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Ballad Grandmother Poems | Ballad Poems About Grandmother

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

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Details | Ballad |

My Grandmother

My Grandmother

As I think back, I think of a rare rose.
One of beauty and meekness.
A spirit that lit up the world.
For she was kind as can be.
I long to go to sleep; just to see her in my dreams,
my grandmother.
For she had a hidden strength that I could not see.
For it is in me, the gift she gave.
I look out into the world and still can see the light.
That light that guides me.
For beyond the clouds, heaven awaits.
I can still see my grandmother.
She's watching over me.

Copyright © Earline Tate | Year Posted 2006

Details | Ballad |

The Ones I Have Lost

As I go through my day, they are by my side, 
Following me, watching me and also being my guide. 

These are the angels of my loved ones that passed, 
When I know their near me,  I want this feeling to last. 

I never had much family, separated by distance, 
Sometimes I felt like my world was of non-existence. 

The few I loved so much and held so dear, 
My grandfather, grandmother and father are no longer here.

But when I smell my dads cologne or hear grandmas voice in my ears, 
I hold in my heart their near me and it rids me of fears. 

I certainly must say there is not a day that goes by, 
That I do not think of them and softly cry. 

I always pray that they will visit me while I sleep, 
Dreaming of them is a wonderful feeling that goes so deep. 

I'll miss you everyday until I am no longer on earth,
When I see you all again, it will be like a rebirth.

Copyright © Debra Baviello | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ballad |

Grandma and the Selkie

My grandmother came from Ireland from far across the sea. She had romantic tales to tell to Sister and to me. She angered my darling mother by filling up our heads with stories of the little folk who lived beneath our beds. She whispered us a secret that our mama didn’t know. She said that it would be better if we would keep it so. When she crossed the sea from Ireland, she had a little lad. He was already two years old before she met Granddad. She told Grandfather her story, a selkie stole her heart. He came as a handsome mortal and fooled her from the start. He loved her and then he left her, was claimed back by the sea. The only thing she had of him was a wee lad to be. She knew right from the start, her son was borrowed fom the sea. In time his tie to land would end however long that be. She watched him growing tall, with dread, as handsome as his sire. He wandered near or wandered far, girls gathered to admire. Before our eyes our grandma changed and she became the girl who long ago had loved a man who set her heart awhirl. He had deep eyes of darkest brown, and unreal velvet skin. He charmed her as no Irish lad would know how to begin. “Where is he then, our dear uncle?” My sister and I cried. “I guess the folks who knew him well, would tell you that he died. They saw him walking by the sea, watching the tide come in. Though we searched for many a day he was not seen again.” Now when I see the silky seals on warm rocks in the sea I fancy one is a selkie, who looks a bit like me.
( I have read that male selkies are very handsome in their human form and have great seduction powers over mortal women. Poor grandma then was a young Irish lass, full of dreams and he was so handsome. In their true form they look very much like seals.)

Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2011

Details | Ballad |

Marjorie Isabella

In the Southwest of Scotland
Marin county Argyle-shire
Extends a narrow mass of land
Known only as Kintyre

A certain mull on which is known
What sea the eye adore
As glitter to a rolling mist
As waves align the shore

Not far from there in Campbeltown
Five miles or maybe more
Sat Duncan Blaine McGeachy
His hat upon the door

Young daughter Isabella 
Bound for distant farms
Alas to Rocky Mountain House
Clutches in her arms

Where Peter Paul of Eckville
Did spy the raving lass
More fair than any local
And quite a lovely yass

Peter Paul and Isabella
Rose the Adams pack
Jack Loreen and Mary 
James Peter at the back

I remember James Peter
Marge would say J. P.
And when she called him Jimmy Joe
He’d hide behind a tree

Old Jimmy Joe he got to know
How grievous love could be
He stood inside a few short days
More tall than any tree

His mother Isabella 
His darling Marjorie
Would both depart on one foul whisk
The maker for to see

Of Jim and Marge had come a brood
As fine a brood could be
Of Randy Eddy and Janelle
And my sweet Laura Lee 

Copyright © Mike Martin | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ballad |

