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Ballad History Poems | Ballad Poems About History

These Ballad History poems are examples of Ballad poems about History. These are the best examples of Ballad History poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Ballad |

Running Tide

Knee deep in surf
The water clung to her
Changing silk gown
To wrinkled shiny  skin
Never had I envied ocean water so
But then t'was I who'd let her go
Drowning in green eyes
With fear of clinging ties
Holding me back

Copyright © Donald Meikle | Year Posted 2006

Details | Ballad |

Clan Call

Tearing gusts of highland winds dim the sound of pipes
No one knows and no one sees and no one sets it right, 
Heavy hearted sadness carries, other souls who went ahead, 
Ghosts of kindred spirits living now or living dead, 
Running through the gorse and heather wishing for a horse to ride, 
Disregarding wind and weather, Grim, the reaper by my side. 
Places I would rather see.... Home's still where I yearn t' be, 
I'll never have you there with me... 'tis lost...
both love
and pride

Jonji ‘s dance within my mind
and well within the ken o’ men
I just prepped the canvas

Copyright © Donald Meikle | Year Posted 2006

Details | Ballad |

Bruise Me

You always try
to break me down
you always try to knock me out
damage me with just your words
not physical but it still hurts
and all you do is make it worse.

You bruise me
Cut me with your tounge
Brutalize me, cut and binding
as my blood pours from the scars.
You bruise me
and it's really nothing more.

Berate me
go on hate me
it's something you love to do
yell at me, because now i see
there's nothing left for me with
Your eyes so cold, words are old
nothing else that you can say
times running out, it's over now
and your the one who bruised
it away.

You bruised me
Cut me with your silver tounge
Brutalize me, cut and binding
As my blood pours from the scars
You bruised me
And really nothing more.

Copyright © antonio swider | Year Posted 2007

Details | Ballad |

The Ballad of Pearl Harbor

Just sitting there mighty 
The ships and the people.
Flying American
Flags and the eagle.
Just sitting in harbor
That Sunday morn,
Oblivious to battle
And coming forlorn.

Drinking their coffee
And eating their breakfast
Things were going
Right along with their wishes
When suddenly a soldier
Did speak up and say,
"They're some blips on the radar
And they're coming our way!"

Then the officer said
"Now look here you see,
They're our boys coming home
In their B-17's.
So don't get all worked up,
No excitement today,
So get back to working
And resting and play!"

Now planes flying by
Were soon to be heard
But a shout soon went up
"Hey! Those are not our birds!"
Explosions to follow
Soon filled the sky
Now stand up and fight,
Or lay down and die

Guns fired back,
The battle was on,
But pretty soon after
The battleships were gone!
They were stuck in the harbor
With no way out,
And smoke's hanging over
The harbor in clouds

A valiant defensive 
The defenders put forth
Desperately trying to
Even the score,
But their goals completed
The enemy turned back
Leaving behind them
Devastation and black

Many men died
On that fateful day
But a little luck came
The American's way!
Their carriers were still,
Far out at sea,
And part of the battle
They never did be!

Pearl Harbor will live on 
In infamy
Stories of those who died
To keep their land free!
Their ultimate sacrifice
Helped the whole world to see
That America's the land
Of the brave and the free!

Copyright © Daniel McAdams | Year Posted 2011

Details | Ballad |

Poem by Kasiananthan on the Tamil Diaspora and Eelam, trans by T Wignesan

The Parrot and the Woodpecker may turn...
    [Sung by TEnicayccal Cellappa]        Translated by T.Wignesan
mAnkiliyum marankottiyum                    The parrot and the woodpecker

   kUtutirumpa tatayillai                             their nests to regain  nothing waylays

nAnkal mattum ulakattilEyE                    Only we  in all this world

   nAtutirumpa mutiyavillai                        our homeland to seek may not turn      

   nAtutirumpa mutiyavillai                        our homeland to seek may not turn

                            [Above refrain repeated twice]

cinkalavan pataivAnil                               From skies filled with Sinhalese planes

  neruppai alli corikiratu                             fire tumbles down in seething showers 

enkal uyir tamil Elam                              Our lifeblood   our Tamil Eelam

  cutukAtAy erikiratu                                      a simmering graveyard on fire


tAykatarap pillaikalin                               While mothers rave in pain  children’s

 nencukalaik kilikkinrAn                             breasts  the oppressor tears apart

kAyyAkum munnE ilam                           Long before they might ripen    tender

  pincukalai alikkirAn                                  the buds crushed from burgeoning


pettavankal UrilE                                   Those who begot us back home

 Enku rAnku pAcattilE                              tossing  turning in their longing for us

ettanai nAl kArttiruppOm                       For how many days might we linger on

 atuttavan tEcattilE                                  in the other man’s refugee land

unnavum mutiyavillai                                Without proper food

 urankavum mutiyavillai                              without sufficient sleep

ennavum mutiyavillai                                Unable rightly even to think

  innumtAn vitiyutillai                                  when will the day dawn for us


kitti pullu atittu nankal                              We who played at kitti pullu*

 vilaiyAtum teruvilEyE                                  joyously in the heedless streets

katti vayttuc cutukirAnAm                         There now tethered  others lie felled

 yAr manatum urukavillai                             no  no hearts pain for us

Ur katitam patikkayilEyE                       When our eyes light on letters from home

 vimmi nencu vetikkitu                           sobs prise open our brimming breasts

pOrpulikal pakkattilEyE                         By the flanks of battling Tigers

 pOkamanam tutikkitu                            there to be  our hearts throb and yearn


