Narrative History Poems | Examples
These Narrative History poems are examples of History poems about Narrative. These are the best examples of History Narrative poems written by international poets.
In my country
For you to make sense
You need to have money
For you to be respected
You have to throw money around
For you to find love
You need to have money.
Every effect
A cause
A man's wife may either
"Make" or "break" him
Everyone has their
own style of expressing things.
Forgetting we're souls
Not the body
The soul is limitless
And the body is very limited
We're from the infinite source
Never to be limited to substance or things but purpose.
You say you're sorry
But your not
You want me to forgive
But I won't
You say something racist
Then give this fake apology
What do you want
For me to forgive and forget
But what you said
Is permanently etched in my head
So no I won't forgive and forget
I won't give you the satisfaction
I won't let you win
I won't submit
To this narrative
Where you somehow make yourself the victim
So you can take your 'apology' and shove it
Because to me it's meaningless
So you can choke on your fake guilt
Instead of being a racist maybe you should go into acting
Because this performance
you nailed it
But don't think I'll fall for it
You knew what it meant
You used it to torment
Me
To bully
Me
But you don't know the history
You are so ignorant
This is white privilege
Because while your trying to unlearn your racism
I and many other had to heal from the worlds hatred
So excuse me If I don't forgive and forget
So I won't pretend for your benefit
One river, one life
Many civilization lies
Hope start with giving
In return life live here
Many communication lies
Peace start by talking
All life flourishing in
Business held in river bank
Barter, selling and profit
Then all other forms came in
Once simple life now complex
Need government to control
All walks of life, law exist
It expand from family to kingdom
Kingdom subdued other kingdom
Power comes from the tip of a sword
Of wisdom to wise men to own power
Years by years kingdom arise
From Kings to generational kings
History written in papyrus and scrolls
To inscribe bed rock and rock walls
The history of life evolve with struggles
The mind evolve so as people lives evolve
Now the power in the river becomes dry
All left is desolation, barren and forgotten
The once order, happy, beautiful now empty
All we hear is the wind that blows howling
The dusty place and rugged terrain remain
And the ancient pave path that led to nowhere.
Sweet Spot
On the ever shifting sands of time
The spectrum of human action balances
On a fulcrum between extremes:
Total government and tyranny on the Left
Zero government and anarchy on the Right,
Two ways that on paper may look good
Until practice proves them otherwise.
And in the course of this rise and fall
Systems are engineered to cope
In waves of thesis, antithesis and synthesis
Unloosed to compete for hearts and votes
In the marketplace of ideas and commerce
Seeking a sweet spot, a middle way, free of extremes
Where the individual’s rights are protected
By a limited government, from an unlimited one
And all other predatory entities.
And when this spot is tasted
Balanced for an instant
The tipping point is reached,
The teeter becomes a totter,
And we ride the cycle of up and down again
Until exhausted, defeated or victorious
And leave the playground to the next generation,
Eyes bright and eager for hope and change.
(12/15/24)
The whole of Eastern Samar
Is commemorating its historic
Battle joined by local patriots
Of Balangiga and neighboring towns
On September 28 1901, the only battle won
By fighting Filipinos against the Americans
That we call now the Balangiga Encounter of1901
This heroic act in that part of Samar
Placed the Balangiganons and the Waray townspeople
In the realm of historic significance
All for independence and democracy
The final return of the Balangiga Bells
Brought in a global laurel to this very remote town
That has now stood more prouder yet humble
For the ultimate sacrifice by their forebears
For love of country and people.
...His hand flashed fast, the Colt spoke loudly,
Dalton was struck, flew back wildly.
Silas shifted right, cut down that man,
still fumbling with the gun in his hand.
The other man threw his hands up high,
said Silas, “Run, or you too will die.”
The bandit scrambled, leaving the bar,
Dalton still breathed, but wouldn’t get far.
“In what wourld could we ever be kin?”
snarled Silas, standing over him.
“When you get there, find Satan and tell
him how a Hamlin sent you to Hell.”
Dalton’s breath rasped, the fear present now,
wanting mercy he’d never allowed,
but Silas cared not, slowly took aim,
then sent a bullet straight through his brain.
The saloon was still, people hiding,
Silas straight up, gun still smoking,
said to the bartender, “Sorry for the floor.”
flipped him some gold, then strode out the door.
I weave a narrative of unspeakable taboo, a symphony of sighs and groans, a cacophony of defiled innocence.
Your body, a temple of decadence, a sanctum of sadomasochistic excess, where the strictures of societal mores are rent asunder, and the very fabric of reality is torn apart.
Echolalic luminaries periodically tilt, their sumptuary influence shrinking villages into steel vexations.
Precedence of principles and codes, a paradigm of insecurity, influences vermillion equations.
Jeopardized crescents and tacit furor satisfy the economist’s balloons, coached through versions of fossilized tutelage.
Cathedrals of vice and transgressions wraith through legends, inferring civilian nudists infected by hurakens.
Cultures torque and embark, communicating through the columns of Groningen.
