Nature Ballad Poems

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

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Details | Ballad |
At times I, like a butterfly,
May flit from bloom to bloom,
Or with my whimsy set sky-high
To outer space may zoom.
And yet, when all’s been said and done,
I follow what my fate has spun—
For some may strive and ne’er succeed,
While others simply do the deed.

A Muse impels me on a spree
Of whirling swirling craft
Where poems must not mean but be…
Until I’m going daft.
But words, albeit finely wrought,
Can only catch a passing thought—
For some may strive and ne’er succeed,
While others simply do the deed.

When my reality looks pale
I frolic in a theme
From vivid myth, folklore or tale, 
Where dreams are what they seem.
And there where’er I romp and roam
I always feel a welcome home—
For some may strive and ne’er succeed,
While others simply do the deed.

I’ve often fallen to the ground
And picked myself back up.
I’ve hungered for a loving touch
And sipped from passion’s cup.
My longings, cravings ruled my will;
Still never could I drink my fill—
For some may strive and ne’er succeed,
While others simply do the deed.

A life led wrong, though full of song,
Will cause us to regret,
When pondering the winters long,
Our faults we can’t forget.
And then we’re washed in bitter tears
For senseless youth and wasted years—
As some may strive and ne’er succeed,
While others simply do the deed.

I said I want to live before
I die, in villanelle,
To learn where lies true wisdom’s door
And shun the gates to hell.
Yes, wayward ways can still begin
To seek and find the Way within—
For some may strive and not succeed,
While others simply do the deed.

– Harley White (July 4, 2014)

Copyright © Harley White | Year Posted 2014

Details | Ballad |
Their dad had had a heart attack 
since they had seen him last.
In May they said, "Let's visit him,
cuz time's a passing fast."

He doesn't drive, he sold his car
so he'll not come to us.
and we can take some time off work 
without a lot of fuss.

They lived in Utah, near that lake,
where faithful Mormons pray.
They planned to use the Interstate,
I-80, all the way.

Their pop had picked Nevada hills
where pines pushed out the sage,
to settle with his younger bride
and cuss the curse of age.

'Twas for the second week in may, 
the two had made their plans.
The day they left, the skies let go 
to fulfill God's demands.

The thunder crashed, the lightning flashed,
(a phrase perhaps quite trite) 
and yet by later afternoon
it seemed a lot like night.

The wipers flopped a steady beat;
their speed was set on high.
The rest-stop at the salt flats though
they found completely dry.

They never thought that strange at all,
just thankful for respite;
they took their time and took a pee,
then took the exit right.

They started up, turned on the lights
and then the wipers too,
for twenty seconds from that stop 
the rain began anew!

They never stopped in Wendover,
(a city in two states),
as still it rained like cats and dogs,
or maybe sheets and plates.

"Pull over at the next rest stop; 
I have a need to pee",
said Bob. They did, and once again,
'twas dry as it could be.

But shortly as they left that place 
the rain had turned to sleet,
and horizontal lightning strikes 
were scary, although neat.

Then at the peak the road was ice
it seemed three inches thick,
and both boys knew this drive would be 
most anything but quick.

Then at the next rest area
where they stopped for relief
the parking lot was smooth and dry 
and fair beyond belief!

They stood and stretched and grinned I guess,
as each of their jaws dropped.
Bizarrely, this continued on
at each and every stop.

In Reno, it was shirt-sleeve mild;
their pop was pleased as punch -
They visited and ate and drank,
and shot the shit a bunch.

"Now boys, don't take so long before 
you visit me again -
just let me know you're comin', and
and I'll control the rain."

© Lawrencealot, May 11, 2015

Copyright © Lawrence Eberhart | Year Posted 2015

Details | I do not know? |
Late one mornin', I was layin',
the sofa makin' me sore;
the fridge was hummin' nastily,
leakin' all over the floor,
while the fan noisily disturbed
dust motes of all kinds;
Sunlight was busy peakin' through
my carefully closed blinds.
I, then, started sneezin' with
horrid strength far too often.
At first at a loss for what
got me wheezin' 'n coughin',
it suddenly dawned on me,
it was my soul tryin' to escape.
So, I knew what I really needed:
a fresh roll of maskin' tape.
But, those connivin' appliances
were conspirin' against me,
for some reason, aidin' my spirit's
traitorous attempt to flee;
as I arose from the sofa, an
unholy fit made my chest tight,
dust blew into my eyes, robbin'
me of righteous sight.
Yet, like some noble saint,
I struggled ever on;
the sole, uncarin' witness was 
the curious mornin' Sun.
Sufferin' from watchful heat
and fan-blown blindness,
made my way to the kitchen,
thankin' it's cool, linoleum kindness,
only to slip on it's tiles,
where the fridge's water'd settled.
Like Peter, my near-martyrdom
was ass-over-tea-kettled.
Resurrectin' myself, resentin' now,
the Sun's greedy gaze all mornin',
My sightlessness was lifted
to the chorus of robins singin'.

Copyright © Ryan McCabe | Year Posted 2008

Details | Ballad |
THE SHIP CAPTAIN’S LOVER   (from my grandmother's life--her betrothed lost at sea on a whaling vessel in Norway 1890)

by Victoria Anderson-Throop

The winds blow free
And the winds blow cold
There never was a man so bold
As the man I loved who went to sea
The month he was to marry  me

Times were hard
And times were tough
Winds were cold
North seas were rough

But a whaling man will fight for breath
Dare the sea , defy their death
He ordered his crew
“come follow me
Who fears to sail
Is cowardly”

“No, don’t leave me--
Please --I called”
He slapped me then
He was appalled

I had shamed him with my fear
I should have handed him his gear
And wished him well upon his way
Gone on like any other day

A woman’s place is by the shore
Nothing less and nothing more
She never begs and never cries
Unless her own beloved dies

While I waited on the shore
Fear seeped out of every pore
Days went by
And then a week
Tears were shed by brave and meek

Life was bitter, life was sour
A bell was sounded from the tower
For each beloved man
Now lost--
What a bitter
Deadly cost.

