Two word story poems

Examples Of Narrative Poems

Published: July 2017

Narrative poems are stories in poem form. Narrative poems are one of the oldest forms of poetry and indeed all literature. 

Narrative poetry was used in ancient times as a means of passing down important stories. Many people did not how to read and write and captivating stories told rhythmically, with repetition and rhymes were a way to ensure that stories important to the culture were remembered and passed down through the generations.

This collection contains narrative poems by famous and modern poets. 

1. 1.
   The Cremation Of Sam McGee

   Service was inspired to write this dark and spooky narrative poem by the stories he heard from the people of the Yukon. The poem was published in his book, Songs of a Sourdough in 1907. «The Cremation of Sam McGee» has turned out to be one of Service’s most famous poems.

   in Famous Narrative Poems

   There are strange things done in the midnight sun
         By the men who moil for gold;
   The Arctic trails have their secret tales
         That would make your blood run cold;
   The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
         But the queerest they ever did see
   Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
         I cremated Sam McGee.

   Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
   Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.
   He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
   Though he’d often say in his homely way that «he’d sooner live in hell.»

   On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
   Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
   If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
   It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

   And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
   And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
   He turned to me, and «Cap,» says he, «I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
   And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.»

   Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
   «It’s the cursèd cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
   Yet ’tain’t being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
   So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.»

   A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
   And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
   He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
   And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

   There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
   With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
   It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: «You may tax your brawn and brains,
   But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.»

   Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
   In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
   In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
   Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

   And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
   And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
   The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
   And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

   Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
   It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the «Alice May.»
   And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
   Then «Here,» said I, with a sudden cry, «is my cre-ma-tor-eum.»

   Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
   Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
   The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
   And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

   Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
   And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
   It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
   And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

   I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
   But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
   I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: «I’ll just take a peep inside.
   I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked»; … then the door I opened wide.

   And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
   And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: «Please close that door.
   It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
   Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.»

   There are strange things done in the midnight sun
         By the men who moil for gold;
   The Arctic trails have their secret tales
         That would make your blood run cold;
   The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
         But the queerest they ever did see
   Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
         I cremated Sam McGee.

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2. 2.
   The Strongest Girl I Ever Knew

   • 
     By Ronald Doe

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

   My sister Kelly was paralyzed when she was 16. For the next 25 years she was totally dependent on others. Even though she got dealt a bad hand, she remained strong and dignified throughout her life. That is why she’ll always be «The Strongest Girl I Ever Knew.» Kelly, I know you’re dancing in Heaven.
   In Loving Memory of Kelly Doe

   in Inspirational Poems

   She never got to dance
   Or go to her own prom.
   She never got the chance
   To forget where she came from.

   She never got to kiss,
   A man she idolized.
   She never felt love’s bliss,
   ‘Cause she was paralyzed.

   She never got to talk
   About love with a smile.
   She never got to walk
   Down a church’s aisle.

   She never got to say
   Those precious words, «I Do.»
   But she was far and away
   The strongest girl I ever knew.

   She couldn’t brush her hair
   Or put make up on her face.
   She couldn’t hold you dear
   Or give you a warm embrace.

   She couldn’t clasp her hands
   As if in the form of prayer.
   She couldn’t understand
   Why she was in a wheelchair.

   She never showed her fears
   Or let you hear her cries.
   She never showed the tears
   That fell down from her eyes.

   She never looked for pity
   Or sympathy from you.
   That’s why she’ll always be
   The strongest girl I ever knew.

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3. 3.
   ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas

   • 
     By Clement Clarke Moore

   Top 500 Poem
   129

   Clement Clarke Moore wrote this poem in 1822 for his own children. It is also referenced with the title, «A Visit from St. Nicholas». The poem is the origin for many of the modern notions of Santa Claus, his plump and cheerful white-bearded look, the names of his reindeer, and even the tradition that he brings toys to children.

   in Famous Holiday Poems

   ‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
   Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
   The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
   In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
   The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
   While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
   And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
   Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
   When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
   I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
   Away to the window I flew like a flash,
   Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
   The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
   Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
   When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
   But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
   With a little old driver so lively and quick,
   I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
   More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
   And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
   «Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
   On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blixen!
   To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
   Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!»
   As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
   When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
   So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
   With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—
   And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
   The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
   As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
   Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
   He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
   And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
   A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
   And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
   His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
   His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
   His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
   And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
   The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
   And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
   He had a broad face and a little round belly
   That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
   He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
   And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
   A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
   Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
   He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
   And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
   And laying his finger aside of his nose,
   And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
   He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
   And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
   But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
   «Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!»