Note: * A competitive game played by hitting a small stick with a bigger one, the goal being to cover the greatest distance. Also called in Tamil Nadu and Malaysia: kavuntA kavunti.                                      

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 1995. From the collection: “Words for a Lost Sub-Continent” (2001). Excerpted from “Kasi Ananthan: Poet Laureae of Tamil Eelam” by T. Wignesan in Hot Spring: A Journal of Commitment, Vol. 3, No. 9 (London), December 1998, pp. 17-18.

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012

Details | Ballad |

Old Soldier

Unnoticed, he blends into the grey park bench,
eyes clouded and watering,
permanent tears for friends lost in a trench
not quite enough of a life-time ago.
Will anyone acknowledge him? 
Smile at him? Say hello?
How many people walk past without seeing?
Are they afraid to take a look 
at their future being?
Can see past hands on a walking cane, shaking,
which once held arms straight, which killed
as he dreamed of his mother holding him
close in a muddy field in France, dug in, 
his only perspective – the sky – looking up,
imagining his Victoria Cross moment, 
which never came.
His history has died with those he has loved:
he exists alone now, his life stored in his head,
musty albums in an abandoned attic.
His film is ending, subtitles about to roll,
last moments of anticipation, will his story change 
before the last curtain call?
Was he the star of his own show, his life?
Would that he had been so invisible then, 
in that giant gutter, repelling the end
but now the magnet has turned, 
death - an indecisive friend.
Ninety odd birthday's leave a stuttering heart 
and a once-red poppy, grey.
On a bench, sad fingers trace the brass 
in which his wife's name is interred
hearing aid off so his sweetheart's voice
can be clearly heard.
As there will be no 'hello' today.
That's all he wants. 
A quiet hello.
So he knows he's not already a ghost.

Copyright © Sarah Heath | Year Posted 2016

Details | Ballad |

From Sunday School to Monday Morning

Once again I tip the scale
And mutter, whoever invented it was a man from hell.
It was not a woman who created weights for size
For women can look past the outer shell
And search deep for what is inside.
Men must have their cake and eat it too…
From head to toe-perfection-from hat to shoe
I dress in all white for today I must teach Sunday school
If only a man’s heart would find my food
I can shake and bake
If only on my plate would a handsome man chance to take.

The preacher gets up on the pulpit and puts on his show
Talks about the place where adulterers must go
None of us admit he is a hypocrite as we all know
For he has slept with every woman in the front row.
But, even still my pig’s feet goes from hot to cold
No matter how many ties for him I’ve sewn.
Some women have all the luck
Others like me can’t even get a look-let alone a touch
Being me, ah yes, it is too much.

Sister “Gossip” waves her fan as I go past
“Speak out loud?” would be too much to ask.
I wonder if it is my skirt that is too tight
Or whether I will be at home alone again tonight
I wonder if whatever she says about me is worth a fight
Or is it even true and right.
I pray for her soul with all my might,
I can’t let the Devil move into my mind.

People tell me I sing like a bird
Its gospel time, time to praise the Lord with words
I walk on stage to take my turn
Hands sway from side to side and my throat burns…
But the men stare at the teenager in the short skirt
And the first lady with the red dress
My curves ripple my stomach
For I am not that blessed
I have what a man wants to hear
But to lye beside me is what they all fear.

The service offered nothing by way of encouragement.
But, I have worshiped God
Even if the day was not heaven sent
I know somehow it must be time well spent.
I kiss the little children good-bye
And pretend all is joyous on the inside.
Satin-Legs Smith walks pass the church and sighs
We all know what is on his mind
Therefore though I dream of marriage he doesn’t give me the time.
He looks at me winks and a little smile.
He would only laugh if I asked him to come eat with me
For a little while.

I hang my coat in the closet
Beside a dusty wedding dress
I was wishful thinking when I bought it.
It is four sizes to small
I had planned to shrink into it by last fall.
But, too much time passed and I can’t even return it to the mall.
I can’t bring myself to put it in the trash down the hall.
I may use it for curtains or to cover the dirt stains on my front wall.

I lay myself down to sleep
And pray to the Lord my soul to keep.
And that I do not die before love I see
It is enough to at least give me hopeful dreams.

Monday comes and I have to go off to clean
For rich white people who don’t need anything.
Except for J. Alfred Prufrock
He lives on top 
Of the food chain
But he too is looking for love
We’re both the same.
He always looks at me like he has something to say
But he can’t get past his bald spot or the creases on his face.
Again I wonder should I do the flirting dance
Let him know I am available and that I can
And I will, so he will take a chance
I know he would be willing to love me still
I am not settling for second best!
He is a man!
I am a woman!
Shouldn’t we make love manifest?

