Kids Narrative Poems | Examples
These Kids Narrative poems are examples of Narrative poems about Kids. These are the best examples of Narrative Kids poems written by international poets.
My mother had a way with green plants
They wanted to please her, and so they did.
She took cuttings and gave them to neighbors.
Millions of cuttings. Provided the town with cuttings.
We kids were gardening as soon as we could walk.
Out in the country, on grandpa’s land.
An enormous garden plowed by a tractor.
Our garden was the size of a small supermarket.
We planted our vegetables in rows
Slit the bottom of the seed packet and put it on a stake
Every second or third row was marked
So, I knew how to plant, weed, and hoe a garden
I learned how to grow my own food
After getting my own place, I realized I missed home-grown vegetables
I decided to plant my own garden.
I chose things I thought might be easy -carrots, radishes, and peas.
Corn takes too much room, and pumpkins are not early enough.
I had learned plenty from my parents; my garden was a hit.
I also had two rows of flowers.
Remembering much later....
My mother always planted two rows of flowers in her vegetable gardens.
Zinnias and Marigolds
The same two flowers I chose to plant.
When we were still kids
Each day comes with it's ecstasy
Steadily playing at night
During the full moon
Right there we share our dreams
Telling different stories
Without hate, envy or jealousy
Love, laughter, sharing without greed all we knew.
Our dreams, our inspiration
Always aspiring with conviction
Even amidst restrictions
We keep dreaming without limitations
Indulging in things that are uplifting
Steadily believing in our dreams without any doubt.
When we were kids
Our goal the focus
We had so many dreams
Some forfeited
Reasons best known to me
Childhood dreams are memories
A flight of fantasies
Giving ecstasy and melodies.
It was a quiet and sunny Sunday afternoon.
We were still dressed in our Sunday best.
My kids and I had a love affair with the
Golden Gate Park and the Pacific.
It was 43 years ago on a sandy beach.
My daughter was 8; my son was 4.
Our new-born was at home.
Unlike us, he was far too young
to roam like his siblings and me.
With never a thought about Pacific tides,
After church, we went to the ocean.
High upon the rocks, well above the sand,
We had no fear of high tides on the windy shores.
I was not prepared for those tides that came
rushing to the shore, but I instinctively reached
For my little ones. Happily, we were safe but wet.
Great aunt Dorothy had a concrete donkey in her yard.
She had inherited it and the house from my grandparents.
This donkey had been in this yard since nineteen forty-one.
We kids always begged to decorate it for Halloween and Christmas.
Aunt Dorothy said this idea was despicable.
It would not be honorable.
The donkey would not like it.
She died three weeks ago.
Two days before Halloween, so we decorated the donkey.
He was now a purple peril, and I think he loved it.
After we left, he walked down to the graveyard to show her.
And there he sits, all pretty, next to her grave.
Aunt Marge’s Christmas letter sat unopened again.
Most of us walked by it, and said “not by the hair
of our chinny chin chin”
We knew what it would hold
Accomplishments of her six awful kids
We had nothing to do with them
Thanks to their behaviors
our family reunions had been on the skids.
This one is perfect.
That one is fine.
Billy is the president of railroad nine.
Tommy is an outstanding citizen now.
Her children were all amazing, wonderful,
her family a wow.
Aunt Marge has been bragging about them
in Christmas letters for fifty three years.
In truth they are spoiled brats
have caused lots of us tears
Her braggadocio bragging is annoying to me.
That unopened letter finally finds its way to the trash bin
without being opened, as our family all did agree.
It is snowing! It is snowing! It is SNOWING!
Three children I usually have to drag out of bed are heading for the front door.
I say “don’t forget your bookbags! Don’t you want breakfast?”
Mom, it’s SNOWING! Says the middle one. No school. Right?
I begin to laugh. This is Minnesota. We don’t cancel school here.
An abdominable snowman could be eating busloads of kids,
we would not cancel.
An avalanche could bury six cars on the school road.
We would not cancel.
MINNESOTA I remind them.
We used to live in California where they would cancel school for rain.
They begin grumbling, put their pajamas on, and try to feign illness.
Too late, I say. I saw how fast you got dressed and got those sleds out.
I hear grumbling all the way to the bus where other kids are yelling “Snow!”
Chitter chatter bitter batter
I am trying to think
Chitter Chatter
Can I eat with you?
I turn and growl.
They leave quickly.
Chitter chatter bitter batter
Same story as yesterday and the day before
Chitter chatter bitter batter
Principal who is my boss comes in
Asks me to pick up Felon Number 6.
Have a talk, make them feel safe.
Chitter chatter.bitter batter as I walk past teacher's lunchroom
Which happens to be on the other side of the wall of my office
Felon Number 6 and I throw balls around.
We build a house. I learn everything about his family.
Chitter chatter is not as noticeable now
As I concentrate on him.
Walk him back but he runs away from me.
As usual.
I catch up to make sure he ended up in his room.
Lunch duty now. Two hundred kids and two adults.
Not fun. No one can open their milk.
No one remembers silverware.
Everyone wants to get out of their seat to chase each other.
Kindergarteners get the best of me.