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4. 4.
   The Raven

   • 
     By Edgar Allan Poe

   One of the most famous poems ever written, «The Raven» by Edgar Allan Poe is a delightfully spooky, dark poem. What makes this poem so remarkable? There is a certain romance in darkness and melancholy. There is something mysterious about that which is hidden and unknown. Dark poems seek to romanticize sadness and depression. There is much room for creativity in this genre.

   in Famous Narrative Poems

   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!

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5. 5.
   Annabel Lee

   • 
     By Edgar Allan Poe

   Top 500 Poem
   132

   Annabel Lee was the last poem written by Poe. Like many of Poe’s poems, this one is about lost love. It was published in 1849 shortly after his death. The subject mourns the death of his young love, Annabel Lee, and blames the angels for killing her out of jealousy for their love. He has since then slept by her grave, unable to accept her death.
   Edgar Allan Poe once said that the death of a beautiful woman is «the most poetical topic in the world». In this poem, the subject’s lover, Annabel Lee was killed. The subject of the poem affirms that the love between him and Annabel Lee is so strong that even death can’t separate them.

   in Famous Narrative Poems

   It was many and many a year ago,
      In a kingdom by the sea,
   That a maiden there lived whom you may know
      By the name of Annabel Lee;
   And this maiden she lived with no other thought
      Than to love and be loved by me.

   I was a child and she was a child,
      In this kingdom by the sea,
   But we loved with a love that was more than love—
      I and my Annabel Lee—
   With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
      Coveted her and me.

   And this was the reason that, long ago,
      In this kingdom by the sea,
   A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
      My beautiful Annabel Lee;
   So that her highborn kinsmen came
      And bore her away from me,
   To shut her up in a sepulchre
      In this kingdom by the sea.

   The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
      Went envying her and me—
   Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
      In this kingdom by the sea)
   That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
      Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

   But our love it was stronger by far than the love
      Of those who were older than we—
      Of many far wiser than we—
   And neither the angels in Heaven above
      Nor the demons down under the sea
   Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
      Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

   For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
      Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
   And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
      Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
   And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
      Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
      In her sepulchre there by the sea—
      In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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6. 6.
   Out Out

   • 
     By Robert Frost

   Out, Out by Robert Frost is a narrative poem published in a collection of poems titled Mountain Interval in 1916 when millions of young men were losing their lives on the battlefields of World War I. On an American farm a hungry young boy is cutting wood with a buzz saw. Frost uses personification with the saw and an artist’s imagery to narrate as the boy loses his hand and then his life in terrible yet mundane detail.

   in Famous Narrative Poems

   The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
   And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
   Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
   And from there those that lifted eyes could count
   Five mountain ranges one behind the other
   Under the sunset far into Vermont.
   And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
   As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
   And nothing happened: day was all but done.
   Call it a day, I wish they might have said
   To please the boy by giving him the half hour
   That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
   His sister stood beside them in her apron
   To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
   As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
   Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
   He must have given the hand. However it was,
   Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
   The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
   As he swung toward them holding up the hand
   Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
   The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
   Since he was old enough to know, big boy
   Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
   He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
   The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
   So. But the hand was gone already.
   The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
   He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
   And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
   No one believed. They listened at his heart.
   Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
   No more to build on there. And they, since they
   Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

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7. 7.
   The Charge Of The Light Brigade

   • 
     By Alfred Tennyson

   «Which guns?» they asked. Captain Nolan replied with a sweeping wave of his hand. Moments later the Light Brigade began to move. Six hundred men strong, they rode down the narrow valley in what has become a lesson taught to this very day in military academies worldwide about the importance of clear communication. The objective had been to hinder the retreat of the naval guns to the south of the battlefield. Instead, the Brigade was directed to a Russian position, which was a clear death trap. But though the orders were clearly suicidal, the men obeyed regardless and paid a heavy price. Almost half the Brigade was wiped out, and though little was accomplished strategically, the charge went down as one of the most glorious battles in British military history. News arrived in England, and while reading an account of the battle in the Times, Tennyson jotted down what has become perhaps his most famous poem.
   

   in Famous Narrative Poems

   Half a league, half a league,
   Half a league onward,
   All in the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.
   «Forward the Light Brigade!
   Charge for the guns!» he said.
   Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

   Forward, the Light Brigade!»
   Was there a man dismay’d?
   Not tho’ the soldier knew
   Some one had blunder’d.
   Theirs not to make reply,
   Theirs not to reason why,
   Theirs but to do and die.
   Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

   Cannon to right of them,
   Cannon to left of them,
   Cannon in front of them
   Volley’d and thunder’d;
   Storm’d at with shot and shell,
   Boldly they rode and well,
   Into the jaws of Death,
   Into the mouth of hell
   Rode the six hundred.