I think I will give it a go
And see if I could be someone he would come to know
A fine meal some sweet potatoes and a roast
A pan of peach cobbler, such things men love the most.
I will make his house squeaky clean
Show him what he could expect if he married me.
I drive up and he is at his window
Watching his neighbors come and go
Eavesdropping on their conversations
About Michaelangelo.
And he is reading a book, Dante’s “Inferno”

“Is this for me?” when he sees the plate of food.
I nod yes and hope it gets him in the mood
He smiles, blushes and turns red.
All sorts of happy thoughts run through my head.
But still he only eats and does not speak
It seems the asking will be up to me. 
But what do I say for I do not wish to be
Considered by him, a hussy.
I ask him if he likes the movies.
He tells me he prefers plays
“I have never been to one” I say.
“Maybe I shall take you to one someday.”	
“And I will make you a German Chocolate cake.”
“I guess then it is a date.”

How should I wear my hair?  Should I sport an afro?
Or get a perm?  This is the time to use all those make up tips that I learned.
It seems I will feel the joy of being an Eve.
The birds are singing just for me.
The sun is shining, the flowers are blooming.

Will they be putting Prufrock on my tomb stone
If I do this right I won’t die alone…

Copyright © Tyshawn Knight | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ballad |

NO MAN STANDS ALONE - The Ballad of Barney Ross

No man stands alone
in the street, the ring or the combat zone
some lay in the gutter
some sit on a throne
but no man stands alone

At the age of fourteen 
he had a dream
to become a rabbi 
Chicago 1924
then his dad was killed by men
who tried to rob the family store
his brothers and sisters were sent away
to an orphanage where they would stay
and though his faith was blown away
he vowed to bring them home someday

To God and man revenge he swore
he walked with gamblers, 
hoods and whores
he fit right in 
then on a whim
he walked into a boxing gym
he fought Canzoneri in ‘33
for the lightweight title victory
he made up with God 
and finally
he could reclaim his family

Those McLarnon fights 
were the stuff of lore
the only man 
to ever put him on the floor
he won two out of three, 
then in the Armstrong bout
he nearly died 
but was never knocked out
then in 1941
the Japanese pulled a sneaky one
so he joined the marines 
and he got a gun
and he sailed into the rising sun

On Guadalcanal, 
he fought so brave
overmatched like old King Dave
he put twenty attackers 
in an early grave
for the one marine 
whose life he saved
in a hospital bed 
for months and days
they kept him in a morphine haze
then sent him home 
strung out and beat
to the pushers on the mean, mean street

Hollywood was very keen
to put his story on the silver screen
but they focused on the drug abuse
he tried to sue 
but what’s the use?
Barney Ross was brave and strong
they couldn’t keep him down for long
his rabbi said that he must try
to be a model Jew in the public eye

but from the public eye he slipped
like a phantom radar blip
they say he hunted Nazi criminals
and he ran some guns to Israel

Barney Ross was brave and strong
I thought that he deserved a song
he did some bad
he did some good
and he saved the world
the best he could

Copyright © Art Wright | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ballad |


He was out of Woodie Wonder by the stallion Sunset Hue, 
A freak thought breeding purists, who would surely end up glue. 
For greys were so unfashionable he'd never get a start, 
But this colt was a fighter with a truly valiant heart. 
His origins were New South Wales, but sold up Queensland way, 
'Twas Pippos, Coorey, Bishop and McMicking bought the grey. 
A Goondiwindi syndicate, who gave the colt his name; 
Gunsynd ...  the punter's darling ...  who raced his way to fame. 
He'd never be a Peter Pan, a Carbine or Phar Lap, 
No Tullock or a Galilee, but still a gallant chap. 
Bill Whelow was his trainer and John Edmonds rode The Grey, 
Till finally at Eagle Farm this colt was on his way. 
It was the Hopeful Stakes that day in nineteen sixty-nine, 
Young Gunsynd flashed from thirteenth place to cross the winner's line. 
His trademark was his courage, his will to want to win 
And how he made the crowds all stand to cheer the grey horse in. 
They loved The Grey's performances;  a showman through and through 
And though he never always won they saw him as true blue. 
Before and after races, he would play the press and crowd 
By standing to attention while they clapped and cheered aloud. 
With twelve wins to his credit Tommy Smith was now the chap, 
Who trained Gunsynd while Langby won the Epsom Handicap. 
He was the punter's darling, for he never squibbed a race, 
That's why the folk all loved him, for he never did lose face. 
The white and purple colours were well known at ev'ry track, 
Australia's best known jockeys sat astride old Gunsynd's back. 
The likes of Olsen, Higgins and young Langby rode The Grey 
And flashed to blist'ring finishes, he raced no other way. 

