Best Balladeer Poems
Upon the lakes they do swim gliding so effortlessly
These species of graceful waterfowl the largest of anatidae family
In their beautiful pure white plumage with elegant long curved necks
Blunted beaks and big webbed feet living together by water's edge
These magnificent creatures of the waters are a sign of purity and love
Remind us of the blessings in our relationships a gift from heaven above
If all goes well in there pairing they will stay together for rest of their life’s
When they glide upon the waters of our awareness they bring us deep insight
These birds of Mother Nature they’re exquisite and unique
Bearing exotic waves of beauty to our dreams as we do sleep
They swim around in our divine mind adding colours of delight
Encouraging us to spread our wings and take our glorious flight
Courting occurs on rivers and lakes throughout the known world
Whilst they live on plant life tiny fish and scattered bread as well
You might see them duck their heads as they feed upon their foods
But you better beware of their aggression whilst they protect their broods
The elegance of these myterious birds are displayed in a ballet dancer
Dancing into our emotions with their romantic artisticpower
Transforming our souls with delightful moves bringing us into harmony
With a brilliant performance of balance, control and technical flexibility
The beautiful dying swan pours its heart out as death draws near
Greeting this with an exceptional beautiful ending balladeer
Its modulated voice singing the swan-song of death so sweet
This harmonious sound can be heard as its last creative piece
The crown retain the ownership to all unmarked mute swans
A ceremony takes place once a year and lasts for five days long
Swan upping is a tradition dated back to the twelfth century
Markers row up and down the rivers paying tribute to the Queen
In England they’re a protected species and owned by Her Majesty
The wing spans on these wonderful birds can extent to several feet
These sacred aquatic birds male and female cobs and pens
Those little cygnets and swanlings on a swan lake that never ends
© Copyright KC.Leake
8th December 2014
All Rights Reserved
Oh, mournful, mountain balladeer,
Your plaintive, mountain song
Comes aching through
The tender evening sadness.
"White oak, red oak!
White oak, red oak!"
Oh, whippoorwill,
My soul echoes your sorrow.
Oh, spokesman for the broken heart,
Who taught you your refrain?
So eloquent your voice
Of soulful yearning!
"White oak, red oak!
White oak, red oak!"
I join you in your
Summer night's repining.
.
The old balladeer sounds
like a tired man.
Under the wind of an
electric fan,
he blinks his bleary eyes
as fast as he can.
His breath reeks of tobacco
and stale rum.
As he hiccups through songs with
a coarse hum,
the drunken audience gossips
and chews gum.
.
Under the wind
of an electric fan
the old balladeer sounds
like a tired man,
blinks his bleary eyes
as fast as he can;
breath reeks of nicotine
and of stale rum,
crooning his song
with a gravelly hum,
the captive audience gossips
and chews gum!
Blissfully, Blessed
Blithely, Brilliant
Blatantly, Brave
Bipedal, Biographer
Bilingual, Bibliolater
Beyond, Blasphemy
Before, Bespectacled
Benevolent, Benignity
Bending, Belly laugh
Betraying, Beelzebub
Betrothed, Beau
Bearded, Baritone
Barbate, Banjoist
Baptized, Balladeer
Badinage, Banter
You must love me sideways,
Desert island of poetry and lace
Embroided inside the fleshy
Tunes of the drunken balladeer.
The overcast day, my warm soul
Inside the cold bed of gloom,
Comes to inhabit the sunny side
Of your world, cracking the whip
Of the edgy tales of tomorrow.
Sane for me, insane for you,
Choose a picky battle to ruin,
With the gaze that turns me
Defenseless as Scheherazade,
Before the storytelling squad.
Did you ever Roberto Nesto … the reggae maestro
Decorating rocks in the ghetto … children’s falsetto
Rising for liberation from tenures of poverty
Logwood lit from the shredded ash of ganja smoke
Rising to rinse the heart of woe … the clarity
Of things about his ragged ghetto … father broke
Love pregnant on cornmeal porridge … don’t cry
O woman, don’t cry, memory in music exploding
And now the world will dance to marijuana high
Dreams rocking, shooting, looting the tenors meaning
We were left nothing, now watching mainstream sings
Tributes to us for gifts of culture and the game:
The balladeer circles the sun on broken wings
Oh he made melodies out of the ghetto’s shame.