And , for me,
My life's in tatters.
Men don’t know the thing that matters--
I wish I had my man so sweet
Not my world
Thrown at my feet.

Oh darlin’ babe now in my arms
Don’t fall victim to wild charms
When the sea calls in your head
Stay at home-- die in your bed

Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop | Year Posted 2012

Details | I do not know? |
My head still ringin' with
the effects of concussion,
while,the fridge hummed to
the fan's whirlin' percussion.
Though, my sneezin' fit had
finally, apparently passed,
I couldn't risk this threat of
fan, fridge, and soul amassed.
With a great, dire caution,
I walked so eloquently
to the kitchen drawers, then,
ripped through them, reverently,
found the roll of sticky paper
my salvation sorely needed;
kept my back to the Sun,
as it's distant attention grew heated.
I tore off seven pieces for
my mouth, ears, nostrils, and eyes,
sealed 'em tight against,
what could only be Satan's lies.
Havin' achieved this most
burnin' of any goal,
that bein' the denial of
the flight of my eternal soul,
I parted the blinds to hurl
a muffled curse at the sky,
and the Sun in it's cozy
seat, up there on high:
"You good fer nuthin' giant lightbulb,
what've you got to fear?
Quit yer silent gawkin',
I coulda used yer help down here!".
I, of course, waited the
accepted forty minutes, forty seconds,
before tearin' off the tape
and startin' the admonissions,
quotin' scripture to the fridge 'n fan,
knowin' they'd see their sin,
I, then, shouted in victory,
"To Hell with you soul, I win!".

Copyright © Ryan McCabe | Year Posted 2008

Details | Couplet |
ballad to spring.

For little robin, red breast,
On my spade, you sit.
With bobbing head, and twitch of tail,
As another season now say's farewell.

In the bracing chill skip, sprightly,
On this sun-drenched day.
Look up towards the heavens,
And be thankful come what may.

The coming days grow longer,
With life refreshed anew.
As flecks of white and purple,
Permeate among the dew.

Erupting upward shards of green,
With heads in saffron gold,
A multitude of trumpets play,
Herald forth as spring unfolds.

Under tip of twig now freshly dipped 
In a cornucopia of greens.
In waives that crest, where bluebells rest,
And one can sit and dream.

For nothing say's that spring is here,
More than posies clutched, and garlands fare.
A chick, an egg, and the mad march hare,
The wild of youth without a care.

© N Windle 20017

Copyright © nicholas windle | Year Posted 2017

Details | I do not know? |
It was the cold and dark of winter
I was outside playing alone
My fingers were chilled like cinders
I ventured far from home

I turned around and it was white
I couldn't see at all
So I closed my eyes real tight
Then I began to fall...

I fell into a slumber
Awaken by bright lights
I heard the sound of water
I felt I slept all night

I saw a beautiful girl
With a voice as enchanting as gold
Her clothes white as pearl
She wasn't that old

I took her sweet soft hand
We walked to a grave
The grave's in white sand
My soul she couldn't save

Lights of green and blue
I was suddenly in a room
Kids in white dresses too!
Could it be my doom?

Taken to water so clear
I could hear my dad calling
His voice full of fear
The sound so loud appalling

I fell into the pond
Appeared in front of the door
This is the truth my bond
My dream existed before

Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2005

Details | Blank verse |
Above a cloudy jar of brine
That floated greenish hard boiled eggs,
Beside a Schlitz beer waterfall
That told bar time (ten minutes fast),
A taxidermied Jack-A-Lope
With rabbit ears and tiny rack
Stared marble eyed into the dark.
“We don’t have many Jack-A-Lopes
Back home in any city bars,”
I told a man who served us drinks.
“At prices there, that’s no surprise.”
The barman said without a smile
And told us of the Jack-A-Lope:

Time was you looked, you’d find his kind,
But rarely in these mountain slopes.
They only bred in wintertime
And only in electric storms.
It’s rumored round that milk that came
From mother Jack-A-Lopes could cure
Whatever walks on twos or fours 
So rare it was most called it myth
As much as Sasquatch ever was.
Until one day a dowser came 
Divining where to dig a well.
And gripping his good witching stick
Could swear he saw the front branch twitch.
He scrunched his eyes and looked again.
“No, something’s in that undergrowth.”
Up popped the branchy antlers of
This fearsome critter,  Jack-A-Lope.
Now as it was this dowser had
A more than common whiskey thirst.
And had to live his life downwind
From ordinary decent folk.
Like pictures of Napoleon,
He stuck his hand inside his coat,
Produced a flask of sour mash,
And threw it at this portmanteau.
Some say it hopped away afraid,
But those that know have winked and said,
“That animal attacked the flask;
Without their bourbon Jack-A-Lopes
Will fade away until they’re gone.”
Outsiders paid some license fees
For hunting season, dates of which
Cannot be found on calendars.
The most were poached as trophies for
Hotels, saloons and brothels where
The mounted heads amazed their guests.
No hunter had had an interest in
An animal that can’t be killed
Because it never ever was.
But now so heavy was the hunt
The Jack-A-Lope was soon extinct,
So every one of them was killed
To prove one time they did exist. 

The bar grew quiet just as if
Some meaning might be understood.
I pointed at my empty glass
And asked the barman pouring drinks,
“What’s on that plaque below the head?”
“Some Latin words, a kind of crest.
A family motto more or less.”

Copyright © Stephen Wilson-Floyd | Year Posted 2017