Chiaroscurist initiations of mnemonic memories effloresce in alabaster vigils, aberrant cadastral mortmain consuming convergent dispossessed flâneries.
...Since that day there has been a cross
perched high atop the bluff,
and when the town grew up they thought
they should show him their love.
That’s how we became Sintertown,
their way to show respect,
when the first cross rotted away
the quickly built the next.
The one you see now was installed
back in nineteen-thirty,
and it’s still standing proudly since
they made it of concrete.
It may be trendy in our times
to mock the settlers brave,
to feel bad for the Indians,
and yes, mistakes were made.
Some might not even like this tale,
but we still tell it yet,
since even now I can’t recall
a more heroic death.
While we were sleeping
America became communist.
Of course they don’t call it that now,
And it isn’t ALL communist,
But at least 51% is all you need
To get your way in a democracy.
How did it happen?
Slowly, steadily, and completely
By design.
Most of these communists
Don’t even know they are,
Let alone Marxist sympathizing socialists,
Although now socialism
Isn’t the dirty word it used to be.
So the short answer is we got soft
And complacent, and spoiled
By the good times
The tougher generations of our ancestors
Bestowed.
But once they bestowed those times
They too started to get soft
And old, and fighting the good fight
Against communists, and youth and change
Isn’t so attractive when you’re old and soft.
So here we are
Pretty much screwed by the inevitable decline
Which greatness always faces.
Soft and old isn’t such a bad way to go after all.
It’s being soft and young now
That’s the b*tch.
(2/18/24)
It requires magical thinking
to put things in the right way
Back then there was never a race against the clock
An evaporated history, the core of the truth
As bits of humor, from the stately wedding
No matter how wild the story was
not all myths were debunked
The groom Maximus died on the wedding night
his young wife was still a virgin
He wanted to rise above his own mortality
and never left this house
The abandoned stately property became haunted
Rumors are telling,
that he is still looking for his attractive maiden
The pyramid at Giza
is ancient they say,
but is it oldest
on the worldwide grid?
Some others say nay,
consider Java's Gunung Padang
built 27,000 years ago
a new study shows.
Archeologists raise their eyebrows,
they scoff and snort,
we must surely investigate
those most moronic upstarts.
They question timelines ordained
by us long ago;
we can't be usurped
by those deluded pretenders!
Ten adventurers went caving in Yorkshire Dales, England in 1967.
It was a gorgeous June day, so they were in terrific spirits.
Four of them decided not to continue a few hours later, unsure why.
The remaining six were all young healthy men.
Morag Forbes, who had discontinued the adventure, returned to the site.
Mossdale Caverns was underwater so she knew the six were in trouble.
Shocked for her friends, she ran to get help.
Many volunteers began digging a ditch, to circumvent water.
The six inside had been climbing and crawling through the cavern,
When a rush of water came in through all directions due to flooding.
They were caught by surprise in the labyrinth.
Sadly, they were buried inside the cave.
A sign for our times, Dina abducted and raped (See Gen. 34: 1-2)
by a monster named Shekhem, a Hivvite
When her brothers heard
their anger blazed whiter than white
"Such a vile act in Israel is just not done" (Gen. 34:7)
by those who know right from wrong ...
Feel the ardor and the passion of those who are young
oft-contested by their elders with beards so long
Simon and Levi, young sons of Jacob
did not 'sign petitions' or 'form committees'
Within a week they slew 3,000 Hivvite males (all the males...
for whom they showed no misplaced pity ...supported Shekhem)
********
Down through the ages, this story is told and retold
They'd kill all the Jews ~ if not for retaliation swift and bold
("Tree of Life", 2013, original pen and ink)
Kali's Long Game
The dark age, Kali Yuga of Hindu lore,
Is not a generation or two
Or even a millennia or so
By Western measure
It is part four of an epic cycle, an Age,
Lasting almost 430 thousand years
And it is the age we’re in
Each moment, each day, year, generation
Being but another step
Into darkness and dissolution
And this is the world that fills our knowing
Literally the whole history of humanity
If that's where we started
So when we hear Grandpa complain
How it’s not like it was
How kids these days…
It’s not like it’s going to improve anytime soon
This is the way of the world
The way of the cosmic cycles
That no matter how much we try
How much we hope and pray
It’s going to keep degenerating
Until all is flat
And all our dark karma
Is brunt to a crisp
Till no seeds remain for the next
Golden Age to begin.
In the big picture where are we?
About five thousand years in.
(12/2/23)
if it wasn't for the fact I would be dead
in less than a minute, I would always be in awe
at the sight of a thousand fire-tipped arrows
arching and downing like fireflies in sparkled warmth
lit like stars against the night sky
I never tired of such a sight
I…
then I died
again
as ever, life up to that point held harshness
in my trappings, my prison of wild openness,
the hills, the grasslands of my people, thatching roofs
and weaving wools, making bread and raking soils
a day singing to the backdrop of hammering
from the smiths, these scenes so familiar
these days, always days
then the baron's called as they usually did about now
and men took arms, heading into the tunnel
and with many of my folk
I would die under an intoxicating rain
of glowing angels