(Sorry folks, I could not resist the temptation, the rebel I am, to explode High cultural
traditions and provide a door for the people to celebrate from street and ghetto their own -
since none of the classical masters means anything in the pop world. Robert "Bob" Nesta
Marley OM ... February 6, 1945 – May 11, 1981 ... was a Jamaican singer-songwriter and
musician. He was the lead singer, songwriter and guitarist for the ska, rocksteady and
reggae bands: The Wailers (1964 – 1974) and Bob Marley & the Wailers (1974 – 1981).
Marley remains the most widely known and revered performer of reggae music, and is
credited for helping spread Jamaican music to the worldwide audience. "No Woman Nuh Cry"
is rated a classic by many musicologists.)
“Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early” – Gordon Lightfoot, Canadian Balladeer,
from The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald
A song by Gordon Lightfoot I would hear
in 1976, my newborn daughter’s year.
S S Edmund Fitgerald was the ship,
and Lightfoot’s song described its final trip.
I thought that Lightfoot had made up the tale,
like Melville did about a great white whale!
Not having heard the news of it before,
I’d taken the song’s lyrics as semi-ancient lore!
Since having learned the truth, to my surprise,
one year before was that poor ship’s demise!
The ship was wrecked in 1975,
and not one man on board was able to survive.
The night it wrecked came gale-force wind and snow.
The ship in half did break and deep down she did go.
Twenty-nine doomed men – death they could not cheat.
Into the lake they sank five-hundred feet.
In Lake Superior, tenth of November
occurred this wreck the song makes us remember.
Next to the Titanic, this shipwreck I
am most familiar with . . . and why?
Because of Gordon Lightfoot’s famous song!
“The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” shall live long.
I cannot match that brilliant balladeer,
so the ship’s tale (as he sings it) you really have to hear!!
Nov. 7, 2021
For Robert James Liguori's A Noteworthy Ship Poetry Contest
Chente—mi amigo, compadre, hermano
Troubadour of our pain untold
Minstrel of our abandoned souls
Keeper of our traditions bold
So loved by La Virgen de Guadalupe
That she took you on Her day
Now heaven’s honored balladeer
For Her now, you may play
You leave us with our sorrow
Our inconsolable despair
So, with a soft prayer on our lips
We plead—Volver! Volver!
A Effigy in crystal
abandoned
in time
fixed the twinkle
shining crysolite eye
gentleness shown
by slant of her mouth
Traveller’s stop
lingering long
whispering Softly
of Willows sad song
A balladeer
old for his time
Sagacious voice
singing in rhyme
sits in shadow
lamenting
her plight
serenading willow
A good many night
All hallows eve
bloody right gale
A stocky young man
wandering round
no thought involved
feet are guided
Invisable hand
forcing along
Ward enters our tale
The balladeer
an entranced visage
does see
sits forward of shadow
starts speaking free
“I’ll tell you the Story
of beautiful willow
here in her glory
ere’ she stands
light of the vale
until her true love
triumphant prevails
See her father
a Czar
No blessings did give
distressed and dismayed
Willow did flee
fell over the parapet
mortal injury done
abruptly appearing
a sorcerer arrived
told all around
restore her I can
If a tarrif be paid
Need a son do I
my eyes
A slave made me
As mournful a cry
keened through the night
the mothers of vale
cried out their plight
Our Noble Czar
far from calm
threw up his arm
his agreement no alms
So a deal was set
with a nod
the vote was cast
with a sob
ballots read
son of the poorest
man with dread
forward he came
the poorest of males
way down deep
deep in the vale
the wizard proceeding
with no sound
A spell made
hands flying around
Lifting poor willow
up off the ground
nuclear light did abound
the vale lit up
making all
jump in fright
the sorcerer concluded
that horrible night
to all who would hear
those far and wide
even quite near
“Touch not this girl
till love finds her here”
People of vale
in shock and dismay
screamed their protest
noone did sway
tricked them had
the magical bard”
Balladeer
his story now told
set down his harp
hands did fold
I Am Bloke...
