend Poems October 2018 with permission of the Author.
I was raised in a musical family. I've played guitar since 1961. My Mom had learned piano when she was young and played organ at her church. Dad sang, played saxophone and harmonica. He even performed with his band on radio back in the 40's. My relationship with my Dad was not always a happy one, but I tried to remember some of the good times I had with him. There were a few, mostly with music involved, but this is one of my most memorable. I hope you can relate to what it meant to me.

Revealing Hidden Emotions

in Father Poems

My Father, he was never one
To show his deepest feelings.
He never cared too much for hugs,
Either giving or receiving.

My Father, he was never one
To show his deepest feelings.
He never cared too much for hugs,
Either giving or receiving.

I guess that's just the way he was,
To hang on to his manhood.
Emotions should be never shown,
I think, he thought no man should.

There was a summer at our lake
Where we would spend vacations.
Our family went there every year
To this beautiful location.

One day my Dad and I set out
To get some food supplies.
We could only go by boat,
But there were cloudy skies.

Half way there, some thunder rolled
And soon it started raining.
No matter what our speed was at,
The storm was quickly gaining.

My cousin's cottage was in sight,
We made a beeline there.
Until the storm had gone away,
That cottage we would share.

The door not locked, no one was home,
So this would be our refuge.
It saved us from the pouring rain
And all that storming deluge.

We sat inside, but not a word
Was said between us two.
We listened to the rain come down,
While the thunder and lightning grew.

Then, deep in thought, my Dad stood up
And started looking 'round.
He saw a box and opened it,
A harmonica he'd found.

He sat back down, slapped it hard,
Then started into play.
There's only one piece he would do,
It's still in my heart this day.

"Maria Elena" was the song
And I just quietly listened.
I'd never heard him play like this,
The notes that came just glistened.

And as he played, his eyes were closed,
His head would weave in rhythm.
He played the song with all his heart
And all the passion in him.

I felt Dad reaching out to me
To show me his emotions.
I began to feel a bit choked up
From this musical devotion.

The storm had all but disappeared,
Though it was still there raging.
The only thing that I could hear,
Was Dad and I engaging.

When he stopped, he looked at me
And saw my eyes were welling.
I couldn't help but feel the love,
Through music, he was telling.

He smiled a bit then bowed his head.
There was nothing more to say.
The storm was gone, we bailed the boat
And continued on our way.

I'd never seen my Dad like that,
Before or even after.
We did have some good times, of course,
With smiles and often, laughter.

But something happened on that day
That's in my heart forever.
Somehow we bonded through that storm,
His "hug" will leave me never.
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Hanging In Tough
- By Jac Judy A. Campbell
- Published by Family Friend Poems April 2018 with permission of the Author.
This is about a friend of mine from church. She became ill with cancer. She was taking chemo and radiation, and through her sickness she was such a brave person. She always trusted in God to get her through the rough times.

Having Faith In God During Tough Times

in Spiritual Poems about Death

A fine lady.
So gallantly strong,
She stands for the good,
The righteous, and God.

A fine lady.
So gallantly strong,
She stands for the good,
The righteous, and God.

At a small little church she faithfully arrives.
She walks quietly about as she silently sighs.
She greets with a hug with outstretched hands.
"How are you doing today? Glad to see you," she says.

I gently embrace her and ask, "How are you doing?
You look pretty today."
With a sad glow in her eyes, she says,
"It's been kinda rough,
But our God's on my side,
And I'm hanging in tough."

With a soft smile on her face, she sits in a pew,
Among family and friends and others she knew.
She graciously prays with her head slightly bowed,
Singing God's hymns with a soft whispering sound.

As she rises to leave, I squeeze her arm and say,
"You look so beautiful and much better today."
She speaks with a quick grin as she touches my cheek
And replies with a voice that's suddenly weak.
"It's a little rough, but you know me,
I'm hanging in tough."

