Memory Narrative Poems | Examples
These Memory Narrative poems are examples of Narrative poems about Memory. These are the best examples of Narrative Memory poems written by international poets.
Someone in passing says they’ve seen us
somewhere. It could have been when
we were singing or reciting poetry. At first they
didn't recall the time or place we met.
They smile as if great friends when seeing
us, and we struggle to remember. Maybe we
were just out for fun, but in the other’s eyes
the event was bigger than life. The sun shines
on us, but it could have been night.
It could have been a night when we were
seeing friends over drinks in a bar and
grill on a one-way downtown.
It could have been in a coffee shop
where we read poems, and in the heart
of each person the words and lines
held a different meaning. The atmosphere
was warm, and we called it love.
Someone could remember the time
we walked along the sidewalk, and they
passed un-noticed as they drove along.
I was shy when I was in eighth grade
and asked the girl with red hair if she noticed
me while I was in a crowd below the balcony
where she stood.
O, how much it meant when she said yes.
Mama pulled out the old pine loom she said her grandfather crafted, next she opened the lid to the hinge-creaking time-worn garment trunk filled with vintage gingham dresses of cotton & wool clinging to colorful memories that shaped us today. "Grandma worked hard as a young mother in these dresses she made" Mama said, "now we're going to make kitchen rugs on the same pine-loom my grandfather built to honor their memory " pieces of each dress will stich the passage of time, but we'll hang them on the wall for future generations to admire and remind. Some pieces bore stains from a life well-lived, vegetable dyes, colorful store-bought yarns of wool and cotton all created with toil of her nimble fingers, "if they could talk, the stories they'd tell!" mama said. Generations have passed indeed, a few rugs remain, some were given as gifts to family members through the years , I'm a grandma now, with memories to share.
September
2025
My mind has become a hoarder’s paradise
As I have gotten older, fat and lazy.
All that I gather collects
Along the halls, across table tops
On every available surface.
Eventually only narrow pathways remain
Through the labyrinth,
Pathways I traverse daily
As I shuffle back and forth
On my habitual ways.
This is the anatomy of a mind calcifying,
Layers and layers of thought and memory
Cemented accretions which then erode
Into the walls of my labyrinth.
Somewhere at the center
I know there is a garden still untouched
By the clutter of this life,
Complete with eye bright centaur
Chiron on his grassy knoll.
Knowing it’s always there
Is all the solace I need.
(9/7/25)
The fire descends, a whispered dread,
Above the city of the dead.
And from the gate, a frantic flight,
Toward the mountains, toward the light.
The angel's law, a word of steel:
"Run, and let no backward feel.
No glance of sorrow, no fond gaze,
Lest ye be caught in judgment's maze."
A Draconian State, of salt and flame,
Where mercy holds a different name.
For to a glance, a heart's small ache,
A life is forfeit, for its sake.
So turns the head, against the will,
To see the city standing still.
One tear, one memory, one breath,
And then the cold, consuming death.
A pillar stands, of white and fine,
A woman's form, a grave divine.
A silent tomb, to mark the cost,
Of all that one brief look has lost.
I passed spreads of field
the places where farmers
made livings from soil.
The view enticed
but I couldn’t stop.
I couldn’t stop
but I couldn’t forget
times spent on uncle farms
before I went to college.
The morning sun shone
but memories in college
in Ames shone brighter.
There I learned
the language of love
the concepts of life
that I held in my hand.
Each book of psychology
opened worlds that lived
inside me.
I learned to see
they were always a part of me
as were aspirations and dreams.
A Grant Wood mural on a staircase
in the university library
said life began with tillage,
and from that stemmed
our crafts and arts we embraced.
Years later
when on break from work
I walked the steps
to see how the mural
survived the hands of time.
It survived as I
but I never outlived memory.
One less-travelled highway
had lost its name
but I recalled the roads
taken with college friends
as we learned to live our lives.
A beggar grabbed my hand and cried for some spare change.
At first, I offered him a sweet memory of food or a tasteless sip of divine water, but he asked for money.
I had a heavy coin and gave it to him.
I wondered why he took only the money, and when he saw it, he immediately placed it in a different spot.
I asked why.
I offered you food and water—you rejected both, and now you hide the coin.
He said it was the most different one, and if he didn’t hide it, other people would start accusing him that the coin was wrong, that it shouldn’t be used—because its print was different, because its color didn’t match theirs.
Without a word I slip out of bed
and a thousand conversations
run through my mind
as I walk barefoot across worn carpeting.
Two nights ago, I barely made it home
while driving through a deluge
and water on the roads.
I defied the warnings
and survived
as bolts of lightning laced the sky.
I was the storm.
I was the silence.
Now as the sun pokes through
a thin veil of clouds
the sense of nothingness I embrace.
I must admit a year ago I loved someone.
She said that she loved my humor
my new stories and poems
and there was so much to share.
Now she’s a memory lingering in my heart.
This is my life, I say when alone.
This is what I’ve made it
as I watch a shadow dance on the wall—
it can be anything.
My chest ached the other day
when I bore the weight of humanity
while working at a grocery store.
Customers and I talked and traded jokes
but as the day wore upon me
I longed to be in my time and place.
A housemate downstairs
shuffles through the kitchen
while I sit in my loft and play with words
longing to say what’s never been said.