In over fifty starts Gunsynd had twenty-nine great wins; 
Some eight point five times second placed, but took it on the chin. 
Six thirds and unplaced in ten starts throughout those grand five years, 
His name was up there with the best who'd raced to great careers. 
Though sold to stud in New South Wales, Kia Ora down near Scone, 
Queenslanders all adopted him and saw him as their own. 
He'd put old Gundy on the map and right down to this day 
Gunsynd is still remembered as The Goondiwindi Grey. 

Copyright © Merv Webster | Year Posted 2005

Details | Ballad |


I am the face of misery
My life, a dissonance of autumn and spring,
The years are written in the same
Lugubrious, nostalgic grey
How can it be the author to blame?
I cannot scream this all away…
Burn nor Bleed this all away…
To Death I am Ordained

Lacuna ever growing
With Velvet sheets of life flowing
Aeons apart of my "royalty"
Under the mask the cannot see...
Can you dispel this tragedy:
Antigone - Epiphany failing

If it must be…
Then just kill me,
(Antigone) sing me out of reality;
I wear this dissonant crown of shame
(Antigone) Of a kingdom's disdain
I hate to be this way... normalcy's bane
(Antigone) Here comes the edict, to blame
The sordid child of Thebes,
This is me,

No words of hope
No words of hate
Do I have Lenore to send to me:
The sordid child of Thebes
Caught In the longest nightmare
life - the slowest way to die

I know this is my life 
But I'm not under control
under the mask the will see
Just Another Human

If it must be…
Then just kill me,
(Antigone) sing me out of reality;
I wear this dissonant crown of shame
(Antigone) Of a kingdom's disdain
I hate to be this way... normalcy's bane
(Antigone) Here comes the edict, to blame
The sordid child of Thebes,
This is me,

If it must be…
Then just kill me,
(Antigone) sing me out of reality;
I wear this dissonant crown of shame
(Antigone) Of a kingdom's disdain
I hate to be this way... normalcy's bane
(Antigone) Here comes the edict, to blame
The sordid child of Thebes,
This is me,

Can you dispel my life; this tragedy?
Can you control the storm in my mind?
I'm asking you: can you rid me
Of The Curse of Antigone?

Copyright © Wyatt Loethen | Year Posted 2012

Details | Ballad |

The Forgotten Ones

Forgotten somewhere in the midst of steel and concrete. 
Bound by shackles and chains even in our sleep. 
Living like wolves preying amongst lost sheep. 
Concrete tears and pains so mindfully deep. 

Forgotten by those on the outside. 
We cant even run no where, we cant even hide. 
No choice left but to sit and fight. 
In here only the strong minded survive. 
Truth be told in here what is wrong is right. 

All most os us got is wasted M&^*&F*^&&ng time. 
We sit back and work out and write heartfelt rhymes. 
Not to be a victim of prey we all trying. 
Many stories are told, songs are written of truth over lying. 

We are gone for the moment but not truly forgotten so the hurt we must not show it.
 We are to old while we young to be crying in front of full grown men for this is a time we must out grow it.
 There aint no way out this hell hole and we all know it. 
Feelings of hopelessness surrounds te heart to the point where we can no longer control it.
In here there is only time no fun. 
Darkness fills night no light shone in here from the sun. 
Only by our own selves we may be out done. 

Copyright © Travis Lone Hill | Year Posted 2012

Details | Ballad |


With beating hearts
the young lovers run down the street
afraid of looking back
hearing only their shoes on the concrete.

Running into the night,
following the North Star
and the moonlight as guides
hoping to make it far.

"My feet are tired. When can we stop?"
"Dawn is coming. The sun will soon rise."
Dogs bay behind them.
This fear is lover's prize.

Before all is lost,
they race against time. 
Running into the woods
before morning bells chime.

"Faster," he says,
and pulls her along.
She feels his hand around hers,
sure and strong.

The lovers run and run 
not stopping till daylight.
Escaping imprisonment
running into the night.

Copyright © Gabrielle Bailey | Year Posted 2016

Details | Ballad |

Deadman Wonderland

Now that you're becoming Undone It's time to have some fun In Deadman Wonderland Khoon Tu Kao Khoon Tu Kao Khoon Tu Kao The setting Red Sun of Kali Shows it's time for your life to Pay We are the Kind to be feared -your friends We look like anyone you see Thuggee--Death's Devotees Face our treachery Bhowanee we must please She needs more--we have found our mark, our mark Won't you be the one to save humanity? Can't you see this is Deadman Wonderland Khoon Tu Kao Khoon Tu Kao Khoon Tu Kao Sacrifice! For The Black-Skinned Queen Sacrifice! For Our Mother Kali Sacrifice! It's Not Enough Sacrifice! No Mercy! This is Deadman Wonderland Deadman Wonderland This is Deadman Wonderland Deadman Wonderland

Copyright © Wyatt Loethen | Year Posted 2012

Details | Ballad |

The Escape from the Turkish Slavery

The Escape from the Turkish Slavery
(Ukrainian historic folk song)

