Narrative Poem Examples Novels & Stories

'The Iridescent Stars; mmh… Typical of tonight. Nneoma read the poem, her voice smooth and steady. I gaze up the night sky What meet my gaze? Myriads of shinning stars They shine like iridescent diamonds Diamonds of sublime beauty They twinkle and shine, twinkle and shine. Giving light to all nocturnal creatures The brilliant stars tell me Tales of life yonder They tell me of great meadows With yew trees, yew trees with amber Fruits, of azure rivers ever flowing Of golden fishes ever swimming

I storm out Why won't anyone believe me, I have a real life vampires blood Arrg! after everything I went through, still just insults I did my study on those creatures for years, and I can still remember some of my favourite poetry and poems I read as a kid A Last Word by Ernest Dowson Let us go hence: the night is now at hand; The day is overworn, the birds all flown; And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown; Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land,

An hour later, after searching for anything to help us within books that ranged from brand new to hundreds of years old, I huffed with disappointment and decided to stretch my legs; my pale finger trailed over the spines of books, dust painting my fingertip. Once I reached the poetry section, I smiled brightly. All around me were books from Silvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickson, Robert Frost, and many others that were like my old friends. Taking a random book off the shelf, I flipped through its contents. "(...) Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh "You enjoy poetry too?" A familiar voice spoke behind me, making my heart speed up as I jumped slightly. Turn

she rasped. Liora’s tears hit the dirt. “I know.” Ashen tried to smile. “Too late now.” Suddenly the ground around them opened not into cracks or fire, but into narratives, Half-told stories flooded out like rivers: A soldier who never returned from war, finally finding peace, A wolf spirit who had loved a human girl but never said the words.

"You are misinformed but I will tell you a story about life. It is not related to the Nigerian-Biafran war though. I will tell you the story using a poem my father taught me when I was young. The title of the poem is: Tale." Tale I am a dying man with no limbs who has lost his way and compassion I am a workman with a lowly growth who struggles hard everyday to make a reasonable amount of money I am the last of my specie; the most brutal of our kind I am a Nephilim. I am a woman with fiery eyes who likes to sit in the dark and watch men lust after her I am Adaobi's lover and incomplete half with zero feelings and emotions I am the one that makes her enjoy every moment of her life that seems l

It was an order meant to be fulfilled immediately. The driver nodded. "I can try but I am not sure I am going to easily locate the place. But I can try. There is no harm in trying, right?" "There is absolutely no harm in trying out something new. After all, there came a time when the blind guys thought of spending time with the deaf girls in the evening. A time when the glory that left came back in a simpler form that only a few could understand. Even in the darkness, men still make merry. Even in the light, women still cry. And yet, many do not call that a poem but an epic fall from glory. What do you call it? How do you see it? Do you see it as an epic fall from glory or a poem about a man

he asks. Rage engulfs me as I look into the eyes of the male who rejected me. Chest heaving, I step back and look down at my soiled figure. My thoughts flicker for a moment, distracting me from any coherent response. Walking toward a nearby rock, I slide my hand across the coarse surface and rhyme. There was an old lady who swallowed a bird; How absurd to swallow a bird. She swallowed the bird to catch the spider, She swallowed the spider to catch the fly;

Fiasca laughed out loud. "I am a businesswoman, after all." Emma shrugged her shoulder's as if it was nothing. "Yeah, the iron lady." Fiasca grumbled in disdain. **************** Short poetry for my lovely readers: It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set:

a nurse's anxious voice rang out. "Your friend, Michael Ronan, has been admitted for poisoning and is currently being resuscitated. Please come immediately!"

she says before walking out. I’m not family. Nothing is going on with King and me. Sighing, I walk to the class and sit down. I stop when I see the paper, the sketch, and the poem on it. The sketch is of an eye, with the reflection of a person walking in it. I begin to read the poem. A hundred words Doesn't speak enough A thousands stories Doesn't tell enough A single look, tells so much A lifetime of stories A lifetime of pain Emotions hidden within