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Home Narrative Poems | Narrative Poems About Home

These Home Narrative poems are examples of Narrative poems about Home. These are the best examples of Home Narrative poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Narrative |

Will You Tie My Shoes When I Grow Old

You were beautiful, 
my tiny child, 
wrapped tightly in my arms, 
close to my heart.
I listened to you breathing.
I counted your fingers
and your toes.
Helpless, 
you cried out to me
and I loved you
with every ounce of my soul.

Will you hear me
when I cry out? 
Will you hold me close
as I held you then? 

I remember the day
You took your first step.
There was no stopping you.
Your feet gave you freedom
to explore the world
like never before
but danger lurked.
I opened those doors anyway, 
cautiously, 
and introduced
you to the world.
Where will you be
when my legs
no longer run? 
no longer work? 
Will you realize
that I love
freedom too? 

I laugh
about that day
you first tied your shoe.
We tried and tried
to get that rabbit
in that hole
and you finally did it.
You pointed your toes
for everyone to see
how proud you were.

I am proud too, 
of my writing
and my drawing, 
of my needlework
and my cooking.
But my hands are beginning to ache
and my fingers will not bend.
I will lose the things
that make me proud
except for you.
Hopefully not you.
Will you let me
brag on you? 
Even tell wild stories
that are a bit beyond the truth? 
Will you be proud of me too? 

I waved good-bye
that morning when you left
on that large, yellow bus.
I was so scared.
I know you were too.
You waved at me bravely
through the dusty window
but I saw the water
forming in your eyes.
You came home, however, 
full of pride and joy.
You sang the alphabet song
and got most of it right.
You practiced for hours
until you could sing it
even in your sleep.

But 
I'm afraid.
I forgot
whether I took
my pills today or not.
I forgot
if I told this story before.
I even forgot once
who you were
and it terrified me.
My mind
is my treasure
the only thing I have left, 
and I heard you make
fun of me
for not remembering
that I gave you the
same gift as last year.
Will you love me
when I no longer
know who I am? 

You came home blushing
from the glow of
your first kiss.
Your first love, 
the one you thought was real.
You talked about him non-stop.
You changed for him. You gave.
But he left you anyway
for a blue-eyed girl
and I held you
while you cried for him.

I too have a
broken heart.
The love of my life
left me after
fifty-six years.
He left me here
to live life on my own
while he moved on
to another realm
And I cry for him too.
I long for his shoulder
and strong embrace.
I feel betrayed
because he and I
made a deal
that we would never
leave the other alone.
Yet I am alone
sitting in an echoing house
with no hands to hold.

You welcomed her home today- 
your tiny baby girl.
She has your eyes
and possibly your toes.
I see you counting them
as they roll me
into the room.
You finally came
to visit.
It has been a while.

You look up at me
with tears in your eyes
and ask
almost desperately, 

"Will she tie my
shoes
when I get old? "


Details | Narrative |

Eat Pray Love

On the edge 
of the evacuation zone
Miyuki holds her daughter 
tip-toeing in pink sneakers 
her small hands fragile 
blossoms opening
to the man with the beeping wand 

They were outside in the karesansui 
washing and raking 
rocks, when the school 
heaved, convulsed 
then pressed into silence
one-hundred-and-seven 
voices rising inside

So now they wait with strangers
in ordered lines of sorrow 
for bread and drinking water 
as an adolescent, eyes downcast
sees the small pink laces and
offers up his only ration 
of precious onigiri

Hooded and white masked they walk 
three days and bed-less nights toward 
Ishinomaki by the ocean
to family, friends, and home forever 
transformed 

The landscape jumbles unfamiliar
with plastic wreckage 
and automobiles 
detritus flooded in a field
where Japonica once grew
while moon-suited men 
and women gather
albums for the living

And after sunset Miyuki moves 
her little girl away 
from a white-taped blue-bagged 
lifeless form 
toward the humming black-robed Monk, his
prayers for light 
and workers burned
exposed to radiation ten 
thousand times too high 

And in the shadows one old man kneels
beside a fetid pool and scoops  
rice to carry back to neighbours 
moved to higher ground, un-opens 
one last bottled spirit
bows his head and offers
Miyuki and her first and only 
everything  he has 

At last they reach the shelter’s glow
beneath the starless robe of night 
not used to wearing 
shoes indoors
Miyuki helps her daughter fold
sheets of painful news into
an origami box to hold
her last and only pair

