Family Iambic Pentameter Poems | Examples
These Family Iambic Pentameter poems are examples of Iambic Pentameter poems about Family. These are the best examples of Iambic Pentameter Family poems written by international poets.
“To be abandoned by your own
is the most painful sadness known”
_by Poet
She lives alone, although her son lives there
a floor below- but they are worlds apart.
He comes and goes without a single care;
this sad abandon stabs his mother's heart.
He pays no rent or helps with any chores.
Her food's delivered- ordered on the phone.
She cannot drive or visit any stores.
So with a broken heart, she deals alone.
Three other children live some miles away
and try to visit her throughout the year;
but cannot force their sibling to obey
and help their mother out by force or fear.
Abandoned now at eighty-two years old;
how does a mother deal with such great pain?
To get him out, the family was told,
“You can't expel a son from their domain.”
No course exists to remedy this wrong,
a son who so abandons her this way.
No reasons for his actions came along
for her to live this hell from day to day.
I have written for some time now and pause,
the quill in my hand rests from wear and tear;
The realization strikes me in my mind,
my mentor used to hold his quill the same;
In morning walks I wave my hand to greet,
the stranger smiles and I remember how,
my Brother used to wave his hand the same;
The time I contemplate, I bite my lip,
my heart shows me a vison and an ache,
my Love bit them the same, what I recall;
The gust of wind, it ruffles my long curls,
and I push back the hair, like Mother mine;
I stargaze, longing my eyes bear, like him,
oh how my Father gazed at them the same;
and then come now to terms with fact I do,
that truly, me for one - a Mosaic whole,
of all I have even been in with or love.
Each of the man-made public disruptions,
Experts say is an unforeseen crisis;
But since they profit from planned destructions,
I am begging you, please don’t go cry sis.
They pre-plan cruel war in people’s back yards,
Wrecking mayhem with killer devices.
Though news says it appeared out of the blue,
It’s their plan all along, so don’t cry sis.
And since war always spurs on inflation,
That is where central bank’s paradise is.
Their fiat money increases with death;
So who’s the killers? For them don’t cry sis.
If the U. S. dollar’s on its last leg,
Then falling empire’s use many vises.
Like foresaid war, division, chaos, hate,
If we learn their ways, there’s less need to cry sis.
And since lately there’s high interest rates,
Countries can’t afford paying debt prices.
So they’ll fool us to fight their dirty wars,
But they’re not worth the fight, so don’t cry sis.
So if we read and learn from history,
And don’t show up for their ginned-up crisis,
We’ll remember we’re one big family;
And that joy, is the reason to cry sis.
June twelfth, two thousand twelve, a special date
when all our family had gathered near
to offer tribute and to celebrate,
your birthday, my dear husband- held so dear.
We gathered at a steak house in a park;
some fifty friends and family were there,
with food and drink and birthday cake to mark
your special day- revered with love and care.
You had attained age seventy and five,
a milestone cherished by all those you knew.
A few years back, by-pass kept you alive-
miraculous for sure- and happy you
outlived your dad, granddad, and great-grand too,
who passed from heart disease before their time.
That special birthday brought great hope anew-
for younger members now within their prime.
Still doing well, as you're now eight-four,
and with God's grace, new birthday, come next year-
your eighty-fifth- we'll party even more
and celebrate with thankfulness and cheer!
September 9, 2021
Premiere Contest: A Poem To Your Spouse On His-Her Birthday
Sponsor: Funom Makama
(revision of poem posted 01/26/2016)
Justice for George
We all saw the knee,
and Chauvin's disdain.
We all heard the plea,
yet there was no refrain.
Please help us un-see
what was seen by us all.
Give solace to his family,
And meaning to his fall.
Heal the countries heart,
and Lift the nation's pall.
With Justice for George,
it's the only righteous call.
By Gene Garrett
To be on a positive note about VMI here is my VMI Poem.
Pat Boone was in the VMI movie. Sometimes when you
criticize something it may raise up your dander but
make you start educating yourself at the same time.
In uniform can always see
What always did satisfy me;
Keydets march with much pride
With a feeling of warmth inside.
We were all present in a parade;
Glad we received a passing grade
And another thing we must reveal;
VMI seems to have so much appeal.
In our dorm room we had to wait
Until we finally would graduate;
Friends and family had been there;
Saw VMI that is beyond compare
God Created Unity and Infinity
God made ships including sea and shore;
Our family and friends who we do adore;
Wonderful wife that children would yield;
Friendly farm with flowers found in a field.
For us, God created every day and week;
Those who may be both humble and meek;
Rivers running and tides as they change;
All of the planets and stars neatly arrange.
God caused and created chemical reaction;
Addition, multiplication along with subtraction;
Every inch and, unity combined with infinity;
Homes that God gave us and each amenity
God made great oceans that turn and toss;
For His son to die on, He created a cross;
Much strength and energy to us He gave;
In battle, He taught us how to be brave.
Had been in heaven and God would meet;
Saw Him there sitting on judgement seat;
Regardless of appearance or color of skin;
Saved us from shortcomings and each sin
When I was young, my weekends started with
an after-supper bonus Friday nights—
soft drinks and candy bars. We watched one of
three channels while we relished these delights.
