Mrs Latashka-

Mrs Latashka-


Mrs Latashka had no money,
Bore 5 girls with her husband Monty;
Sarah was a baby when he went running,
To another woman; says neighbourhood gossip.

Mrs Latashka toiled night and morning,
All kind of jobs, to earn some money;
Never took charity, though neighbors offered,
She trudged through life owning no one nothing.

Mrs Latashka was one of her kind,
Bore 5 girls, whom most saw as burdens;
Ignored all advice- to stop the toiling,
And earn, by getting all 5 girls married.

Mrs Latashka grew old not weary,
Little Sarah had gone off to Uni,
Her joints now weak from all the toiling,
Her face aglow for, she was reaping.

Mrs Latashka had clothed all children,
With education and self dignity,
She lay- her last few breaths escaping,
With the satisfaction, it was all worth it.

It’s been a while I wrote a ballad, thought I’d write one today.
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Once upon a Journey-

Once upon a Journey-


I once met a girl on a journey,
She told me she was tired.
This world had broken her will to live,
Long sleep- was what she desired.

12 year old, me could not understand,
Why sleep with so much to wake for?
The stars in itself kept me up at night,
In awe of their beauty and creation.

I was a kid, and she was a kid,
Two beings with different experience,
She wanted to sleep,
My own days were too short-
Our route had no intersection.

I once met a girl on a journey,
And she told me she was tired,
Now I wonder if maybe I’d shown her my life,
Her skies might be a bit clearer.

Years have gone by, since my encounter
And I hope her grey clouds have departed;
There’s a twinge in my heart,
When I think of the past,
And there was little I did to help her.

The beautiful image above is courtesy of This Site

B- Badmus Family (a Ballad)

B- Badmus Family (a Ballad)


There lived a family down the road,
Where the badmus’ lived with their cat and dog;
Each morning the mister waved Goodbye,
To his darling wife with a peck on each side.

Mr Badmus was a funny looking man,
Sickly thin and barely- five feet high,
The Mrs in contrast was plump and carried,
A few extra pounds, around her thighs.

They lived in the biggest mansion on the street,
And rode in a Bentley, while we watched in envy;
The Mrs adorned in the newest of fashion,
With her Mr at hand, as her greatest passion.

We watched and waited till we tired of waiting,
For disaster to befall their perfect family,
Engulfed in our envy, we failed to see,
The sorrow in their eyes, at the sight of our kids.

For, they had the wealth and they had the love,
But not the offspring they so longed for.
And they had accepted, they couldn’t have everything,
While we held onto ours and thirsted for theirs.

Yet the Mrs smiled, each time she caught our stares,
And the Mr walked like he hadn’t any care;
We thought him snobby, but he was only a man,
Who’d give the wealth all up for a child to care

the above image is courtesy of

Ballad: Bailey’s Son

Ballad: Bailey’s Son


Galavanting down the stairs in white,
The toll bell’s ringing- bride has arrived;
Bedecked in jewels from head to toe,
The lady in white with her train in tow.

The crowd goes ooh and the crowd goes ah,
Their perfect prince had found a wife;
The single maidens envy the bride,
While the streets of Bailey, rejoice and dance.

The priest stood waiting on the altar stand,
The bride’s eyes searching her beloved’s whereabout;
Silence drowning the energy and high,
A groom gone missing- cause for alarm.

Found laying still in a brothel house,
The Perfect groom with a secret life;
An image misconstrued on views and lies,
Prince charming departs not in the arm of his bride.

And years went by, and the bride moved on;
The town stood still for a while, distraught;
The envious envied the bride no more-
And Bailey learnt prefect was but a relative term.

Day 21 of October Poetry Writing  month. I’m trying to catchup on the prompts I missed. Today’s poetry type is Ballad. Just click on the word for more details on balladic style.


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Poem- Richard Cory

Poem- Richard Cory


Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
                   By- Edwin Arlington Robinson

April A-Z challenge is over even though I am three letters (x,y,z) behind which I will get back to. I’m back to my usual Unalphabetic blogging. The above poem by Edwin A. Robinson is my favorite ballad poem. The first day I read it, it struck a chord with me. I even copied it down and pasted the poem on my wall- that’s how much I love it.

It is sad how we keep extending our gaze to the possession of others and we think that they have everything going for them- all glitters and gold, but that’s not the reality. Some truths aren’t written on the collar of clothes and some battles aren’t matched with the wealth a person owns. Richard Cory shows the story of a man who was envied by all when in reality he was just a tormented being. Looks aren’t everything and wealth doesn’t guarantee peace. 

This is one of those poems that “got to me”. If you know of another Ballad, please feel free to share. Have you read this poem before?

Oh Father-

Oh Father-


A story that she never told;
A burden she roamed with for long;
The yells and the screams,
The screeching of boxes,
A little girl- left what was “home”.

A story that she never told;
Of a young man who drunk himself stone cold;
With a little girl the brute that she bore;
Like a tornado, spiraling-
He always came attacking-
Till he passed out exhausted for words.

But oh father, the past is now gone
If I could turn back the time-
I’m not sure I would leave you-
I would try to restore what you had;
But a 12 year old knows only so much,
I’m sorry I let you destroy your life.

A story that she never told;
Was the reason she cried herself to sleep,
Every night till the sound of the crows;
And they thought she was ill-
And prescribed loads of pills-
But she was just reminiscing her home;
At a time it was filled with,
Voices sounding cheery,
And a father- a hero he was.

A story that she never told;
Unravels itself after a decade of running,
As a letter addressed to her from-
A drunkard who’s passed on,
With a letter in hand meant for,
A little girl who long left her home.
On his way to a meeting,
Getting rid of alcoholism,
He met his end- hit by a truck.

A little girl who long left her home
Smiles at the thought of-
her father getting clean-

For the love of the daughter he had;
And though he’s now gone,
To the place up above,
She forgives him and hopes he’s at peace.
The little girl never could let him go.

image credit. This post is in response to Writing201 poetry assignment: write a poem the form of a ballad using anaphora/ epistrophe as a device. This is also a (sort of) part two to a poem I wrote a long time ago, For The love of a daughter.