And in the morning as they face
the stretch of road for home 
to unknown love and losses there 
they turn and gaze toward the east 
awaiting still 
spring’s warming breeze 
to rise with brilliant red once more
new light of wondrous dawn 


      ~~~~~~~~~

'karesansui' is a Japanese rock garden or 'dry landscape'.  Rocks are often washed.
'onigiri' is the emergency rice being distributed to survivors in Japan.
'Japonica' is a type of (short-grained) Japanese rice.



for Debbie Guzzie's contest, 'Tribute to Japan'

by ~Soulfire~ 

 


Details | Narrative |

The Story of the Door

Part One- Reality

The door is closing
I’m loath to close it
And yet….and yet
I feel….I must
Close it gently
Close is surely
Close it….SLOWLY
Oh, so very slowly
Hoping against hope

Part Two- Fantasy

How I long to fling it open
And dash outside
Grab your retreating frame
And pull you inside
Eager to show you
The wonders I’ve prepared
The love decorations I’ve hung
Perhaps if you could see
With your own eyes
My little and cozy heart
The warm fire that continually burns
The bed that I’ve prepared and perfumed
The food…delicacies for your tongue
Treats bursting with flavors 
You’ve never tasted before
Sweet dainty desserts for when
The night has turned to day
And we arise hungry
Searching for what will sustain us
For our next expenditure
Of passion tinged energy
From which we never tire
Perhaps then
You'd come inside 
My heart kingdom

Here, you reign
In this kingdom
All is under your command
My soul and body
Yours to do with as you wish
Without asking
Without demanding
For I belong to you
And I know you well
Aware of what will please
When to appease
When to placate
And when to tease…

I serve you with tender hand
Longing to satisfy you
So you will never want to leave
To make you dream contented dreams
As you sleep soundly
On the soft silken pillows
Of my body
And awake to dream again
For life is but “A Dream within a Dream”

Part 3- Back to Reality

No, your figure continues to retreat
My voice does not reach you
My tears fall unnoticed
This door of my heart
Must close forever
I will bolt it too
For I cannot bear the thought
Of letting another in
Only you
Only you…

I sigh behind the door
Looking at the bed
That will not hear
My moans and cries of ecstasy
Nor your contended sighs
A bed that will never hold
Our entwined bodies
Tossing and turning
Finely tuned to the rhythm of delight
A bed that will never feel
Hands that clutch at its silken sheets
Desperate to hold on…a little longer
In that pulsating world of blinding light

Part 4- The Final Act

I lean with all my strength against the door
To close it “forevermore”
And yet…
There is resistance
It will not close
Frustrated, with tears spilling down
Threatening to turn into a deluge
I fling the door open
Only to look at a massive chest
My eyes travel up to your face
And those beautiful eyes
My source of delight
Your hand reaches out
And wipes away tears
My breath catches in my throat
As I hear your mellow voice speak
“Won’t you invite me in?”

Part 5- Yes, the happy ever after! 

Eileen Manassian Ghali


Details | Narrative |

A Dark Man

         This piece is dedicated with love to J.E. Gauthier, Jr. Active addict and father. 
Only by the grace of God may he be saved from the error of his ways.

 For years a dark man walked through a seemingly revolving door
 Steadily leaving his wife and kids as he searched for something more
 Occasionally calling home every now and again
 In his voice they could hear the taint of black sin
 
 Back then life on the road meant drugs money and women far as the eye could see
 He said he'd never look back 'cuz he was born free
 
 Life grew emptier as he grew older
 The drugs grew heavier as his heart grew colder
 His four children left behind with no place to call home
 From day one they made it in this world alone
 
  For years a dark man walked through a seemingly revolving door
 Steadily leaving his wife and kids as he searched for something more
 Occasionally calling home every now and again
 In his voice they could hear the taint of black sin

 Every few years he'd arrive unannounced offering money and a hug
 All while using the garage to hide his drug
 His spitting image could smell his guilt a mile away
 She rolled her gloomy blue eyes in unison with every false word he had to say

 Today his girls are grown raising girls of thier own
 December came and went
 February turned to Lent
 On a stormy midnight he still turns to his blue eyed spitting image
 As the clouds clear she is again lost in the scrimmage

