Rhyme Narrative Poems | Examples
These Rhyme Narrative poems are examples of Narrative poems about Rhyme. These are the best examples of Narrative Rhyme poems written by international poets.
We whisked up a plot in a mixing bowl
A getaway scheme with a sugar soul
A cake so slick it could rock and roll
Baked for a birthday out of control
We folded in flour with a secret plan
A covert swirl only we could scan
Not a saw blade…nah…but a steel pan fan
Spinning like a rhythm in a marching band
We iced it thick with a coded glaze
Frosting that hid our exiting ways
Candles flickered like getaway rays
Lighting up paths through the maze
We sliced that cake with a rhyme made key
The layers unlocked like a mystery
Chocolate doors swung open free
We slipped out smooth as poetry
A birthday treat with a jailbreak twist
Our sweet escape wrapped in a sugar mist
A rhyme lined route we couldn’t resist
Freedom baked fresh in every tryst
My words are often written,
To riddles and rhyme.
Many days misunderstood,
So much of the time.
If I'm to be clear, need I sacrifice
Some harmony, for just ol' plain?
Or do I need to be more thoughtful,
Connecting ideas along the chain?
That's where I tend to wrestle,
With these words all the time.
To the point of near fracture,
And it's nearly a crime.
As I bend and mold obscure meaning,
Around the rhetoric in place.
While I hope it somehow connects,
Making sense of time and space.
A croaking echo, dark and deep,
A princess shivers in her sleep.
She lost her golden ball of light,
To a monstrous, endless night.
The moon hangs, a violet stain,
As the bog begins to rain.
A frog, with skin of slimy green,
Leaps from a shadow, rarely seen.
"I'll find your ball," it rasps and sighs,
with golden flecks within its eyes.
But as it speaks, the sound turns dread,
A monstrous voice, not what it said.
Its body swells, a horrid sight,
Engulfing all the fading light.
The frog is gone, the monster's here,
And the princess screams in primal fear.
The violet sky starts to decay,
As the monster grins and starts to play.
The golden ball, a final gleam,
Sinks with the girl into the stream.
It's imperative to alter the narrative,
so get out a round of ream.
There's a knot in the plot,
a lost theme with out a seam..
You pause and you pivot.
The script leaves you livid,
falling short of your dream.
Stopped, stalled between acts,
little time to retrack,
as your pen is running out of steam.
She looks at me
with long suffering forbearance,
implying once again I must have
gotten up on the wrong side of my head
as all that comes out of my mouth
is sound without content
rhyme without reason
as clearly my left brain
hasn't had the coffee
it needs
to kick the right one
onto submission.
(First published in my 2nd book of poems, Little Pine, 2016)
Makha' woblu your strength I find
Wit e' spreads her arrows of light to find our way
From the marauding darkness. I pray humbly and kind
For feather and fawn to softly rest on the hearts of our oya'te
Beware! Blota'hunka has sent his ravens to ravage and malign
So that Ozuye swallows the night in dreams that fear and betray
May 8, 2023
Bite Size Contest no.63 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
Lakota translation:
Makha' woblu - wolf
wit e' - moon
Oya'te' - tribe, people
Blota'hunka - war chief
Ozuye - war or conflict
My phone dings for no reason.
I am not playing video games.
I am not trying to speak to a friend.
I am sitting in the living room
And I hear my phone dinging in the kitchen.
I pick it up and stare at it.
There are no alerts.
No messages.
No indicators at all.
I leave it in the kitchen
And it happens again and again
No rhyme or reason to it.
The new phones
have their own personality
their own mood, and their own secretive magical ways.
A
god of
poetry,
yet she*turned him
down
so,
maybe
Apollo's
free verse would not
rhyme !
*Cassandra
She was she and me was me,
Together we made an incredible ‘WE’
Through the passing of time,
With no reason or rhyme,
‘WE’ were not to be ‘WE’.
But mistakenly, I thought to be married,
The ‘WE’ would gain immortality.
If it wasn't for the old Poetry Soup
Keeping my brain active and alive
I'd be a candidate for an old folks home
My mind is in overdrive
Still got lots to say and do
Before my final day of departure
This old world should sit up and take notice
And that is just for starters
My brain is literally bursting apart
Waiting to share what I've learned
Mistakes I've made and things I did right
And how my heart still yearns
To relive those special moments
When my life was a new adventure
Those happy times while riding the crest
Such a zestful joy to remember
Poetry Soup allows such things
To express our gratitude in rhyme
For a life complete with happy memories
An experience oh so sublime
© Jack Ellison 2015
Here's a question you guys might answer
When considering a quatrain or a narrative
The response to a narrative wins hands down
Could someone explain the reason why
Forever I've thought poetry always meant rhyme
Since grade school way back when
Apparently I seem to be living in the past
Coz narratives get much more notice
Obviously narratives are easier to write
Less of a strain on the brain
But the numbers are there and numbers don't lie
Is there anyone out there that can tell me why
See... this one was a snap to write
I await your replies with bated breath!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Since writing this collection of narratives
Poetry has taken on a whole new meaning for me
It allows me to express my inner thoughts
Without restrictions
To concentrate solely on the message
Without the sometimes daunting task of rhyme
A feeling of free and easy
Previously poetry had always been about rhyme
But I have since realized
Poetry can take on many different forms
This is the beauty of poetry
By the positive reviews I've been receiving
Seems like most people are in agreement
The day I started writing narratives
Was the day a whole new world opened up to me
Thank you Rebecca
© Jack Ellison 2014
When you touch me like that
I like it so much that sometimes I forget to ask
Whatchu touchin' me like that for?
I’m a descriptionalist and a scribulator
Rather than a writer and a poet
That’s how I really see myself
And I want others to know it
Instead of a story being written
I descriptionalize the actual event
Even the ones being told out loud
Are full of descriptionalistic intent
As a scribulator I begin to scribulate
When thoughts gather in my mind
It just so happens that most of them
Seem to often spin into a rhyme
The words are not actually written
They are spun like on a potter’s wheel
Then when I finish, I say ‘Well spun’
As it creates the shape of what I feel
The final spin of gathered thoughts
Sure help me to clearly understand
So naturally I get the strong urge
To share with my fellow man
Florence McMillian (Flo)
Everyone is a poet inside
Everyone needs a place to hide
A place where you can be alone
Where no one else will ever roam
Within your mind where the poet lies
A rhyme or verse which implies
You’ve found that place within your soul
Where no one else will ever go
Your hiding place is called a thought
A form of creation that you have caught
Florence McMillian (Flo)