3 Monarch Butterflies

3 Monarch butterflies, her spirit still lives on
3 Monarch butterflies show me she’s not really gone
3 Monarch butterflies flying through the wind
To take me back to somber days where she speaks to me again

I’ll always remember
The things she has taught me
About being glorious
To live for the sake of being
To be kind and generous
And say no ill to anyone
The last time that I spoke to her
She was laughing and humming a song

The days that she followed me on
And spent time building me up
Telling me how to paint the sun
And laugh, looking back on every step

The times her and grandpa too
Would watch me as I went to the park
And looked down from the rocket ship
And smile at their waving arms

The times she’d take me to places
And comment on the beauty of every scene
She’d tell me “There’s beauty everywhere
There’s beauty in everything.”

When I saw her in the hospital, she smiled as I walked in
I sat down beside her bed, and began to hold her hand
She was in such critical pain but her smile never dimmed
I showed her a picture of her wedding day
She said “That’s my husband, I can’t wait to see him.”

3 monarch butterflies were hatched the minute she passed away
We were waiting days for cocoons to hatch and the butterflies to be set free  
i got home from the hospital and was sitting on my porch
I saw a monarch butterfly flying close to me
To me it seemed to symbolize
That she was well and at peace

Copyright © James Black | Year Posted 2016

Details | Ballad |

A cent

I picked up a cent
Not worth a dime
Enough to buy a peanut
Not worth my time
Twelve months without rest
Trying to feed
The many mouths in my nest
To satisfy their greed

I picked up a cent
It burned a hole
Through my hand and foot 
And through my sole
Porous to money
Trying to reach
The pie in the sky 
Dying to be rich

I picked up a cent
Not worth a penny
It had a dull tint
But still it was money
Mining fool’s gold
To build pyramid schemes
Like Egyptians of old
Raiding tombs

I picked up a cent
Then found another
So made it a habit
Like a coin collector
Bit hard on one
And dropped it at once
Because I remembered gran’
I had picked up a curse

Copyright © Thabang Ngoma | Year Posted 2014

Details | Ballad |

If Only My Grandmother A Man

If my grandmother was a man,
She could have been the Goliath of the East
Her barns of yam could have been the largest
In the community with her tubers as tall as
The Iroko tree- the king tree of the forest.

If my grandmother was a man,
She could have dance like king David 
She could have dream like Joseph,
If my grandmother was a man, many
Beautiful undefiled women could have gone mad
For the sake of his love glowing preciously.

If my grandmother was a man,
She could have been mourned like the mourning
Of an only son in Nkporo land by the Professional
Mourners in a row call to savor their voices of gold
To her corpse.

If she was a man,
She could have lived a life withou limits, 
go to the heaven where men dreaded to be crown.
Yesteryears, no lady in Nkporoland could stand her
When she danced, the sand went up in saluatation,
Her legs were made of golden jelweries and her
Voice was honey to the ears of the hearer.

The stars were here friend as a woman,
The moon, her cup bearer and the air;
Bears her hairs in an unquestionable manner.
In the morning, the birds sings for her
Picking at her hair in goodness.
I wish she was a man, she could have been a 
Aman in a thousand men. 

Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ballad |

Heaven Above

I wish I can travel across the sky.
In a ship full of stars and the moon as guide.
I will peak into heaven to see granny again.
To find out if heaven is as she mentioned.
The trees are of gold and the whole place is studded in diamonds.
Angels don't walk they fly around, 
Everyone is in white with  a crown.
God the father sits on a throne,
Counting his children if they are safe home.
Supreme bliss is heaven above.

What about my doggy and cat i asked?
Oh yes dear she smiled! 
They have their own heavenly space,
there are no chains or whips, 
no one is a tiger and no one is a mice.
No fights over might is right .
All have wings of angelic white.
The Creator sits on a throne and counts his creation,
if they are all safe home,
Everyone is so happy in heaven above

- By Lorna Malla 

Copyright © Lorna Malla | Year Posted 2017

Details | Ballad |

peach gospel in the cellar

  in an old cellar mason jars
 full of canned sunsets line
  the shelves.

   ripened years ago. 

 they have names like
 sylvia's famous peach

 Now the moths have never 
spoken such eloquent sermons.