There broke into the Tartar sprites,
And they captured my daughter, nice,
Marusyna, my daughter, dear,
I remained with one son in fear.
And there came others- my son was enslaved,
And a widow, a poor orphan, I remained.
The third time, they took me too, an old soul...
... a Turk took me to the service,
I began to toil and slave
Serving the foe every day.
The daughter didn’t recognize her nurse
Having given her the works, the worst:
With the hands- to spin the yarn, fine,
With the little feet- to lull the child,
To watch the flock- with the eyes…
They found themselves in one place
All three meeting face to face.
When the daughter was recognized by the mother
And, when also confessed the brother…
They were united with one another.
Then the daughter began to tell the Turk,
That's my brother, this is my mother,
Then, the Turk began to trust them.
He entrusted them with all his goods.
They did everything, not to delude
Thinking, dreaming of their home.
When the Turk and daughter were going to the ball,
They handed the keys from the houses, all;
The son and the mother were taking the golden keys,
The souls of the slaves from the cellars to release,
Saddling the horses to start their way
To travel back home again.
Oh they were crossing the Danube, Dunahj,
The Turks, low-natured, were on a catch-ride.
On the other bank, they shouted:
"Oh Ivan, Ivan!
You know and you know,
And take the infusion of wormwood,
And, you will know even better for good! "
Chieftain Ivan Korsun began to narrate:
"I crossed the Danube River -
Denied the enemy forever! "

(Translation from Ukrainian into English by Ivan Petryshyn)
The Escape from the Turkish Slavery

Copyright © Ivan Petryshyn | Year Posted 2016

Details | Ballad |


On Roman ruled British isle, to the deacon and his wife fair; 
On a beautiful morn, our Patrick was born, in a forth century lair 

Young and bright as a button; taken by knavish raiders - not fair
At tender age sixteen, long time not be seen, a dutiful slave to Eire

God spoke to devoted Patrick in a dream on this Emerald Isle
Boarded ship and set sail, in Britain to tell the tale; Gaul: priesthood and file
In 432, back to Eire to convert the pagans worshiping even a rock 
To explain the Holy Trinity, enlightening them till affinity, he used the shamrock

Pat inspired the Irish festival, history tells his colour was blue,
The wearing of the Green, even if one can't keen - Skyfest invites all parties true

Sung by a tone deaf (they all were) mistrel, tanked up on green beer

See the About section for details on which this poem was based. Thank you.

Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms:
This metre (BALLAD METRE) may also be interpreted (and sometimes printed) as a couplet of seven-stress lines, as in Kipling's ‘Ballad of East and West’ (1889):

Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ballad |


Is there such a thing
	as a prolifically sad time?
Surely, there is and was and still can be.
Every generation has had it, sees it,
	some, more than once and those must question,
	How can this possibly be?
Blacks with slavery.
Jews with holocaust.
Whites with inequality.
Multitudes with ethnic genocide,
	so much non-success of political correctness.
There shall always be
	 a prolific sadness in the world.
Mankind is foolish, stupid, almost unrepentant,
        unlearned and defiantly ignorant,
	repeating the mistakes of history,
	sacrificing one life for thousands 
	and thousands for one;
	rinsing and repeating,
	cleansing and burning,
        tearing down and building up,
only to begin again;
	remaining continuously,
	uneducated in the lessons of life and sadness
	and repeating the mistakes of history.

Copyright © DM Babbit | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ballad |


The old man and his grandson viewed 
A barren bladeless ground. 
When to his left the young lad's eye 
Saw bleached bones scattered 'round. 
'Twas more than one beast's bones that lay 
There exposed to the sun. 
It seemed more like a battlefield 
Where only death had won. 
The old man saw the young lad wince, 
He reined in close behind. 
As memories of what took place 
Came flooding through his mind. 
A century turned, but not his luck, 
For rains had failed again. 
He slowly watched the dams dry up 
While cattle died in pain. 
A little water still remained 
Though sought by feral stock. 
Some brumbies which came down at dawn 
Still often used the block. 
In good times no one cared that much, 
But not so any more. 
The young lad's dad and this old man 
Both knew what lay in store. 
A high log fence closed off the dam, 
The timber they had sawn. 
Suspended gate it lay in wait 
For piccaninny dawn. 
Then as the last mare ambled through 
Wood gate it dropped like lead. 
A wood rail race seemed their escape, 
But death lurked there instead. Their capital had all dried up, 
No cash for lead and gun. 
To execute the feral stock 
Took knife and old man's son. 
With legs astride the wood rail race 
Son grimaced as he drew 
That blade of death 'cross jug'lar vein, 
Then slapped the victim through. 
Each fleet foot spirit faltered there 
A hundred yards away, 
While blazing eyes showed fear of death, 
Mouths gave a weakened neigh. 
Then one by one their weak frames fell 
Onto the dusty ground. 
The racing hearts of those poor beasts 
Then gave their final pound. 
The slaughter did not save the stock 
For all the dams went dry. 
It fin'ly broke the old man's son, 
He watched the grown man cry. 
All this the old man told the lad, 
The picture was now drawn. 
On why his dad then took his life 
One piccaninny dawn. 

