Author Archives: blitzken

BLOODPUDDING

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!

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.)

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!