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Sister Narrative Poems | Narrative Poems About Sister

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

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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 |

The Day My Sister Broke Her Finger

One day my mother, my sister Debbie and I were out in the parking lot at school.
My sister Linda came to the car crying. She had an ice pack on her hand. When we got home,
my dad, who works at the hospital looked at her finger. Then my dad took Linda to the hospital.
When they got home, they told us that her finger was broken. The next day, she got a cast on 
her hand. Four weeks later, my sister got her cast off. I was happy that she was happy.




                                                        THE END







March 23, 1998
©2014 Honestly JT


Details | Narrative |

Battling Addiction

No one knew his background, he did not speak of family 
Not even the one left, whom he felt was a burden
His younger sister with whom he’d been out of touch

Financially, he was doing alright, handsome and perfectly fit
Friends wondered why he wasn’t dating
When asked, he’d merely laugh it off

If they only knew the burden he bore, haunted by his crippling addiction
A demon that had seized his body now hungered for his soul
Making its lustful demands at will by day or night

At first he seemed to keep his secret well, appearing as, just one of the guys
While apart, he rode the subway daily
With eyes of a hunter he surveyed

A different girl he took each time, In his home or some dark street corner 
When he had no access to girls, alone, he’d easily play “solitaire”
Or browse the magazines and internet

Secrets like acorns take a while to grow, his were no different; just biding 
time
Til the day of discovery arrived unannounced
Hidden files on the office hard drive

Confronted, he walked away in shame, and some ray of light seared his mind
At home he bagged and trashed his toys
Especially his favorite, the laptop

Temptation came fiercer and with maddening force, took him on a binge
That night he sank to the lowest belly of the beast
Ignoring his sister’s desperate call for help 

When he'd had his fill of a sordid, assortment of lust, a flicker of conscience 
emerged from within
Off he ran in the cold, pouring rain to find his sister alone 
Alone, in the bath with her wrists cut; her precious life slowly ebbing away

It was mercy which kept her alive, barely, and by her hospital bed he sat for 
three days!
Later, outside her room in the parking lot as he left, beyond broken he fell 
upon his knees 
And through his tears and the rain, he cried out loud , “God have mercy!”

That’s how a man, bankrupt; without love or self worth gained a second 
chance...
At a most pivotal time in his life; in need of redemption
The shackles of addiction laid broken in torrent rain...free once more to be 
himself.
~*~
02/25/13
Inspired by the HBO movie, "Shame"


Details | Narrative |

We Are There With You

You do not stand alone in your Battle
Your battle is our Battle
We may not be there in body
But we are there with you in Spirit

We are there in every beat of your Heart
In every whisper of the wind
In every thought and every touch
Every breath and every sound
We are there with you

You are wrapped in an Endless chain of Love
In every link we each send you a part of us
We send you some of our Strength
Some of our will to Fight
Some of our Courage
The most important of them all
We send you all of our Love

If you feel you need more
Just give that Endless chain a little tug
And we'll be there
Tug til you need us no more
Then we'll know you've gone Home
 


______________________________________________________________________
5/09/2014 Dedicated to my Aunt Nini, Wilma Thomas Gamble for Mother's Day. Sadly she lost her Battle w/ Stage 4 Pancreatic Cancer on 5/30/2014.


Details | Narrative |

Remembering When

I remember when...
We'd run around the yard.
And play 'til the sun set.
We had so much fun.
Never had any regret.

I remember when...
We had all those fights.
With every word that was said.
I wish I could take it all away.
No longer feel this dread.

I remember when...
We use to be so close.
When we had it all.
Let's forget the past.
Our love was never small.


Details | Narrative |

Curve Balls --re-posted in paragraph form

When I was ten I went to England with my mother and younger sister.  It was the Queen’s Silver Jubilee. For 
Monarchists, you’ll know what a lot of fanfare goes on.  There were “block parties” everywhere—streets closed off and 
whole neighbourhoods dancing.  And then came the Royal Procession—that golden carriage, the Queen with her little 
wave, Price Phillip smiling to the crowds of screaming people. Like rock stars, but with really with good manners.  

We did a lot of stuff in England: went to the Tower of London, where people used to get their heads cut off or get 
stretched on the rack till they split open; we ran through Trafalgar square, with the pigeons that no one is allowed to 
feed anymore. 