The young lad then took from his head
his father's sweat stained hat
And as he wiped the tears away
He said, Gramps thanks for that."
I'd always had my doubts you see
About the way Dad died,
But now I know the truth at last
I'll wear this hat with pride.

Copyright © Merv Webster | Year Posted 2005

Details | Ballad |

In the Library of BMCC

Surrounded by heavy tomes 
Chronicling the history of 
   countless generations 
One can only feel a sense of 
    awe that the weight of 
the past has upon the living 
  A brief look around me 
allows me to see the coming generation 
   Working diligently 
to achieve their goals 
   What will become of these youth 
in the next few years?
Some may die fighting on foreign shores 
Otheres will die young due to bad habits 
Some may achieve great success 
  Picking up my pen 
I try to evoke the scene in the library 
of the Borough of Manhattan Community College 
Where many different 
Merge into a quilt of hope!

Copyright © Matthew Anish | Year Posted 2012

Details | Ballad |

The Rebellion of '57

'''tis Power that rules men,not men-- When they but have misused That Power, to abduct their soul-- For It then stands abused.'' So at such time when Anguish With rage, had undone The bonds that with-held the blaze In hearts of everyone, To over-throw the unjust rule, There was an uprise; To win-over our Liberty, There was The Uprise...: A feeble Nation rose to fore, To fight the unjust Company, And India--She rose in uproar-- Indians rose to mutiny. With swords and shields, hearts of gold, A clan of Warriors rose, Against a mighty cannon-force, The Clan of Warriors rose. Here, wars were waged, There battles won, With valour-ridden thought; Then lives were lost in the field 'gainst the forces of distraught. The final picture was of Death-- Of the stabbed, the beaten and bruised, For against gun and mortar-bolt Sword and stick was used.....

Copyright © Akash Yadav | Year Posted 2011

Details | Ballad |


Men were given total dominion
over all living things, and when
they subdued their enemy:
they were granted immortality!

Beside every great warrior of old, 
there was a strong woman of humility,
who gave him a victorious  sword;
and helped him change the course of history! 

Emperess Theodora was one of them to show adversity;
when Noka's revolt broke out:  she decided to stay,
while her hushand, Justinian, fled the city;
what an admirable act of feminity!

Beside every great warrior of old,
there seems to be a look of invincibility,
a defying moment to obtain glory;
and the cost for a golden crown is well-known!

Be the warrior of modern times, treatened by fear and fragility, 
seek out the man you were destined to be;
trust that woman who posseses internal beauty,
and beside this warrior, her courage will guide you with dignity!

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2008

Details | Rhyme |

Ballad of 'Long Ben'

His gold teeth glistened in the sun
As ‘Long Ben Avery’ turned
To face his captives, head lowered,
Their providence to learn

For Avery was a pirate bold
Trained in the Kings’ Navy
Who, disillusioned with his lot,
Captained a mutiny

He seized ‘The Fancy’, in Cadiz
An act both rare, and bold
Then set out on the briny sea
In search of ships with gold

He plundered every vessel met
With not one man set free
And soon, his name spread fear and dread
Across the seven seas

For two years, not a ship was safe
As treasure he amassed,
But his biggest booty taken
Would prove to be his last

He sailed down to the Mandab Strait
And other ships did meet
Who chose him as their Admiral,
To raid the India Fleet

The ‘Mogul’s’ flagships, tried to flee
Chased by the pirate fleet
But a brutal, two hour battle,
Ended with their defeat

The pirates tortured those they caught
Without a thought, or care
As they searched on board for treasure
For each, to glean their share

The ‘Mogul’, proffered swift revenge
Hunting the pirates down,
Swearing each villain, had to hang 
For crimes against his crown

The pirates scattered, far and wide
To skirt captivity
But most were caught, and hung with rope
Strung from the nearest tree

But Avery, was never found
Or his share of the hoard
It’s rumoured that his crew killed him,
And threw him overboard

No matter what became of him
Or what, was ‘Long Ben’s’ fate
No man’s ever bettered his feat
In history, to date.

Copyright © Janette Fisher | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ballad |

The fall of Duke William: Ballad for the Acadians

The French sail
To the Riviera
From the metis 
To Canada

They became Acadians
And settled in Port Royale
Their lives were famine and conquest
But that didn’t hurt morale
The British were closing in
To evict the Acadians from the land
But they stood strong, and refused to yield
The British took control, and so began the great upheaval

Heed the wind
that rocks the sea
That carries the Acadians
No one be free

It’s a cold moon
 an old man looks upon
The only home he ever knew
And now his world is gone
His wife had died in labor
He had to start again
He found another wife
Had two children while his first bred was a man

They travel on the Duke William
The sickness takes many down
He feels the sickness coming in
Before his life be drowned
The ship moored off Canso
After the violet sank
Duke William would follow in Tow
His old life returns to the age

His son lives on
To move to Cajun’s wood
For the Acadian spirit carries on
To the future of his brood