In college, Friday nights meant a reprieve—
a brief one—from those tomes that ruled my day.
Sometimes I dated or went out with friends.
I couldn’t let life be all work-no play!
Career choice is one key to happiness
and satisfaction. I remember great
rewards and challenges throughout the years—
and FRIDAYS. Sometimes I could hardly wait.
Retired, I’m now my grandkids’ driver, cook,
etcetera. I go that extra mile.
I’m not as busy as I used to be;
still, going home on Fridays makes me smile.
entered in Brian Strand's Premiere Contest 140 on April 12, 2018
Sad Journeyman of Death
Sad journeyman of life’s unending tests
bides time in loathsome sojourn cross each dawn
respecting naught but future’s numbered breaths
a-weep upon the touch of bloodied thorn,
Aroused to madness ‘neath the scent of war
bathes in the fearful prayers as fleeing life
soaks the rusting fields of nevermore
too soon, too soon regaled by drum and fife.
Slowly the agony of youth expires
thrust now upon old roots as unleafed trees
clutch the unspent lies of life’s desires
to live, to age, another day to seize.
Sad journeyman this lonely hypocrite
Death wields his scythe yet doesn’t sharpen it.
10/29/2017
//sonnet//
submitted to – DEATH – Poetry Contest
The cable car proceeds, its old motif
on slender wire eyed by waiting queue -
So much it seems depends on thin belief -
We flew upon anonymous review.
Its window panes were dotted with the prints
that algid fingers left on hardened glass -
a fleeting mark of those who cared to call,
Then wiped away for tourists yet to pass.
The sight - ineffable to say the least.
So beautiful that if you were to fall,
You'd only wish you had more time to feast
on vision, catch the magic of it all.
On blue-green ice like paper they were grown -
A hundred shards of crystalline along
the clear blue water, glamour of its own
reflecting cattle herd it lay among.
And at the centre of this paradise,
No sight but this could make me look away.
She stood on mountain's edge with dazzled eyes
that showed no sign of labour everyday.
It's what you need that takes you far from home,
And till you find it, midst existence roam
There she belonged on top of the world - my mother
Standing apart, a star in the skies like no other.
Written Mother's Day
- Motif pronouced mo-teef
If I would be stronger,
without crucial mistakes,
if I would have last longer,
wouldn't step on the brakes.
Wouldn't consider an ending,
surrender at last,
get depressed at a bird sing
I would live with a blast.
But youth keeps me safe,
would not live without me,
I slide with the wave,
for youth I'm building a family tree.
But as I collect brick blocks,
I still slide against rocks.
Written on:
04/08/2016 (by the European date format)
All I could do was surrender - Shakespearean Sonnet - Poetry Contest
September eleven, two-thousand-one-
dark age of homeland terror had begun.
If only I could change this horrid past-
alleviate deep pain from grief at last.
Three thousand souls were lost forever, then;
three hundred forty-three were brave firemen,
so many whom I'd come to know before,
when they'd stop by our fire equipment store.
Our county is just sixty miles away
from New York City, south of us, and they
would often live more north in New York State,
commute each shift- but many met their fate.
One family resided on our street...
that morning, he left home for Death to meet.
So many others we will never see
who purchased goods from us so faithfully.
For those who died, their bodies not yet found,
we gifted presentation helmets bound
to loved ones for those funerals then held-
such somber and sad days, unparalleled.
If I could change this past and turn back time,
erase that day of tragedy and crime,
my heart, with all the others, would rejoice
that these poor souls could live a life of choice.
To be related to a volcano,
Groomed to stifle oceanic ember,
Doomed to love less, so fearful to love her,
The dragon is feared even in slumber,
It's beautiful but do not approach, No!
I am a mountain, just another mountain,
I will not spit those flames like a fountain,
I swallow them, unable to grow tall,
A majestic evil or just a small
hill! It's common in these parts, after all.
Cornelia’s Red Vest
Cornelia Chipmunk wears a red vest
Without it she feels pos-i-tive-ly undressed
It has thirteen pockets and twenty-one zippers
And fastens in front with some Velcro-like grippers
These pockets can hold all kinds of odd things
Like shoelaces, pencils, and bright plastic rings,
Gum wrappers, pine cones, paper clips, too
Why, there’s nine fuzzy socks – 4 turquoise, 5 blue
Ribbons and nuts and bark from a tree
Some rocks, shiny buttons, a big purple pea.
She stacks them all up in the back of her nest
And goes to sleep thinking she loves her red vest.
The Old Lamplighters
Lamplighters walked the streets of yore,
But they aren’t needed anymore.
Electric lights sent them away.
These newer lights held dark at bay.
These men had made their rounds each day,
Made sure that we could see our way
Through pathways, parks, and down the street.
They made it safe for friends to meet
And take their easy twilight stroll.
New lamps now sit atop the pole.
With hearts resigned, they had to find
A newer means of daily grind.
They left the folks they’d served for years
And knew their happiness and tears.
They were a much familiar sight
Who brought some brightness to the night.
They played their part upon their stage,
Nostalgic figures on a page
Of some old book tucked in a trunk
In some old attic full of junk,
Forgotten men of days of yore,
Who just aren’t needed anymore.