Going home, my Nan came with us to the airport.  I started to cry and she said; “now there, brave soldiers don’t cry.” I 
wasn’t sure that I wanted to be brave or a soldier but I tried not to cry when we had to go on without her.

The next thing I remember we were at the airport, probably in Vancouver, and my mum was in a phone booth.  My 
father was saying; “don’t come home right now.” He’d decided to leave my mother and put the house up for sale.  
Mum, never one to hold it together under pressure, began to sob, incessantly.  I don’t think it stopped for a year or 
more.  

There wasn’t a “For Sale” sign on the lawn when we arrived home. Apparently Dad had not got that organized.  
Nonetheless, he had managed to pack a few things and find somewhere (I think a girlfriend’s), to stay in the interim—of 
whatever this was.  My mother, looking for consolation and a shoulder, understandably reached out to her eldest daughter of twenty-one, only to find that she had eloped with her boyfriend.  

At ten, almost eleven, the last weeks of summer lay before me.  Things were changing rapidly—most notably, my father 
would move to a different city, where he’d stay for several years.  I’d get a paper route and buy my first bike with the 
earnings.  My younger sister withdrew into her art and my older sister became increasingly isolated living with an 
insecure husband who, when laid-off from the mill, took to selling pot to make the mortgage. My mum cut her hair and 
discovered disco. 

Life has some strange curve balls.  Never could have seen these coming and not sure how their spin affected my swing.  
Sometimes, even with lousy pitches, we can hit those balls right out of the park.


Details | Narrative |

The Scar

“Only girls cry!…Oh, boo hoo!” laughed my brother, (as big brothers often do)
 He had been taunting me, teasing me, heckling me, as I whined, complained.
 Neither of us would have won a prize, for being the angelic sibling pride, 
 of Kirby street one day outside, in hot July...
              “You jerk!”..I cried,…a laughing stock...his mocking me.. 
               He smirked, while our brawl played out for all the world to see.

No recourse, no remorse..(poor me!!)… I was the butt of his demeaning jokes 
and by then my temper had been stoked, he had poked me once too often!

So HUGE, was my disdain for this smug, big thug, that grinning face, 
so....in retaliation, for my humilation, (as an enraged little sister might do..)
I grabbed one of his model airplanes….and threw....! But then.....
it broke into shards, big shrapnel pieces…I dashed for cover...
cowering behind the hedge…waiting for his own revenge!…

Instead it left a gash, an ugly wound, I was aghast...!
Above his nose.........a bloody rose
Well, of course our Mother got involved.. .
It was resolved by iodine and bandages
And a tongue lashing...
“You could have put out his eye!! ….and then we cried, …the two of us 

Well we would repent, and spent the day becoming friends...

The afternoon out in the yard….  
One sudden, unguarded moment ….
 there was a car,.... came ‘round the bend 
  and as our game was 'bout to end....his dog, (his mongrel friend) was hit
       ....and then....
             all time suspended........

My brother’s sweet dog, who slept on his bed, was gone
The next hours painfully hung…and long is the memory that still weighs a ton….
Ending with me alone in my bed..
Mute with grief ….remembering his words….”Only girls cry”….
Hearing his sobs……all through the night..
And my parent's cooed comfort, the soundtrack to this tragic movie
That still plays in my darkest theater….all these years later

I shudder still, have a lump in my throat…how that faint little scar,
above his nose.... can still emote…    
such feelings of tenderness I felt on that day.  
Over the years…we have shared many tears…
            we have leaned on each other, me and my brother
Big girls will cry, just as little girls do…and big boys can cry,
                    ..And hey,...ya' know what? ..That’s okay, too.
--------------------------------------------------------------------

Carrie Richards


Details | Narrative |

Family

A decade in to
a new millennium,
a woman, nearing
a century on Earth,
braces herself in
a doorway of
the house,
she has lived in since birth.

Her oldest son unfastens his belt, and takes a seat at the end of her table,
where her middle son just fixed the legs of the chair; to make sure it was stable.
Her youngest son brushes the webs off the wall, and scrubs the stains from the floor.
Her only daughter packs up her pictures, and helps her through the door.

A decade in to 
a new millennium,
a life, almost
a century long,
comes flooding back
to the thoughts of a woman
who feels removed 
from where she belongs.