Copyright © James Black | Year Posted 2016

Details | Ballad |


On Roman ruled British isles,
   On a sunny morn
Forth century on the day of Ides  
   Our Patrick was born
To the deacon and his wife fair; 
   A beautiful morn
And priest grandfather who care’
   Their Patrick was born

He, young and bright as a button 
   This could be clearly seen
Was Patrick the lad and glutton
   Tall for his age at sixteen 
 Taken as a slave to nearby Eire 
   At tender age sixteen
by knavish raiders – this not fair
    Long time not to be seen

God visited Patrick in a dream 
    On this Emerald Isle
 When revealed to him to stream
   Patrick broke rank and file
He boarded a ship and set sail 
    left this unwelcome isle
In Britain to tell all the tale
   Then Gaul - priesthood and file

In 432, back to Eire to convert them 
   A land green with shamrock
From their polytheism to stem
   Worshiping even a rock
To explain the Holy Trinity 
   He used the shamrock
Enlightened them till affinity
   They accepted *The Rock

To explain the Holy Trinity 
   He used the shamrock
Enlightened them till affinity
   They accepted The Rock
They are wearing the Green
They are wearing the Green...

*Rock of Ages

21 January 2013


Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ballad |

The Battle of Hastings

The cold wind north, fate took its course
As fate is fain to do
For kings fall down, that bloody crown!
And still the eagle flew.

The time had come, to cross the chasm
To stop the king untrue.
From France to Wales, through storms and gales,
And still the eagle flew.

They manned the sails ere sun grew pale
For twas a hardy crew
With thousand score of men aboard 
And still the eagle flew.

Men grew weary, sea was dreary
Til land was within view 
They were ready, swords a - steady
And still the eagle flew.

In days of yore, upon the shore,
Both silent and subdued
For who says aught afore they fought
And still the eagle flew.

The marched o’er peaks til days were weeks 
The Normans, they all knew 
It would be soon, before next moon
And still the eagle flew.

In foreign land they must withstand,
With death to pay their due.
From the forest, the battle crest!
And still the eagle flew.

To conquer all, Harold will fall!
The Normans marched on through, 
Ready to kill on Senlac Hill
And still the eagle flew.

While juggling swords, he sang the words
Of Roland brave and true.
Twas Taillefer, the jester fair
And still the eagle flew.

Dead soldier there by Taillefer
Then Harold’s soldiers slew
The jester’s head, first Norman dead
And still the eagle flew.

Then time seemed froze, no swords nor blows
But blood would fall anew,
As fights broke out, with gore throughout
And still the eagle flew.

Then time resumed, all men were doomed
For such is war I knew.
Swords were flashing, knights were clashing
And still the eagle flew.

The Normans won, the battle done,
The mighty King they slew,
That great Harold, that king so bold.
And still the eagle flew.

The conqueror, the saviour
Twas William, king anew,
Upon the throne, Britain his own
For now his eagle flew.
The eagle flew with doves unto
That field of gore wasting
For thus ended that “noble” deed,
The Battle of Hastings.

Copyright © Ioana Thornburn-Winsor | Year Posted 2012

Details | Ballad |

The Sea-Farers And The Sea

Flow! Flow! Flow!
Thou sea of silence
Carrying friends and foes
The gentle sounds of 
Waves lapping thru the
Evening like a moving
 Blow! Blow! Blow!
Thou east wind,thy 
Tender hands caress our 
Gliding bark as we break 
Into the warm waters.
Look! The sun gazes at 
These sea-farers whose 
Quest we know not.
Far beyound the horizon
Lies treasures of untold 

Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ballad |

Middle of the Roader

I even voted for Ross Perot once and Reagan and consider myself a middle of the roader. The biggest problem the Republicans have right now is a lack of experience. Who else has been through all that Hillary has? She has a husband who is a prior President, She has been a first lady of both a governor and President, she has been 
a Senator of the Largest state in the United States, she has been a Secretary of State, she gave birth to a child while being a first lady (only one ever to have done such of a thing), has endured and put up with the Monica Lewinsky as well as Whitewater Incident, decided to save government money by putting everything on one cell phone instead of two, suffered every physical and mental embarrassment, prejudice and discrimination that no man has to suffer and after all of that has still decided to run for President again. With all of her education, experience, background and connections, who else could possibly be better than that putting all partisanship aside. That is sure one word that should be thrown in the trash.  If you can't say something positive about anything or anyone, why say anything at all? If that was the case, guess we wouldn't have any newspapers or news shows left. Take all of this with a grain of salt be it big, small, crunchy or perfectly clear like Nixon used to say. Right? Oh, and not only that she has over 40 years of governmental experience. Some resume. All of that would make a great poem. Now what form and category should I call all of this?
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran

Copyright © James Horn | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ballad |


I will laugh as loud as I can..
Laughter that comes within me..
Laughter that shakes even me..
Laughter that may end up to tears..

I will smile as wide as I can..
A smile showing evenly my teeth..
A smile that goes all thru my eyes and lips..
A smile that may melt and encourage you to smile..

I will sing as like a nightingale..
Hitting the high and low notes..
Dancing even in carefree..
Until, I own a space of mine..