I am exhausted in a mere thirty minutes.
Go back to my office.
Sit down to concentrate.
Chitter chatter bitter batter
I hate sharing this dhramned wall.
My dog ears are screaming now.
No poetry today.
In the corner of a room is a showcase
received from a library rummage sale.
It's being utilized differently than
its original purpose for the public.
It is now very much a family focus.
On top of the case are two pairs of small
shoes originally purchased some 40 years
ago for our sons who are now 42 and 46.
Three garments hang inside this glass enclosure.
First, our daughter who is 50, has a high school
jacket with her name inscribed, and there's her
Yearbook dated 1989. There is a Boy Scouts of
America shirt belonging to our oldest son. Next,
there is a beautiful little vest of our youngest son
denoting him as a member of the church's group
known as 'King's Kids'. Finally, there's also a handprint
in a clay mold. It is the handprint image of our youngest
son with his name inscribed and the year 1987, when he
was 6 years old.
These are precious items of our kids from yesteryears.
We have embraced all of these family treasures for more
than 35 years, and display them proudly with much
gratitude toward God.
When I am gone my house will lose her color.
kids will back up a huge dumpster and let anyone “have at it”.
Main goal will be to sell the house.
They will not mess around with the contents.
Maybe they will take one painting each.
There are over a thousand paintings, painted by me.
My grandchildren will not have a choice if they are little.
The paintings will probably go into a burn pile.
I picture myself watching from a high seat in an oak tree.
Fascinated that my children wanted nothing of mine.
I cannot help wondering if they will stumble upon my poems.
They have never read a single poem of mine.
Will they eagerly devour my poems upon my demise?
Should I be putting sound to my poems?
Would that be creepy? Or a comfort?
I do not plan to be gone long. I plan to haunt my kin.
("Still Life", 2021, original encaustic)
Speaking in Tongues
I like speaking
To the sky, to the earth
To my dogs, and wife and kids.
It’s the sound of a babbling brook
Flowing in cascades and eddies
Rushing to the sea.
Of course such language of the heart
Is deeply encoded
In these hard, angular, abstract edges,
But those edges are in turn
Worn down, softened and smoothed
By the yielding force of the flow.
I like speaking
In whatever tongues
The world can show.
(2/17/24)
("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)
Empty in itself, the soul lives
Feeling of loneliness thrives there within
A sound of peace among the dark
A soul search touch of humanity
Days of friends gone, now aquaintances
Work, life; everyday trails of consistent
We cut ourselves off from society ways
Raising kids, paying bills, a sun up sundown job
We lose ourselves of our own doing
Growing to adulthood,a life has past
Some turn to whiskey in hopes of soaking
New beginning, friends of different standings
Living of a world, existing in our own
What is it life offers except to live
Friends, just like enemies out the woods
In my own the only one I trust
They come and go, some in betrayal
Others, memories carry and people change
Friends of my own domain dominance
A trust only in one I find liability
The delusion of man, untrustworthy in being
Myself, I am my best of all
Seeing is believing, attitude is everything
But friends we are eternal souls
Between the living and dead, darkness light
Only one will you find any true
...But as he tried to do all this,
to offer this victim his thanks,
he felt a sharp and sudden blow,
then instantly his world went blank…
The father’s heel struck on his spine,
just where it meets up with the brain,
the blow so hard it severed it,
Carson would never breath again.
His wife just hugged her crying kids,
the father looked on, in a haze,
“There’s crazies everywhere you look,
you just can’t escape them these days…”
His own nerves felt frazzled and worn,
and worry in his stomach lurched,
but cops would call it self-defense,
there were cameras there on the church.
Many parts of life's puzzle pieces are not a wonderful life.
Some 50 years ago, my best friend and boss left his wife
And abandoned his four minor children for another woman.
It was very shocking to everyone, so hard to understand.
But out of their pain and mine, there emerged an act
Of Kindness that reached out to their boys and fought back.
I was 23, and they were great kids of about 10 and 12.
Their father was a giant of a spiritual man that slipped and failed.
I took them to a baseball game that became more than a 'pastime' game.
Seeing Chicago cubs like Ron Santos and Ernie Banks was more than 'fame'.
To these boys, at a time like theirs, it was part of a healing process.
For me, it's a treasured memory that recalls me caring at my very best.
Over time, that marriage was restored, and the father of those boys returned.
In our life's journeys, we must pause sometimes and recall the lessons learned.
I did not hesitate for one second.
I am an elementary school counselor.
I get to play with children.
They uplift me, and delight me.
I do my best to stop their tears and get them back to class.
I successfully eliminated twenty-eight jobs before I became a school counselor.
I was forty-four when I received my diploma.
So forty-four when I had my first counseling job.
I loved it, and I love this one.
I love counseling.
I love the kids.
I love teaching character education classes.
Retirement?
Not for this seventy-one year old.
I will go out at ninety-two in a body bag.
I ask only one thing.
Do not tell the children I am dead.
Just slip my body into the bag and leave me in a locked room
Until after school.
Then slip me away quietly.
There will be no funeral.
I don’t want any of them to have any more tears.
Some have had way too many already.