Her daughter tries to lift her spirits, (from the room in which, she slept as a child)
but no one could easily witness their memories, all being sorted, and filed.
Her house is dissected, and put in a truck that waits - like a thief - in the drive.
-The cumbersome stance; the delicate dance; together, they help one another survive.

A decade in to 
a new millennium,
a woman approaches
a century - passed.
A man in the attic
waves from the window -
Assuring her: 
This home will not be her last.


Details | Narrative |

Curve Balls

When I was ten I went to England 
with my mother and younger sister.  
It was the Queen's Silver Jubilee. For Monarchists, 
you’ll know what a lot of fanfare goes on.  
There were “block parties” everywhere—streets closed off 
and whole neighbourhoods dancing.  
And then the Royal Procession—that golden carriage, 
the Queen with her little wave, Prince Phillip 
smiling to the crowds of screaming people. 
Like rock stars, but with really with good manners.  

We did a lot of stuff in England: 
went to the Tower of London, 
where people used to get their heads cut off or get stretched 
on the rack till they split open; 
we ran through Trafalgar square, 
with the pigeons that no one is allowed to feed anymore. 

Going home, my Nan came with us to the airport.  
I started to cry and she said; “now there, 
brave soldiers don’t cry.” 
I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be brave or a soldier 
but I tried not to cry 
when we had to go on without her.

Next thing I remember 
we were at another airport, 
probably in Vancouver, and my mum was in a phone booth.  
My father was saying; “don’t come home right now.” 
He’d decided to leave my mother and put the house up for sale.  
Mum, never one to hold it together 
under pressure, began to sob, incessantly.  
I don’t think it stopped for a year or more.  

There wasn't a "For Sale" sign on the lawn when we arrived home. 
Apparently Dad had not got it organized.  Nonetheless, 
he had managed to pack a few things and find somewhere 
(I think a girlfriend’s), to stay in the interim—of whatever this was.  
My mother, looking for consolation and a shoulder, 
understandably reached out to her eldest daughter of twenty-one, 
only to find that she had eloped with her boyfriend.  

At ten, almost eleven, the last weeks of summer lay before me.  
Things were changing rapidly—most notably, 
my father would move to a different city, where he’d stay for several years.  
I’d get a paper route and buy my first bike with the earnings.  
My younger sister withdrew into her art and 
my older sister became increasingly isolated 
living with an insecure husband who, when laid-off from the mill, 
took to selling pot to make the mortgage. 
My mum cut her hair and discovered disco. 

Life has some strange curve balls.  
Never could have seen these coming and not sure 
how their spin affected my swing.  
Sometimes, even with lousy pitches, 
we can hit those balls right out of the park.



Details | Narrative |

Biking to Telegraph Hill

My bike was transportation; Mom didn’t drive
But sometimes I sped off on an adventure
To Telegraph Hill the miles were only five
Big sis and I made the ride a joint venture

What she didn’t know was the trek was uphill
Although one could coast nearly all the way back
The journey before us sis tried to fulfill
Red faced, she screamed, “I’m having a heart attack!”

“Keep pedaling,” I said, “we’ve two miles to go.”
It was then we made the ice cream sundae bet
The last one home would have to shell out the dough
By determination my sis was beset

At the top of the hill I took a brief rest
I looked down the long road; sis was not in sight
I was just eleven and filled with such zest
The exhilarating ride gave me delight

Far down the road, sis was attempting to ride
Her pace was slow; on her face was a scowl
I called to her, “Hey, just put the bet aside!”
She was closer now; I thought I heard her growl

Eleven years older, she’d something to prove
Heading back I soared past her down the steep hill
When my sis reached the top, she could barely move
More than a ride, this was a test of her will

About an hour after I arrived at home
I washed up and changed for my big ice cream treat
She came into view; in her mouth I saw foam
Sis was walking her bike, her trip incomplete

At age twenty-two, she collapsed in the yard
Mumbling something about sibling rivalry
She’d never dreamed a ten-mile trip would be hard
Mom tried to take her to the infirmary

The sundae? It was yummy, but sweeter still
Was beating my over-confident sister
My big sis had failed in this arduous drill
Her aches told me this ride would not reoccur



*Entry for Gwen’s “My Bicycle” contest.  (True Story)


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