   Flash’d all their sabres bare,
   Flash’d as they turn’d in air
   Sabring the gunners there,
   Charging an army, while
   All the world wonder’d.
   Plunged in the battery-smoke
   Right thro’ the line they broke;
   Cossack and Russian
   Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
   Shatter’d and sunder’d.
   Then they rode back, but not,
   Not the six hundred.

   Cannon to right of them,
   Cannon to left of them,
   Cannon behind them
   Volley’d and thunder’d;
   Storm’d at with shot and shell,
   While horse and hero fell,
   They that had fought so well
   Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
   Back from the mouth of hell,
   All that was left of them,
   Left of six hundred.

   When can their glory fade?
   O the wild charge they made!
   All the world wonder’d.
   Honor the charge they made!
   Honor the Light Brigade,
   Noble six hundred!

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8. 8.
   Richard Cory

   • 
     By Edwin Arlington Robinson

   A narrative poem, «Richard Cory» was first published in 1897, as part of The Children of the Night. It is one of Robinson’s most popular and published poems.
   The poem describes a person who is wealthy, well-educated, mannerly, and admired by the people in his town. Despite all this, he takes his own life.

   in Famous Sad Poems

   Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
   We people on the pavement looked at him:
   He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
   Clean favored, and imperially slim.

   And he was always quietly arrayed,
   And he was always human when he talked;
   But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
   «Good-morning,» and he glittered when he walked.

   And he was rich — yes, richer than a king —
   And admirably schooled in every grace:
   In fine, we thought that he was everything
   To make us wish that we were in his place.

   So on we worked, and waited for the light,
   And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
   And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
   Went home and put a bullet through his head.

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9. 9.
   The Spell Of The Yukon

   • 
     By Robert W. Service

   In 1904 while working for a Canadian bank, Robert Service was transferred to Whitehorse, a small town in the Yukon, a northern Canadian Province bordering Alaska known for its extreme cold. During the Yukon Gold Rush of 1896-1899 the town had served as a campground for some of the more than 100,000 prospectors who flooded the Yukon searching for gold. Service took part in the town’s social life including reciting poetry. Eventually he started composing his own poems, many of which were narrative poems about the great gold rush. «The Spell Of The Yukon» was published in Service’s first book of poetry, «Songs of a Sourdough» in 1907.

   in Famous Narrative Poems

   I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
      I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
   Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
      I hurled my youth into a grave.
   I wanted the gold, and I got it— 
      Came out with a fortune last fall,— 
   Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,
      And somehow the gold isn’t all.

   No! There’s the land. (Have you seen it?)
      It’s the cussedest land that I know,
   From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
      To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
   Some say God was tired when He made it;
      Some say it’s a fine land to shun;
   Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it
      For no land on earth—and I’m one.

   You come to get rich (damned good reason);
      You feel like an exile at first;
   You hate it like hell for a season,
      And then you are worse than the worst.
   It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
      It twists you from foe to a friend;
   It seems it’s been since the beginning;
      It seems it will be to the end.

   I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
      That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim;
   I’ve watched the big, husky sun wallow
      In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
   Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
      And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
   And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming,
      With the peace o’ the world piled on top.

   The summer—no sweeter was ever;
      The sunshiny woods all athrill;
   The grayling aleap in the river,
      The bighorn asleep on the hill.
   The strong life that never knows harness;
      The wilds where the caribou call;
   The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
      O God! how I’m stuck on it all.

   The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
      The white land locked tight as a drum,
   The cold fear that follows and finds you,
      The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
   The snows that are older than history,
      The woods where the weird shadows slant;
   The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
      I’ve bade ’em good-by—but I can’t.

   There’s a land where the mountains are nameless,
      And the rivers all run God knows where;
   There are lives that are erring and aimless,
      And deaths that just hang by a hair;
   There are hardships that nobody reckons;
      There are valleys unpeopled and still;
   There’s a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,
      And I want to go back—and I will.

   They’re making my money diminish;
      I’m sick of the taste of champagne.
   Thank God! when I’m skinned to a finish
      I’ll pike to the Yukon again.
   I’ll fight—and you bet it’s no sham-fight;
      It’s hell!—but I’ve been there before;
   And it’s better than this by a damsite—
      So me for the Yukon once more.

