Examples Of Narrative Poems - Page 2

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
   In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
   And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
    What a beautiful Pussy you are,
         You are,
         You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
   How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
   But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
   To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
   With a ring at the end of his nose,
             His nose,
             His nose,
   With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
   Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
   By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
   Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
   They danced by the light of the moon,
             The moon,
             The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

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.

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,-
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,-
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
—the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly—
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
—It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
—if you could call it a lip—
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

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 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.

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."

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."