 She lies awake with a bottle of wine in hand
 On her mind weighs a dark man
 His ways make him lonely and lost
 Yet to her death she will fight for him at all costs

  For years a dark man walked through a seemingly revolving door
 Steadily leaving his wife and kids as he searched for something more
 Occasionally calling home every now and again
 In his voice they could hear the taint of black sin


Details | Narrative |

Remembering The Children of Beslan

It was the first day of the new school year
The children of Beslan had no need to fear
In anticipation they eagerly left home for school
Some walked hand in hand with Mom and Dad
Others skipped along the well known path
Excitement filled the sidewalks and the streets
As fleeting thoughts collided in mid air

Some thought of new friends to be made
Others of old friends with whom to play
A little sister left at home 
Of baby brother asleep in his crib
Much too young to run and play
Some favorite lullabies which Grandmama sang 
As Grandpapa played his violin

The first day of the new school year
Mothers beamed with such pride
How their little ones had grown
Never would they ever want to let go
Others gave in to their children’s cries
‘Mamma, I do not want to go to school.
May I stay with you today?’

On wings of hate evil had already arrived 
With diabolical plans and bombs in hand
To maim and murder the children of Beslan
Who became captives in their little school house
After the dastardly deed was done
Dreams and aspirations lay splattered 'cross the floor 
Childhood innocence forever vanished! 

On the day of internment the sun in his temple hid
Earth wept pouring rain, her bitter tears
As Mothers’ voices cracked and strained 
Cried out loud, their children’s names
While others pleaded in vain for death
Fathers in a state of shock stood stoically in the cold autumn rain
Wearing faces carved in stone

The blood of children cried out to Heaven
Where at the throne of mercy 
Sits a God who is just 
Though their bodies lay broken in tiny white coffins
On angels' wings their souls did ascend  
He will judge all men and their deeds 
All, on one appointed day

A tribute to the children of Beslan, No. Ostetia, Russia 9/1-3/ 2004


Details | Narrative |

Mike Never Came Home

Mike came home from Afghanistan yesterday,
I ran into him at the VFW...he looked at me
from behind eyes that had seen what no 22 yr. old
kid should have to see....he told me he didn't 
belong here, that his brothers were in the s---
and he wasn't there to help......

Mike came home from Afghanistan two-weeks ago,
but only his body was here, his head was
still playin' tricks on him....... Mike didn't say much,
just blasted his drinks and looked uncomfortable.

Mike came home from Afghanistan three-months ago,
I heard he had been a recon sniper in the Stan,
 and watched as one of his brothers had been 
ambushed and snatched in the distance,
unable to help.......

Mike came home from Afghanistan four-months ago,
people said he went crazy at the bar, raced-off
on his motorcycle and crashed goin' 110 mph.
around a highway crossover in the pourin'-rain.

Mike never came home from Afghanistan,
but his body's in a box, buried in his hometown.


Details | Narrative |

Death Of The Saints

A cousin called the other day saying "Another cousin has passed away".

Well my husband said "How old was she.""

"Ninety-eight".

A stalwart woman who had served family and community well. Producing one child that 
became a missionary serving in a foreign land..

While talking the cousin asked "Did you know ______"?

My husband answered, "Well, I don't think that I knew them".

The cousin proceeded to tale this story.

"The man had been down with cancer for a while and passed recently..The funeral had been 
conducted and the hearse had gone on to the cemetary..The family car with the family was 
not to far behind..But when it pulled up, the wife of the deceased did not get out and the 
funeral home staff was gathering around..The funeral home director decided to go see what 
was going on ...."

The cousin said, " That this funeral home director told him". "That he had been in this 
business for thirty-five years and faced something that he had never had happen to him or 
any other funeral home director that he knew."

The funeral home director said, "When I got to the family car, I found the wife of the 
deceased had passed from a massive corornary."

She had said, "I don't know how I will live without him." She didn't have to learn. God called 
her home..

The roosters crow, the crows craw and are answered by the gobble of the turkey across the 
way..


Details | Narrative |

The Artist

The Artist
 


Once described as an intense artist
He now sits comfortably
Patiently being interviewed 
By a reporter
Half his age
He begins
When I was a younger
I would come home from school
To an empty apartment
To keep myself occupied 
Until my mother came home 
I would spend hours 
Drawing random sketches 
And imaginary shapes in a notebook
That I kept hidden behind a couch
My mind was full of images
I was young
I was vulnerable
It wasn’t until
I got much older
That I decided to study art.