I am bloke you see
that I happen to be,
from Terra Australis land,
and who likes to write about
the many things I’ve found,
that it is of the bush,
the scrub,
and other places be.
however, it is most of all
are the animals that interest to me,
who creep and crawl about
inhabiting our land,
and in the course of my days I’ve found;
bush turkeys:
make a bloody mess,
wombats:
are cute, in their burrowing ways,
kangaroos:
like to bound about regardless,
red bellied black:
highly venomous bloke,
echidnas:
are prickly folk at their best,
goannas:
simply like to run up trees,
daddy-long-legs
are really and truly scary hairy beasts,
platypus and platypi
are not really seen by many folks,
kookaburras:
like to sit on boughs of olde gum trees
and laugh their silly heads off,
cane toads:
squishy, squashy are best left dead under feet,
great white sharks:
need to stay in ponds;
but for me on the other hand,
there are many others I could write about,
who play their part and make
the Australian landscape
as the only one of its kind,
and for this I’m proud to be,
a blokey bloke,
a bush balladeer,
and a poet from the land ‘down under.’
Francis Cooper - Mac
This is another modern age,
the one others will dream about;
a free spirit out of a cage,
a balladeer creating art.
Many ages ago they used plain paper and ink,
I use a keyboard and a computer at all times;
it's a powerful hardware that makes me occasionally blink...
then it's time for me to go to bed and wait for surprises.
Pens, pencils, pads and note books now are things of the past,
what if a power loss occurred and the screen went blank,
who could recover any work...wouldn't some beat on their chest?
Get used to saving your work, be diligent and don't strain your shank.
This is another modern age that will flourish as fragrant lime,
and to lead one must be determined, motivated and accurate:
counting syllables, checking iambic meter, stress and rhyme...
and the author will have a chance to become a Poet Laureate.
(Dedicated to Waylon Jennings who died February 13, 2002.)
You were the balladeer in the movie 'Moon runners' that was made in the
seventies.
Several years later you became the balladeer in the Dukes of Hazzard on TV.
You guest starred in an episode of Married with children sometime in the
nineties.
You were a fantastic singer and I'm sure that most everyone agrees.
When you died, the music industry suffered a great loss.
You would've died in 1959 if you had won that coin toss.
Ritchie Valens won and he died in that plane crash instead of you.
You cheated death in 1959 but you weren't so lucky in 2002.
People loved you and they knew that you were a credit to the human race.
You were famous for years and now you're in a better place.
I Am A Bloke.
I am a bloke you see
that I happen to be,
from Terra Australis,
and who likes to write about
the many things I’ve found,
that it is of the bush,
the scrub,
and other places be.
however, it is most of all
the animals that interest to me,
who creep and crawl about
inhabiting our land,
and in the course of my days I’ve found;
bush turkeys:
make a bloody mess,
wombats:
are cute, in their burrowing ways,
kangaroos:
like to bound about regardless,
red bellied black:
highly venomous bloke,
echidnas:
are prickly folk at their best,
goannas:
simply like to run up trees,
daddy-long-legs
are really and truly scary hairy beasts,
platypus and platypi
are not really seen by many,
kookaburras:
like to sit on boughs of old gum tree,
cane toads:
squishy, squashy are best left dead under feet,
great white sharks:
need to stay in ponds;
but for me on the other hand,
there are many others I could write about,
who play their part and make
the Australian landscape
as the only one of its kind,
and for this I’m proud to be,
a blokes bloke,
a bush balladeer,
and a poet from the land ‘down under.’
Lion 'bout grabbing tiger by tail
Holy mole lee
watch out fowl, balladeer
look out... i.e. donkey kong
primate doth share
footloose slothful writing,
essentially swiftly tailored hare
reed styled mountebank
gets made by mice elf,
an imperfect triangulated square,
while "fake" charioteer
looses neigh scent horsesense
glomming "fake" papier
mâché piñata across animal planet
rhyme without reason,
nonetheless who doth dare
dovish and/or hawkish
elk quint lee otter vamoose
double, triple, quadruple... dare
to caw meow ta
as silence rings loud and clear
ja hiss don't miss snake
pig in a poke hogtied
sow owl only tell ya beware
me dogged holy cow
cuckoo bird harebrained
effort won't impair
corpus collosum, where
seat of thinker housed
fortunately ye ant near
my neck of the woods here
Schwenksville cuz after
innocuous, impetuous, illustrious...
brainstorming deluge... glare
til hearts content
with nostrils that flare
lemming just be reel
regarding rocky mission
opossum bull, I swear
dogged bonafide effort
thanks ocelot to bear
with beetle browed toadying
off fish hill who accidently
didst entrap and snare
courtesy hook line and sinker
masterly baited metaphorical
Earthworm dangling cyber air
coon sitter me batty
Ass sin nine, I admittedly duck lear,
but don't badger me, Noah
ark confess with prayer
yak see no porpoise here.