Look.
Is it pudding?
Or is it blood?
Pudding’s fun,
But this is crud!
This bloodpudding thing,
Is utter folly,
Like putting mudpie
On the desserts trolley,
Don’t mess about,
With words and food,
It’s disgusting,
And kind of rude,
Pudding’s a pleasure,
For which I’m weak,
But bloodpudding?
A monstrous freak!
Call things what they are,
Like mud that is pied,
Blood “pudding”
Is just blood fried!
Author Archives: blitzken
Hero/Villain
Hmmm.
My grandfather distinguished himself,
On the field of honour
As a Canadian soldier
During Holland’s liberation.
On the fields of Holland,
My grandfather was a hero.
But the hero came home.
And then he was a hero,
In no more than name,
In fact he was a villain,
Bringing medals to shame,
For heroes and villains
Can be one and the same.
Yes the hero came home,
And revealed something other,
For six years of her childhood,
He raped my poor mother,
Until he was caught,
And finally imprisoned,
Leaving lives torn,
Family full of divisions.
An act can be heroic,
Yes I know that it can,
But to see a real hero,
First show me the whole man.
(I don’t usually write after prompts, but I couldn’t resist “Military, Soldiers, and Veterans” from Jingle poetry.)
Signs of aging
I know I’m getting older,
For when I fantasize,
About two women in my bed,
It’s not sex and boobs and bums and thighs,
But how it’d be to spoon with them instead.
Life x #days = haiku
Get up. Greet the day.
Try to do your very best.
Go to bed again.
THE SAME EARTH
Our hands have dug in the same earth,
Blackened nails reveal the search,
For answers hidden deep within the soil,
Other lives have come and gone,
Just the surface walked upon,
But never reached the depths at which we toil,
We are in each other’s blood,
Shared sweat and climbed through mud,
Ever wondering what each of us is worth,
We share a mirrored fractured soul,
Neither one of us is whole,
We only know,
We dig in the same earth.
IDENTITY
We are born with no identity,
Except that bestowed on us by others.
We are somebody’s daughters,
Somebody’s sisters,
Somebody’s sons or brothers.
Somebody’s firstborn, or best hope,
Somebody’s own dream unfulfilled,
Somebody’s religion perhaps, or class,
Someone else’s strong wishes willed.
We grow into these things for a while,
These identity mantles we wear,
They help us define who we are,
Till they get far too heavy to bear.
Then we cast them off, often with struggle,
Throw them to the proverbial floor,
Deny that all these things define us,
For we know deep inside we are more.
So off we head on our own pathways,
On our journeys to find our true self,
To find who we are on our own,
When our history is left on the shelf.
But through troubles and time we discover,
Though we may stand on a distant shore,
We are indeed all those things that defined us,
But we also are more,
So much more.
SQUEEZING THE RUBBER BALL
Very shortly I’ll be off,
To give some blood again,
They’ll ask some questions,
Do some tests,
Stick a needle in my vein,
Then pump and pump,
And pump and pump,
The crimson red shall flow,
I relax and squeeze a rubber ball,
Happy to let it go,
I’ll get a sandwich, juice and gift,
And then be on my way,
In about three months’ time,
I’ll come back another day,
And now they do a new thing,
That had me quite amused,
They send donors out an sms,
When their blood’s been used!
HELD
Medicine of every kind,
To heal, fix, and meld,
So when will they make a pill,
To make me feel I’m being held?
SICK
The New York Times Headline catches my eye,
“Chefs, Butlers, Marble Baths: Hospitals Vie for the Affluent”,
Something here seems quite incongruent,
When many can’t afford healthcare,
The elite receive more than their share,
There is no logic there to follow,
It’s a very bitter pill to swallow,
Capitalism truly put to the test,
Survival of the fittest and then screw the rest?
What’s at the heart, what makes this system tick?
It’s an odd thing when a healthcare system is sick.
(written in response to the Poetry Picnic Challenge to write something after a NYT headline)
Hope
Hope and I, we’ve worked it out,
sort of struck ourselves a deal.
we know what it’s all about.
what’s a pipe dream, and what’s real.
I’ve agreed to not invest too much,
to not believe like I was blind.
Hope knows that sometimes it’s a crutch,
that’s a role it doesn’t mind,
but Hope will not be overstated,
not be cheapened or abused.
it will go on unabated,
if for a noble purpose used.
So Hope states clearly it will stay,
as long as I know how to see,
and if I work hard to find a way,
it never will abandon me.
Random Misanthrope 