I will care as much as I can..
Remembering that Caring is act of charity..
Putting into mind that life will be better..
Doing it now not tomorrow..

I will forgive as I much I can..
For God from heaven, forgives me too..
For this will keep peace into the world..
For this will end feud or war..

I will love as much as I can..
Bearing into mind that this what my God wants..
Showing unceasingly without asking for return..
Knowing this will tight the world's bound..

by: olive_eloi
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Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ballad |

Best Buds Forever

I still remember that day when you were a kitten,
You were so small and fit in my hand like a mitten.
I knew when I held you I would raise you,
The love I felt was more than true.
I was with you at my grandma's till I could take you home, 
Then the journey of raising you began...

We brought you home and I showed you our house,
I still remember when you saw your first mouse.
You jumped out of my arms and made your attack,
I stood there and watched you get your afternoon snack.
Then we were deciding on names for you,
I just felt something with dexter and knew it was true.
I was only 8 and didn't know any better,
I did some things that I still regret.

I tormented you so bad,
Looking back it makes me sad.
But I grew up and knew how to take care of you,
Even though what I did when I was younger made me feel blue.
You grew up so fast,
I never thought me and you as buds would last.
But it did I'm so proud for that,
Because in the end your my cat.

Then came the day we would move into a bigger house,
But you never again got a hold of a mouse.
You were so scared but I took you under my wing.
I showed you around the house and you were so happy.
I redeemed myself from everything I had done.

Things got better between us as the days flew by,
The love strong that were flying so high together in the sky.
You greet me when I walk through the door,
I feel so touched that I fall to the floor.
I cherish every second that your on my bed or just saying hi in my room,
The smile that's on my face brings a tear that would make flowers bloom.

Now your all grown up and still getting older,
The temperature in my heart has gotten colder.
So cold because I know your time is soon up,
I'm struggling to figure out how full is my cup.
I only wish you could live longer and we still be together,
But we will always be best buds forever.

Copyright © Tyler Knapp | Year Posted 2012

Details | Ballad |

Cap'n and the Wench -part the fifth-

Cap'n & the Wench *part the fifth* Says the Wench to the Cap'n " We'll dabble in Real Estate!" So says the Cap'n to the Wench " 'Twould seem 'tis our Fate! As Tales are often Told from Time to Time & Again~ So doth it go twixt Wenches & those very Bold Men~ This Great Saga of the Cap'n & that Wench so Very Dear~ Had been begun then to continue Year after ever Year~ But all Sailors well know if'n they've oft Smartly Tacked~ Yer in Irons fer certain if'n yer Royals are Backed~ Makin' speed astern would allow such One chance to Box~ Mindin' Gales gone a'lee creatin' Naught but Fear~ Only a keen SeaWolf might again Sail as would the Fox~ All surely believin' his Great Ship could naught but Wear~ 'Twould be a course destined by Fate were the Helm hard a'Lee~ Maidens of the Depths gatherin' as Winds did'st now Howl~ Yet t'was a plot laid by SeaWolf as his heart Set him Free~ For Great Winds & Waves now did'st appear & Truly Growl~ From Deep Down under this Tormented Surface~ Came now to the ears of all Those now Enraged~ Softly with Empathy & Fanciful Purpose~ Silent Sounds heard well ~ all distinct Reason had Swayed~ Lee Rail's buried beneath Wind Torn Sea~ Gale a Howlin' thru the Riggin' & Spars~ From SeaWolf nary a word nor any Certain Plea~ His Eyes & that 'sprit a'fixed on Far Stars~ This Tale oft whispered in Taverns & Pits....... Ye'll hear it fer certain Bit by little Bit..... Pay Heed to Lessons Learned thus Herein..... 'Twere it to be Pleazure in life yer Truly to Win~ For Never Again Will Be Seen that Great Ship at Sea~ Only possibly for some who truly Set themselves Free~ In Dream Foggy Nights fiesty with Calm Swells~ Listen Well off in the distance for that Great Ships Bell! SeaWolf ©

Copyright © Caribbean SeaWolf | Year Posted 2011

Details | Ballad |


I love my Mousey,
She lives in a field in BrushCreek, Tennessee,
Walking with her her of cattle,
As happy as she will ever be.

Without this there would be only she,
And i could make her as happy as me,

I miss her immensly, for thee i wish well,
For everyday i wish she wont sell, 
And I could show her in the Dekalb County Fair,
I would sell never an ounce of her.
Hehe not even one of her little white hairs.

Even when all the way over there,
Mine she is for no one but me to share, if I do so happen to dare.

Cute as a button,
A button her nose may well be,
Where I first touched her sweet little body,
Not once but twice sweetly,
For wherever she goes I could spot her, along with her sister and mother.

Many a mile away, for she is not at all,
Not at all what you would say a little grayish thing.

But a heifer who grows daily,
Only to shove the motherly tears away.
In my eyes though, she will always be, forever and always, my baby girl, my sweetie,
my beautiful girl, my Mousey

Copyright © Jessie Howell | Year Posted 2010