   There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;
      It’s luring me on as of old;
   Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting
      So much as just finding the gold.
   It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder,
      It’s the forests where silence has lease;
   It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
      It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

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10. 10.
    Paul Bunyan

    • 
      By Shel Silverstein

    This version of the poem is from Shel Silverstein’s book of poems for children, «Where the Sidewalk Ends» published in 1974.
    A slightly different version of «Paul» is sung by Bobby Bare in his 1973 album, «Lullabys, Legends and Lies».
    He begins with an introduction, «You know, American folklore is filled with legendary characters like… Billy The Kid, Johnny Appleseed, Pecos Bill… and probably the greatest one of all has got to be Paul Bunyan, ’cause he was the meanest and the biggest and dirtiest, tobacco chewin’est, and the funkiest and the best woodchopper of all of ’em».
    Paul Bunyan is a lumberjack of huge size and strength in American folk tales. Usually included in these Tall Tales is his companion, Babe the Blue Ox, a giant creature of extraordinary strength.

    in Famous Narrative Poems

    He rode through the woods on a big blue ox,
    He had fists as hard as choppin’ blocks,
    Five hundred pounds and nine feet tall…that’s Paul.

    Talk about workin’, when he swung his axe
    You could hear it ring for a mile and a half.
    Then he’d yell «Timber!» and down she’d fall…for Paul.

    Talk about drinkin’, that man’s so mean
    That he’d never drink nothin’ but kerosene,
    And a five-gallon can is a little bit small…for Paul.

    Talk about tough, well he once had a fight
    With a thunderstorm on a cold dark night.
    I ain’t sayin’ who won,
    But it don’t storm at all…round here…thanks to Paul.

    He was ninety years old when he said with a sigh,
    «I think I’m gonna lay right down and die
    ‘Cause sunshine and sorrow, I’ve seen it all…says Paul.

    He says, «There ain’t no man alive can kill me,
    Ain’t no woman ’round can thrill me,
    And I think heaven just mught be a ball»…says Paul.

    So he died…and we cried.

    It took eighteen men just to bust the ground,
    It took twenty-four more just to lower him down.
    And we covered him up and we figured that was all…for Paul.

    But late one night the trees started shakin’,
    The dogs started howlin’ and the earth started quakin’,
    And out of the ground with a «Hi, y’all»…comes Paul!

    He shook the dirt from off his clothes,
    He scratched his butt and wiped his nose.
    «Y’know, bein’ dead wasn’t no fun at all»…says Paul.

    He says, «Up in heaven they got harps on their knees,
    They got clouds and wings but they got no trees.
    I don’t think that’s much of a heaven at all»…says Paul.

    So he jumps on his ox with a fare-thee-well,
    He says, «I’ll find out if there’s trees in hell.»
    And he rode away, and that was all…we ever seen…of Paul.

    But the next time you hear a «Timber!» yell
    That sounds like it’s comin’ from the pits of hell,
    Then a weird and devilish ghostly wail
    Like somebody’s choppin’ on the devil’s tail,
    Then a shout, a call, a crash, a fall—
    That ain’t no mortal man at all…that’s Paul!

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11. 11.
    A Boy Named Sue

    • 
      By Shel Silverstein

    «A Boy Named Sue» is a poem by Shel Silverstein that has been made popular by Johnny Cash. Cash was at the height of his popularity when he recorded the song live at California’s San Quentin State Prison at a concert on February 24, 1969. The concert was filmed by Granada Television for later television broadcast. The audio of the concert was later released on Cash’s At San Quentin album. Cash also performed the song (with comical variations on the original performance) in December 1969 at Madison Square Garden.

    in Famous Funny Poems

    Well, my daddy left home when I was three,
    and he didn’t leave much to Ma and me,
    just this old guitar and a bottle of booze.
    Now I don’t blame him because he run and hid,
    but the meanest thing that he ever did was
    before he left he went and named me Sue.

    Well, he must have thought it was quite a joke,
    and it got lots of laughs from a lot of folks,
    it seems I had to fight my whole life through.
    Some gal would giggle and I’d get red
    and some guy would laugh and I’d bust his head,
    I tell you, life ain’t easy for a boy named Sue.

    Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean.
    My fist got hard and my wits got keen.
    Roamed from town to town to hide my shame,
    but I made me a vow to the moon and the stars,
    I’d search the honky tonks and bars and kill
    that man that gave me that awful name.

    But it was Gatlinburg in mid July and I had
    just hit town and my throat was dry.
    I’d thought i’d stop and have myself a brew.
    At an old saloon in a street of mud
    and at a table dealing stud sat the dirty,
    mangy dog that named me Sue.

    Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad
    from a worn-out picture that my mother had
    and I knew the scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
    He was big and bent and gray and old
    and I looked at him and my blood ran cold,
    and I said, «My name is Sue. How do you do?
    Now you’re gonna die.» Yeah, that’s what I told him.