Speaking softly, he continues
People respect art and imagination
But recognition for an artist has a life of its own 
An artist must push himself to do 
What he hasn’t done before
But art is complicated 
What often comes with it 
Is all extraneous stuff
Which you try to control 
Before it consumes you.

The interview
And the questions ended hours ago
Returning home
The artist gazes out his bedroom window
Outside 
The Greek Orthodox   
Dome of St. George 
Maintains a stoic vigil
Over the East Village
Facing upward
Toward the dusky sky
Light from an open window 
Highlights his forehead
Drifting down to his lips
Gradually disappearing
Near his open collar
Only to resurface
In the middle of his shirt
Hands, calloused and strong,
Are down by his side
The left touching his thigh
The right hand dangling in freedom
Deep lines furrow his face
Shadows under his eyes
Mark a life spent
Perfecting his craft.

In the silence
He takes a deep breathe
Grateful
That the Roman in his heart  
Always unwavering
Prideful and defiant
Never surrendered
A day of his life.


Details | Narrative |

The Cottage

The long drive is almost over
Slowly I head down the hill
In anxious anticipation 
Of what I will find
I don't really know what I'm expecting
Just something new maybe 
An overgrown path in the center of the road
Lets me know I am one of the first
I wildly shift my eyes back and forth taking in all
The beauty this place gives never disappoints
Sometimes it's a flower peeking through the leaves
Or a vine growing, maybe a new bush
Slowly I exit in anticipation of familiar scents
The cedar, the green, the lake all have their own flavors
As I put in the key and slowly turn the knob
The scent of cottage envelops me
For a second, I am at peace, home
And after all is settled, and all is unpacked
I listen, to the sounds of the forest
I try to hear the waves, are they crashing 
Or still, I wonder what tomorrow will bring
But for now, I lie still and exhale
Nothing can find me here
No stress, nothing, but peace
And a familiarness felt by those before me
I often wonder if they visit here too
But for now, I am alone in my calm
Until tomorrow, when I will explore
My favorite places, do my favorite things
If I want to 
Because here time stands still



Details | Narrative |

The Sugar Cube House

Love is a season
And holidays mark the seasons, like signs in the road
Reflecting the bumps in our journey, but showing us a way back home...

Sixteen, in pajamas, watching the rain pelt down
It was long past midnight, Christmas eve
Twinkling lights on one house across the road, stared back at me
It was if they were trying to fill our void with color
The block was filled with a hundred black windows
And the blackness somehow seemed more appropriate  
There was no Christmas tree in our house this year
I suppose Dad felt it was too soon, or perhaps just the effort to get through each day
                                                                            had taken all the strength he had...
We had stayed up and watched a Christmas program together...
It was Perry Como, I think....somehow I remember how he sang "Ava Maria"...

My brother had come home from the Air Force earlier that week
He had helped bring us a bit of cheer....at least for awhile...
but he had been called back to duty, and I missed him terribly...

The house was silent after Dad had gone to bed
I wasn't sleepy....and it was lonely looking out at the cold night
It seemed the whole world was sleeping, 
                                 getting ready for the sun to shine on Christmas morning...

I started to head for bed, but noticed a light had been left on in the front coat closet
I opened the door, and looking up, to pull the chain, I noticed the box...
   The little box that kept the sugar cube house
It was one that Mom and I had made together when I was 8 years old... 
         Little sugar cubes stacked into walls and a roof, glued together with red frosting.
We had copied one out of her Ladies' Home Journal....surrounding it with little trees, and 
people skating on a mirror for a pond, things we had found at the 5 and 10 cent store
Carefully packed away last year, on Mom's last Christmas....

Throughout the night, I sat in the dimness of the house, laying out the sugary scene on the 
fireplace mantel....as Mom would have done .

When the freckled morning moved into day...
I woke on the sofa...Dad sitting next to me.  He had covered me with a warm blanket.
He held me and we cried together.
After breakfast....he disappeared outside, and soon came in carrying a sorry looking branch 
from our old evergreen tree.
We decorated that bedraggled branch...it wasn't the most beautiful tree we had ever had
But it brought Christmas back to my family...


For Constance La France's contest "Your Saddest Christmas Ever"
Carrie Richards


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