12th Grade Poems | Examples of 12th Grade Poetry

MY FATHER'S HANDS I remember my father’s hands as a plumber’s hands—fiercely strong, calloused, rough, knuckle-battered, and dirty after a long-day’s work. Those hands shoveled; unclogged drains and toilets; repaired leaks; and installed pipes, commodes, and bathtubs. Those hands provided. I remember my father’s hands as a fisherman’s hands—perfectly patient, tenacious, self-confident, and unwavering as he...

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RIVULETS I don’t know when my tears melted into the rain~ warm rivulets thawed patterns upon my heart of ice ‘tis a strange world these hesitant heartbeats I hear once again ...

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CATCH OF THE DAY Today is Father's Day. So I wrote this string of Haikus as a remembrance of my dad whose favorite past time fishing. He was a fisherman extraordinair! dawn by the river daylight has barely arrived, mist dances gently morning reverie how perfectly the songbirds fill the silence old flat-bottom boat his rod and torn fishing net – father’s calloused hands the...

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Thank you for each of my children and my wonderful wife. Thank you for their mothers through whom you gave life. No matter what any of us think about You. You honor your word and your love is so true! I'm ashamed when I doubt that you'll come through. But you always do and God I'm so grateful to you. What...

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Tom was not appreciated most of his life; neither was his fiddle. He insisted on having it buried with him, a pillow in the middle. At three a.m. the witching hour, he creates music for the others. The lonely, the forgotten, the sad, the depressed, and the angry mothers. They gather at their gravestones, appreciating the concert of Tom. Last...

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Pink mushroom guy was a dancer, a dreamer called Dilly Dally Dew. He loved fuchsia, purple, lavender, and pink of every shade and hue. Why does he insist on those colors? His dad asked, irritated a bit. Pink was the color for boys in Victorian days, said his wife, Mrs. Whit. Daddy looked it up, for it was difficult...

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Astronauts sleep like bats Hanging from the ceiling in bags But this does not tell us about astro-cats Do they sleep in cots made of rags? What about astro-dogs and astro-pigs? Are their bunks teeny or the biggest of the bigs? Has there yet been an astro-horse? Political correctness says there should be one of course....

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they said justice but meant just us and here I sit— a roach in a cage of light, the hum of the air thick with bleach and lies. my skin was the evidence. my eyes—guilty. no rich man ever came this far south to die in a room this cold. I write with broken pencils and dream of rain, the kind that doesn't stop. ...

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THE PERFECT HOUR the perfect hour of an afternoon when the meadow lark rests and the late train from town goes by without stopping ...

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I havea zillion things to give utterance severely about. Been there Don't quit on yourself, Considering it will be distractions Along one's travels of plots and traps. Been There The visage of pieces of puzzling scars. Been There Mental and Physical Violations, Familiar faces Switching lanes, Unfamiliar places, coins tossed aside where it lands no one knows. Been...

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Red-Crested Sampan ? Shariful Alam June 10, 2025 Hudson, New York United States of America ? If by chance we meet again someday, If desire brings us close once more, I’ll breathe deeply again at the foot of the mountain, Smear your gentle gaze across my soul. I’ll cross treacherous roads— carefully, ever so carefully. On a melancholic evening, I’ll go to Silentville. That day, I will become the...

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Tears in my eyes, and a tear on my heart. Fear in my mind, and scars on my soul. Time moves on, but still are my thoughts, For I fought for some peace, but life is not still. I plunged in a pool of angry wavers, seeking justice. But the honest truth was to evade the truth — The truth about...

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She walks the streets she’s always known, But feels a longing deep, alone. A fire burns inside her chest, To leave, to grow, to find what’s best. Her heart beats fast when she thinks of far, Of distant lights and shining stars. A thousand questions fill her mind— Will she be lost? Will she be kind? She dreams of skies she’s never seen, Of...

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INK'S JOURNEY From quill to parchment in graceful arcs, ink tells tales from dawn till dark. Stories unfold in each little mark, a writer’s journey, a creative spark. ...

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WHISPERS OF STILLNESS Almost sunset. I sit on the riverbank letting the water dribble over my toes and massaging my soles against the pebbles underfoot. I listen to the water trickling along and to the insects droning. Above me is a river of blue, the sky born of bluest petals, as if it were once a...

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