Examples Of Narrative 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.

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.

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."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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