She faithfully arrives at the little church
One last time.
She was carried by loved ones
And friends by her side,
A bouquet was placed on the pew
Where she once sat,
With flowers and ribbons and banner that read:

God's taking me home.
His ride won't be rough,
For my days are all over for me.
Hanging in tough.
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The Old Fella Out At Buck Creek
- By Gordon B. Melton
- Published by Family Friend Poems April 2008 with permission of the Author.
I am a 37-year-old volunteer firefighter, father of 4, and husband to a great wife. The gentleman I am writing about is an 89-year-old man who was in WWII and is still going strong. The poem came from my heart and is a great tribute to a very fine man. Dedicated to Clinton Woodley

in Creative Poems

There is an old fella out at Buck Creek
He's a little hard of hearing, so be loud when you speak
He's lived many years and has seen many things
He's as good as an angel but without the wings

There is an old fella out at Buck Creek
He's a little hard of hearing, so be loud when you speak
He's lived many years and has seen many things
He's as good as an angel but without the wings
Sit with him a while and many stories you will hear
Stories of the war, the drought, and to him things that are dear
His body looks feeble and a little weak
But watch him work and you will think he is at his peak
He goes to the pasture and gives his cattle some feed
Then he gets on his tractor and plows and plants some seed
When he is done, he looks around with a smile
Then he thanks God for letting him be around a while
He walks in his home, which he was born in
With never a frown, but only a grin
I visit with him as often as I can
For he is a very interesting man
When I talk to him, knowledge is what I seek
Because that's one heck of a fella out at Buck Creek
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Concrete Angel
- By Jack Elliott Jr.
- Published by Family Friend Poems January 1, 2024 with permission of the Author.
As a young sailor I met this young woman in New York city. Many years have passed and yet I still can still hear her sighs and taste her lips. Always I will ponder her fate.

An Indelible Impression

in Long Distance Poems

There on the streets of Manhattan
Beneath the cold neon light
You were the soul of my affections
And all with the world seemed right

There on the streets of Manhattan
Beneath the cold neon light
You were the soul of my affections
And all with the world seemed right

The wind was singing of your beauty
The snow caressed you as it fell
You were the road that lay before me
But where it led no one could tell

The city seemed to fall silent
Beneath a blanket of white
And you looked just like an Angel
Standing in Times Square that night

You took me to see the high lights
Of the city you loved so much
You took me dancing in the Village
And taught me the pleasure of your touch

At repose in your apartment
My head spinning with the wine
I pulled you closer to me
And you whispered you were mine

You looked just like an Angel
With neon light in your hair
And you smelled just like heaven
With alabaster skin laid bare

I lay awake in the darkness
And I listened to you breathe
And you looked just like an Angel
As you lay there next to me

Strawberry hair covered your pillow
And freckles covered your nose
When I kissed you on your fingertips
It made you wriggle your toes

There on that island
Cast of mortar, stone and steel
My world moved in slow motion
And the night seemed surreal

I said you were my Concrete Angel
Because of where you lived
You asked me for my heart
But I didn't have one to give

It was time for me to leave
And the snow had turned to rain
And you looked just like an Angel
As we headed for the train

We made the drive in silence
Neither could find any words to say
You rested your head on my shoulder
My feet had turned to clay

There were no words in parting
Neither wanted to say goodbye
And you looked just like an Angel
Just as you started to cry

Raindrops on your eye lashes
Your mascara had started to run
And you looked just like an Angel
Whose world had come undone

Our hands pressed against the glass
Our souls screaming to be heard
So much emotion welled up inside
But neither could say a word

You were a dancer at a club downtown
And I was a sailor who couldn't stay
And you looked just like an Angel
As you watched the train pull away

I have touched the face of Heaven
And felt the warmth of her glow
I held my Angel close to me
And then I let her go

Where have all of the good years gone
One by one they slipped away
Did all of your dreams come true
Or did life get in the way

So many times I've thought of you
And how things might have been
With an Angel by my side
No broken heart to mend

There is an Angel in Manhattan
She lives high up in the clouds
Away from the city streets
Above the maddening crowds
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Pat, I was absolutely thrilled to read your comment. Such a compliment from a poet with your talent is far more than I could have ever hoped for. It is so very good to know that you are...

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The Widow-Maker
- By Douglas Malloch
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.

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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Examples Of Narrative Poems - Page 3

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.

The mixed emotions of a father on his daughter's wedding day.

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.

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.

I worte this poem about a tradition that my Dad and I had of putting up the Christmas lights together.

This is about a friend of mine from church. She became ill with cancer. She was taking chemo and radiation, and through her sickness she was such a brave person. She always trusted in God to get her through the rough times.

I am a 37-year-old volunteer firefighter, father of 4, and husband to a great wife. The gentleman I am writing about is an 89-year-old man who was in WWII and is still going strong. The poem came from my heart and is a great tribute to a very fine man. Dedicated to Clinton Woodley

As a young sailor I met this young woman in New York city. Many years have passed and yet I still can still hear her sighs and taste her lips. Always I will ponder her fate.