The dust is beautifully barren..

The preservation of sugar kept in shades of 
Orange and Sun burnt yellow.

Copyright © nathan martin | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ballad |


The sun cracks to wake the day,the smell of bacon in the air 
as I awake to start the day.
I remember
My grandmother in the kitchen, always with a smile,
I remember
Summer vacation was always fun,things to do,chores to be done,
grandma always made it fun
I remember
A scent, a smell, a song, a touch to bring all back
I remember
Those days are gone but in my mind grandma is still in the
kitchen with a smile.
I remember

Copyright © Barbara Clark | Year Posted 2007

Details | Ballad |


Being born in the postwar fifties,
after darkness and catastrophe
ascended on all Europe,
I didn't experience cruelty and horror... 
but hope came from the defenders of freedom
from North America and England;
and their military supremacy crushed
Hitler's vanity and his inhumane empire!
I was given birth by a courageous mother,
who saw bombs drop on buildings,
and escaped to the countryside with a few belongings...
dragging grandmother to safety!

Fear was everywhere...people had to hide,
and liberty was a forbidden cry;
even in the Vatican City, and rumors...
if not facts, confirmed that some
were afraid to speak against this evil,
but continued to tremble,
and in doing so they let many die!
Wasn't God angry at their hypocrisy;
and if they had taken a stand against the evildoers...
wouldn't it spared many?

It's my turn to protest the evil
that destroyed the life of big and small
for their faith, religion and race;
those voices are still ignored,
but  they are finally heard;  
their thirst for peace and justice
will be quickly quenched!
It's my turn to heal their wounds
with sweet and consoling words of kindness,
and alleviate their fears that what happened yesterday...
must not be repeated in our history;
and wil I be able to do this without facing controversy?
It's my turn to use the written word,
to outshine everyone whose interest is greed! 

Nobody more than I
was saddened by this tragedy,
so powerful and overwhelming,
to promptly modify the traits of my personality;
to be more considerate and caring,
and partake in Humankind's destiny!
An Aquarius has many
distinguishing qualities
and talents, and I intend to use them wisely...
listening to their struggles 
with much sympathy!
It's my turn to use the written word,
to declare war on the state of unfair things,
proceed with caution on flapping winds...
to land where I am welcomed,
and see every hand touching mine;
only when the their joy returns, I can certainly smile!

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2008

Details | Ballad |


I bought my house for its mirrored walls 
in the master bath from which you could fancy 
yourself as a forties' film star, your flawless 
body soaking in billowing suds, or stepping into 
a glassed-in shower, large enough for a tryst 
with Tarzan, be he resident of a nearby tree.  

I imagined Don Perignon cooling in a basin, 
and me: Maureen Sullivan, with or without an 
Ape Man, poised for my swinging life, coupe 
in hand. Instead, stumbling in half-light toward 
morning ablutions on the quotidian blank page 
of my life, mirrors conjured up not Hamlet's 
perturbed, parental spirit, but a woman with my 

mother's face.  In her summer frock, frenzied 
with flowers, prim white hat, and a crocheted bag 
in the crook of her arm, she is standing on 
the sidewalk outside my grandmother's white-
columned house in Georgia, where she sought 
safe haven before a failed life, Jack Daniels 
whiskey, and the cancer monster claimed her.

"So easy to spoil" it was said, so how is it life did 
not work for her? -- "My beautiful, beautiful 
daughter, wailed my grandmother like a banshee, 
she, of the stiff, upper-lipped Prussian forbears, 
as we drove forty solemn miles to lay her favorite 
in Rebel heaven alongside a great-grandfather who 
lost an arm at the battle of Cold Springs, his 
grim-faced wife, bedrock beside him.

Peace was the prize my mother never won, 
no treaty ever offered, pardon long in coming.  
I see her poised like a dancer, sad history 
surrounding her, a smile as unreadable as Mona 
Lisa's under eyes like mine that have seen too 
much of the sorrow of this world.  "It all 
comes down to this," Anne Sexton wrote, "We 
ARE our mothers--that's the main thing."

Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2008