    Well, I hit him right between the eyes and he went down
    but to my surprise he came up with a knife
    and cut off a piece of my ear. But I busted a chair
    right across his teeth. And we crashed through
    the wall and into the street kicking and a-gouging
    in the mud and the blood and the beer.

    I tell you I’ve fought tougher men but I really can’t remember when.
    He kicked like a mule and bit like a crocodile.
    I heard him laughin’ and then I heard him cussin’,
    he went for his gun and I pulled mine first.
    He stood there looking at me and I saw him smile.

    And he said, «Son, this world is rough and if
    a man’s gonna make it, he’s gotta be tough
    and I knew I wouldn’t be there to help you along.
    So I gave you that name and I said ‘Goodbye’.
    I knew you’d have to get tough or die. And it’s
    that name that helped to make you strong.»

    Yeah, he said, «Now you have just fought one
    helluva fight, and I know you hate me and you’ve
    got the right to kill me now and I wouldn’t blame you
    if you do. But you ought to thank me
    before I die for the gravel in your guts and the spit
    in your eye because I’m the guy that named you Sue.»
    Yeah, what could I do? What could I do?

    I got all choked up and I threw down my gun,
    called him pa and he called me a son,
    and I came away with a different point of view
    and I think about him now and then.
    Every time I tried, every time I win and if I
    ever have a son I think I am gonna name him
    Bill or George — anything but Sue.

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12. 12.
    Paul Revere’s Ride

    • 
      By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    This poem recounts the night of April 18, 1775 when Paul Revere rode through Massachusetts warning of the British’s arrival. While this is based on a historical event, there are some fictional aspects. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was inspired to write this poem after visiting Old North Church, where the lanterns were held that night in 1775. Longfellow’s grandfather was actually Paul Revere’s commander on the Penobscot Expedition in 1779.

    in Famous Narrative Poems

    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.

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13. 13.
    Casey At The Bat

    • 
      By Ernest Lawrence Thayer

    Ernest Lawrence Thayer worked for a newspaper, and «Casey at the Bat» was written as part of his column in 1888. It did not gain a lot of attention at first. DeWolf Hooper, a comic actor, recited «Casey at the Bat» 15,000 times over the next 50 year, increasing its popularity. This is the most famous baseball poem that has been written.
    «Love has its sonnets galore. War has its epics in heroic verse. Tragedy its sombre story in measured lines. Baseball has Casey at the Bat.» — Albert Spalding

    in Famous Narrative Poems

    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

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14. 14.
    The Fish

    • 
      By Elizabeth Bishop

    This famous narrative poem transforms an ordinary moment into a gripping story about the moment when the Hunter meets the Hunted. The fisherwoman’s catch of a tremendous fish takes an unexpected diversion when she takes the opportunity to observe it at close range. The life story of The Fish as told by its battle scars and beautiful fishiness gives the encounter a personal side and result in things taking an unexpected turn.

    in Famous Nature Poems

    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.

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15. 15.
    The Ballad Of Rum

    • 
      By Peter R Wolveridge

    • Published by Family Friend Poems December 2015 with permission of the Author.

    Top 500 Poem
    337

    A story based on a real dog who still watches over our yard in his own way.

    in Rhyming Poems

    A dog wandered into our garden one day,
    A friendly old mutt, didn’t look like a stray.
    We never discovered whence he had come,
    But we brushed him and fed him and the kids called him Rum.

    Now as family members, even dogs must work hard,
    So we put Rum on duty next door in our yard,
    Bright eyed and watchful by night and by day,
    But not much of a guard dog, I’m sorry to say.

    He barked at the cats and he’d bark at a toad,
    He barked at the cattle outside on the road,
    He barked at the horses — so where did he fail?
    You see, Rum liked people, and he just wagged his tail.

    He liked the yard labour, an amiable bunch.
    They fed our dog tidbits and scraps from their lunch.
    Rum wolfed it all down, but to our dismay
    He seemed to get fatter with each passing day.

    Then one night when Rum was laid at his ease,
    A burglar crept in just as quiet as you please.
    He saw no alarms, heard no siren howling,
    No guard dog for sure, there’d be barking and growling.

    But Rum was awake and he’d seen him alright,
    Delighted with company this time of the night,
    He flew through the yard, his new friend to greet,
    And his weight bowled the burglar right off of his feet.

    The intruder got up and ran off with a wail
    And Rum right behind him still wagging his tail.
    He departed the yard he’d come in to burgle
    Like a champion athlete clearing a hurdle.

    But Rum couldn’t jump gates, so sadly instead
    He picked up the thief’s wallet and went back to bed.
    Next morning the evidence everyone viewed,
    When Rum brought it to us, (just a little bit chewed).

