Balls Of Steel

I feel the need to justify this piece.

I don’t hate men. Far from it. There are quite a few I’d like to show my appreciation of. In my dreams!

But. I have a sister – two actually- and one of them has just had a kick in the balls by someone who calls himself a man. I KNOW not all men are like this.


OUR balls are made of steel.

WE keep them hidden inside,

Unaffected by temperature and treason.

Governed by reason.

And humungous quantities of love.

OUR balls allow hands-free penalties

And rarely swing with abandonment

Even while YOU think irrationally of

OUR reasoning

That broods on permutations

And shelters our most vulnerable parts

With drops of tears.


OUR tender parts need hiding from

The world of hurt we feel.

They need to rise and feed

The children, pack their lunch

And send them off with cheer and change

In pockets

That are not meddled with by hands

Fumbling for satisfaction in the moment.


OUR balls are mostly resistant to immediate gratification,

Tell YOU to ‘get them right roon ye’

When threat of compromise


Those we love beyond OUR own balls.

We are WOMAN! WE have balls!

They hurt.

And then they heal.


22 thoughts on “Balls Of Steel”

    1. She’s just gone home with her balls of steel somewhat more intact than they were earlier. I wish you balls of steel, Jen, from all that assails. Hugs, my Aussie friend. x


    1. Oh, I completely agree. And my own reaction to that idea scares me – I think I would swing for anyone who physically hurt those I love. This hurt involved no hands. Though perhaps no less painful in its effects.
      I do know it’s not all men, hence the initial disclaimer. Women may be every bit as guilty of emotional abuse.


  1. I grew up in a land far away in a time of real men – whenever a man mistreated his woman, the neighborhood fellas settled his hash but good – I’m sure it was sexist, but no need for cops and there wasn’t anything like social services


  2. I am sick of hearing about evil “men.” The most evil person I have ever known was a woman – my mother. It goes both ways. There are “men,” and then there are “males,” and being a male has nothing to do with being a man. And being a female does not make one the “fairer sex” by default. Each person, male or female, stands upon their own merits. I grew up in Paul’s world – you never laid a hand upon a woman, and that was that. To this day I never have, and am confident that I never will. But, my mother beat the hell out of me with a leather belt . . . maybe someone should write about that.


    1. Believe me, I do know and understand what horrors both sexes are capable of inflicting as parents, partners or friends. Anyone would have to be blind to not have seen, in the process of living, what males and females are capable of should they be that way inclined. Thirty years of dealing with parents of school kids leaves me in no doubt as has being caring observer to family relationships, marital and otherwise.
      It so happens, in this case, that it is a man who has inflicted hurt although not as my seemingly ill-advised metaphor has suggested to some, of a physical nature. This poem is my reaction to my sister’s experience with a man who is not evil but extremely foolish and careless in his dealings with others.
      Your experience at the hands of your mother is something that maybe you could write about to help redress the balance of perceptions. Should you wish, I’d gladly collaborate with you on something to that effect. Or, if not, I will certainly give thought to a similar piece that elaborates the potential of women to be every bit as callous as SOME men.
      Perhaps I should have hashtagged this not all men, not all women. Maybe the title for another poem?
      I must remember in future that some pieces may be triggers for others’ hurts. I’m sorry if this raised hurtful memories for you.


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