**A Bird in the Hand**
From my childhood, I cherish the sweet memory of holding a sparrow in my hands. Its heart raced wildly, igniting my curiosity. Gazing into its small, beady eyes, I couldn't help but smile as it chirped and whined, pleading for freedom.
Yet, in its desperation, it bit down on my thumb, yearning to escape and explore the world. The realization struck me hard.
“Yay! You better let that bird go before it pecks your nose,” warned Nana.
That day marked a turning point; I gently released the little bird, whispering, “Up, up, and away, dear friend. I truly apologize.”
In that moment, I learned the importance of compassion and letting go.
**The Wicket-Keeper**
Today, I learned that a lover I once cherished has passed away. Just yesterday, he was alive, and I never imagined I would feel this way about him. It’s strange how I rarely think about the rain unless it floods my drains, my driveway, or my beloved rose garden, or dampens my happy mood. Yet, here I am, grappling with a deep sadness over his death.
The tender moments we shared will always be etched in my memory, even amidst the ups and downs that relationships bring. Our past was filled with challenges, perhaps I was mistaken, or maybe he was right. But tonight, I find myself reflecting on the love we had. He was my old lover, the wicketkeeper, someone I held dear in my heart, now a distant memory that I will always carry with me.
.
.
.
.
They heard the movement every morning,
No one knew what it was.
So, it was called 'a shadow'.
It sounded like someone passing by,
But the sounds that were heard were strange.
They weren't the usual footsteps.
With time, they got used to only feeling it.
Each morning, they knew when it was time they heard the dragged sounds.
With backs turned to the sounds,
And the tall fence right in the middle,
None of them knew what made that sound.
Some assumptions were made at first before they just let it be.
The day ended early on a Tuesday; the following week.
Then came the end of Thursday,
The end of Friday came, and it struck!
They hadn't heard the dragged sounds for some days.
One person mentioned it and others went 'Ahh' 'Oh':
'Maybe they stopped coming'
'Maybe they travelled'
'Maybe they changed routes'....
But the shadow didn't change routes.
His gait improved.
The sounds they heard were of him working hard to be better.
He still went by that route.
.
.
And soon the sound they had gotten used to became a memory.
But the shadow never left...
To the best of my memory, the word brainwash
has been used in reference to me only twice.
The first time happened more than 50 years ago.
The second one occurred less than a year ago.
One referred to my religious involvement.
The other was connected to social ideology.
The first one came from a stranger
The other came from a relative.
When told that I had been brainwashed
in reference to my beliefs about Christ, I felt
nothing amiss about such assessment.
In fact, such a veiw of me was acceptable.
However, when charged by a relative that I had
been among certain people and allowed myself
to be brainwashed by them, I was taken aback
and deeply hurt.
I took offense by my relative's accusation and
told him so. He apologized for how it made me
feel, and I have forgiven him. Notwithstanding,
although the subject has not risen again, there
is a very thin wall between us regarding that
encounter. We are close friends, but I cannot
deny that something 'not good' happened that day.
This, is where it began
A scream
Blood curdling
An amalgamation of acid and iron
Coagulates my blood
Mother
Instinct seizes
Heart racing
Legs race faster
Thoughts race out of hand
A gun to her head?
No time for weapons
Fists will do
Around the corner
My eyes catch glimpse
five golden corners
two solemn eyes
Mother
One word resounds
From shrieking lips
No
Over and over
Over
And
Over
That word
His badge
Her sobs
His gaze
Say one shrilling word
Her lover
My father
My father
Gone
Sitting in a rocking chair trying to recall the passing years
clutching a bible, he sits by the phone
for a voice to remind him he is not all alone
He can't help but wonder where the years have all gone
and questions his purpose as life carries on
He thinks of his family with great admiration
the laughter and love that built his foundation
Plagued by the memories forever in his mind
life has been good and the years have been kind
Grateful for the friends he met along the way
and thankful for the moments that took his breath away
He opens a window just to feel a gentle breeze
gazes out to see the world
and watch the falling leaves
Suddenly the phone rings and he is happy just to know
there is someone on the other end
that wants to say hello
She looked up as if expecting me,
or maybe just the wind—
it was hard to say.
A teacup floated beside her,
steam curling into the shape of a sleeping cat.
"Stories," she said, "make the world wobble just a little less.
Do you have one about a cloud that forgot how to rain,
or a fox who dreams in third person?"
I didn’t, but she didn’t mind.
She handed me a pebble that hummed,
and a leaf with a tiny map drawn in dew.
“Follow this only if you grow tired of gravity,”
she said, vanishing into the ivy,
like mist fading from a memory.
I stayed a while, just in case she came back—
and because the mushrooms had started to sing.
My dusty box of memories
can be compared to
Aladdins wonderful lamp
Yellow brass with a shiny
and elegant appearance
Everyone has a genie
that resides in the subconscious
When the lid is opened
it smells of jasmine and rose petals
feminine and unique
Feeds my heart with
the scent she loved
It did not belong to a royal person
but my dear mother
She was a woman who spent time
finding the right outfit
with different bijouterie
A wide range of jewelry, bracelets,
earrings, necklaces and rings
As an aged photo album -
I let the jewelry
run through my fingers as a rosary
Dear memories flow