    Once given the wallet, the police didn’t fail
    To capture the burglar and put him in jail.
    His confession like wildfire spread through the town,
    How a big vicious guard dog had knocked the thief down.

    We all howled with laughter when we heard the story,
    And Rum was our hero, he was basking in glory.
    There’s been no attempts since to burgle our yard,
    For everyone knows now that Rum is on guard.

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    Oh my, Peter…in all the years that I have been reading about dogs, the poems, tales and stories always made me smile. Tonight though, reading your poem for the first time, something…

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16. 16.
    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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17. 17.
    Family Circle

    • 
      By Melissa G. Nicks

    • Published by Family Friend Poems April 2006 with permission of the Author.

    This poem is about the circle of life and the bittersweet realization of how time and life pass by so quickly.

    in Father Poems

    When I am born, you are here
    In your eye, I see a tear
    Time flies and already I’m two
    «Look, Daddy, I can tie my shoe!»

    Before you know it, I’m five
    Every day, you thank God I’m alive
    Pretty soon, I turn eight
    You tell me I’m never allowed to date

    I’m already twelve in my preteen years
    Which means you’ll help me with all my new fears
    Now fourteen with my permit to drive
    Waiting to hit the big one-five

    Too early comes sixteen, with my license now
    It went by too fast, you just ask how

    You want to meet my boyfriend when I’m eighteen
    I pray to God that you’re not too mean
    The same guy two years later asks for my hand
    I’m relieved when you say, that’s just grand

    About a year later, you walk me down the aisle
    Through all the tears, you bare a smile
    Three years later, you’re gonna be a grandfather
    You show love and pride for your new granddaughter

    Another year down the road
    Mom dies, oh the many tears that flowed
    You’re not doing so well without her
    Less than a year later, you forgot all about her

    Alzheimer’s sets in and it scares me so
    Not long after, you decide to go
    Now I’m regretting not saying goodbye
    Every time I think about it, I start to cry

    The cycle has begun again
    It has started over with little Megan
    The other day, she turned two
    And said, «Look, daddy, I can tie my shoe!»

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    Wow! Words cannot describe the quality of this poem. It is touching and another thing is that it co-relates with life’s reality. Thanks a lot and thumbs up for the great job!

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18. 18.
    The Three Little Pigs

    • 
      By Roald Dahl

    Top 500 Poem
    381

    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. In this poem with gory twists, Roald Dahl combines the characters in the Three Little Pigs story with Little Red Riding Hood.

    in Famous Funny Poems

    The animal I really dig,
    Above all others is the pig.
    Pigs are noble. Pigs are clever,
    Pigs are courteous. However,
    Now and then, to break this rule,
    One meets a pig who is a fool.
    What, for example, would you say,
    If strolling through the woods one day,
    Right there in front of you you saw
    A pig who’d built his house of STRAW?
    The Wolf who saw it licked his lips,
    And said, ‘That pig has had his chips.’
    ‘Little pig, little pig, let me come in!’
    ‘No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!’
    ‘Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in!’

    The little pig began to pray,
    But Wolfie blew his house away.
    He shouted, ‘Bacon, pork and ham!
    Oh, what a lucky Wolf I am!’
    And though he ate the pig quite fast,
    He carefully kept the tail till last.
    Wolf wandered on, a trifle bloated.
    Surprise, surprise, for soon he noted
    Another little house for pigs,
    And this one had been built of TWIGS!

    ‘Little pig, little pig, let me come in!’
    ‘No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!’
    ‘Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in!’

    The Wolf said, ‘Okay, here we go!’
    He then began to blow and blow.
    The little pig began to squeal.
    He cried, ‘Oh Wolf, you’ve had one meal!
    Why can’t we talk and make a deal?
    The Wolf replied, ‘Not on your nelly!’
    And soon the pig was in his belly.

    ‘Two juicy little pigs!’ Wolf cried,
    ‘But still I’m not quite satisfied!
    I know how full my tummy’s bulging,
    But oh, how I adore indulging.’
    So creeping quietly as a mouse,
    The Wolf approached another house,
    A house which also had inside
    A little piggy trying to hide.
    ‘You’ll not get me!’ the Piggy cried.
    ‘I’ll blow you down!’ the Wolf replied.
    ‘You’ll need,’ Pig said, ‘a lot of puff,
    And I don’t think you’ve got enough.’
    Wolf huffed and puffed and blew and blew.
    The house stayed up as good as new.
    ‘If I can’t blow it down,’ Wolf said,
    I’ll have to blow it up instead.
    I’ll come back in the dead of night
    And blow it up with dynamite!’
    Pig cried, ‘You brute! I might have known!’
    Then, picking up the telephone,
    He dialed as quickly as he could
    The number of red Riding Hood.

    ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Who’s speaking? Who?
    Oh, hello, Piggy, how d’you do?’
    Pig cried, ‘I need your help, Miss Hood!
    Oh help me, please! D’you think you could?’
    ‘I’ll try of course,’ Miss Hood replied.
    ‘What’s on your mind…?’ ‘A Wolf!’ Pig cried.
    ‘I know you’ve dealt with wolves before,
    And now I’ve got one at my door!’

    ‘My darling Pig,’ she said, ‘my sweet,
    That’s something really up my street.
    I’ve just begun to wash my hair.
    But when it’s dry, I’ll be right there.’

    A short while later, through the wood,
    Came striding brave Miss Riding Hood.
    The Wolf stood there, his eyes ablaze,
    And yellowish, like mayonnaise.
    His teeth were sharp, his gums were raw,
    And spit was dripping from his jaw.
    Once more the maiden’s eyelid flickers.
    She draws the pistol from her knickers.
    Once more she hits the vital spot,
    And kills him with a single shot.
    Pig, peeping through the window, stood
    And yelled, ‘Well done, Miss Riding Hood!’

    Ah, Piglet, you must never trust
    Young ladies from the upper crust.
    For now, Miss Riding Hood, one notes,
    Not only has two wolfskin coats,
    But when she goes from place to place,
    She has a PIGSKIN TRAVELING CASE.

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    This is an unanticipated and unexpected poem. Though the title sounds childish, it is a complete transformation of the story Three Little Pigs! Roald Dahl has a creative mind which I…

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19. 19.
    Cinderella

    • 
      By Roald Dahl

    Top 500 Poem
    388

    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. This poem shows a different side of the Cinderella story that everyone knows. It has some gory twists and turns.

    in Famous Funny Poems

    I guess you think you know this story.
    You don’t. The real one’s much more gory.
    The phoney one, the one you know,
    Was cooked up years and years ago,
    And made to sound all soft and sappy
    just to keep the children happy.
    Mind you, they got the first bit right,
    The bit where, in the dead of night,
    The Ugly Sisters, jewels and all,
    Departed for the Palace Ball,
    While darling little Cinderella
    Was locked up in a slimy cellar,
    Where rats who wanted things to eat,
    Began to nibble at her feet.

    She bellowed ‘Help!’ and ‘Let me out!
    The Magic Fairy heard her shout.
    Appearing in a blaze of light,
    She said: ‘My dear, are you all right?’
    ‘All right?’ cried Cindy .’Can’t you see
    ‘I feel as rotten as can be!’
    She beat her fist against the wall,
    And shouted, ‘Get me to the Ball!
    ‘There is a Disco at the Palace!
    ‘The rest have gone and I am jealous!
    ‘I want a dress! I want a coach!
    ‘And earrings and a diamond brooch!
    ‘And silver slippers, two of those!
    ‘And lovely nylon panty hose!
    ‘Done up like that I’ll guarantee
    ‘The handsome Prince will fall for me!’
    The Fairy said, ‘Hang on a tick.’
    She gave her wand a mighty flick
    And quickly, in no time at all,
    Cindy was at the Palace Ball!

    It made the Ugly Sisters wince
    To see her dancing with the Prince.
    She held him very tight and pressed
    herself against his manly chest.
    The Prince himself was turned to pulp,
    All he could do was gasp and gulp.
    Then midnight struck. She shouted, ‘Heck!
    I’ve got to run to save my neck!’
    The Prince cried, ‘No! Alas! Alack!’
    He grabbed her dress to hold her back.
    As Cindy shouted, ‘Let me go!’
    The dress was ripped from head to toe.

    She ran out in her underwear,
    And lost one slipper on the stair.
    The Prince was on it like a dart,
    He pressed it to his pounding heart,
    ‘The girl this slipper fits,’ he cried,
    ‘Tomorrow morn shall be my bride!
    I’ll visit every house in town
    ‘Until I’ve tracked the maiden down!’
    Then rather carelessly, I fear,
    He placed it on a crate of beer.

    At once, one of the Ugly Sisters,
    (The one whose face was blotched with blisters)
    Sneaked up and grabbed the dainty shoe,
    And quickly flushed it down the loo.
    Then in its place she calmly put
    The slipper from her own left foot.
    Ah ha, you see, the plot grows thicker,
    And Cindy’s luck starts looking sicker.

    Next day, the Prince went charging down
    To knock on all the doors in town.
    In every house, the tension grew.
    Who was the owner of the shoe?
    The shoe was long and very wide.
    (A normal foot got lost inside.)
    Also it smelled a wee bit icky.
    (The owner’s feet were hot and sticky.)
    Thousands of eager people came
    To try it on, but all in vain.
    Now came the Ugly Sisters’ go.
    One tried it on. The Prince screamed, ‘No!’
    But she screamed, ‘Yes! It fits! Whoopee!
    ‘So now you’ve got to marry me!’
    The Prince went white from ear to ear.
    He muttered, ‘Let me out of here.’
    ‘Oh no you don’t! You made a vow!
    ‘There’s no way you can back out now!’
    ‘Off with her head!’ The Prince roared back.
    They chopped it off with one big whack.
    This pleased the Prince. He smiled and said,
    ‘She’s prettier without her head.’
    Then up came Sister Number Two,
    Who yelled, ‘Now I will try the shoe!’
    ‘Try this instead!’ the Prince yelled back.
    He swung his trusty sword and smack
    Her head went crashing to the ground.
    It bounced a bit and rolled around.
    In the kitchen, peeling spuds,
    Cinderella heard the thuds
    Of bouncing heads upon the floor,
    And poked her own head round the door.
    ‘What’s all the racket? ‘Cindy cried.
    ‘Mind your own bizz,’ the Prince replied.
    Poor Cindy’s heart was torn to shreds.
    My Prince! she thought. He chops off heads!
    How could I marry anyone
    Who does that sort of thing for fun?

    The Prince cried, ‘Who’s this dirty slut?
    ‘Off with her nut! Off with her nut!’
    Just then, all in a blaze of light,
    The Magic Fairy hove in sight,
    Her Magic Wand went swoosh and swish!
    ‘Cindy! ‘she cried, ‘come make a wish!
    ‘Wish anything and have no doubt
    ‘That I will make it come about!’
    Cindy answered, ‘Oh kind Fairy,
    ‘This time I shall be more wary.
    ‘No more Princes, no more money.
    ‘I have had my taste of honey.
    I’m wishing for a decent man.
    ‘They’re hard to find. D’you think you can?’
    Within a minute, Cinderella
    Was married to a lovely feller,
    A simple jam maker by trade,
    Who sold good home-made marmalade.
    Their house was filled with smiles and laughter
    And they were happy ever after.

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    Yes, Roald Dahl has a whole book of revolting rhymes like this one. You should read it. Hilarious.

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20. 20.
    The Pig

    • 
      By Roald Dahl

    Top 500 Poem
    390

    In this poem, Roald Dahl shares about a pig that contemplates his purpose in life. When he realizes he is going to end up on someone’s dinner plate, he takes matters into his own hands. Roald Dahl’s poems and stories are known for dark humor and unexpected endings.

    in Famous Funny Poems

    In England once there lived a big
    And wonderfully clever pig.
    To everybody it was plain
    That Piggy had a massive brain.
    He worked out sums inside his head,
    There was no book he hadn’t read.
    He knew what made an airplane fly,
    He knew how engines worked and why.
    He knew all this, but in the end
    One question drove him round the bend:
    He simply couldn’t puzzle out
    What LIFE was really all about.
    What was the reason for his birth?
    Why was he placed upon this earth?
    His giant brain went round and round.
    Alas, no answer could be found.
    Till suddenly one wondrous night.
    All in a flash he saw the light.
    He jumped up like a ballet dancer
    And yelled, ‘By gum, I’ve got the answer! ‘
    ‘They want my bacon slice by slice
    ‘To sell at a tremendous price!
    ‘They want my tender juicy chops
    ‘To put in all the butcher’s shops!
    ‘They want my pork to make a roast
    ‘And that’s the part’ll cost the most!
    ‘They want my sausages in strings!
    ‘They even want my chitterlings!
    ‘The butcher’s shop! The carving knife!
    ‘That is the reason for my life! ‘
    Such thoughts as these are not designed
    To give a pig great peace of mind.
    Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
    A pail of pigswill in his hand,
    And piggy with a mighty roar,
    Bashes the farmer to the floor…
    Now comes the rather grisly bit
    So let’s not make too much of it,
    Except that you must understand
    That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
    He ate him up from head to toe,
    Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
    It took an hour to reach the feet,
    Because there was so much to eat,
    And when he finished, Pig, of course,
    Felt absolutely no remorse.
    Slowly he scratched his brainy head
    And with a little smile he said,
    ‘I had a fairly powerful hunch
    ‘That he might have me for his lunch.
    ‘And so, because I feared the worst,
    ‘I thought I’d better eat him first.’

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    I like this poem because it is contrary to what is normal, as the pig tries to eat the farmer instead of the other way around and it shows the power of humans over all other living things….

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