After Losing A Fight

after losing a long, well fought fight
the rain or our pain pelts the pith in our joints
the heat of our hurt melts the grit in the marrow in our bones

the valleys of our battlefields
lay covered with wreckage
our steeds are worn
our banners torn
into the wind our masts flown
and our tears rage
like the charge of rolling rapids
raging in upset rivers

nonetheless, the hardened footsteps
of our tempered feet tend not
towards long retreat
towards our commitment
towards our vision
towards the source of our sore
once the gates are open
we shall return

Notes on Title Fighting

in the middle
of one serious
challenge…

to my pursuit
of success as i
follow my dreams

i finally stopped crying
i finally stopped complaining
i finally stopped sleeping
i finally stopped stressing …

out…

must change my pace
…in the ring
must step back
lay on the ropes
and let opposition swing

let opposition swing
while i cover my head
let opposition swing
while i take blows to muscle
let opposition swing
while i deflect with strong arms

let opposition swing
while i stay on the ropes

and wait…

for my day, my hour, my minute, my moment, my round

Notes on a Title Fight (revised)

Notes on Title Fighting (revised)

in the middle
of one serious
challenge…

to my pursuit
of success as i
follow my dreams

i finally stopped crying
i finally stopped complaining
i finally stopped sleeping
i finally stopped stressing …

out…

must change my pace
…in the ring
must step back
lay on the ropes
and let opposition swing

let opposition swing
while i cover my head
let opposition swing
while i take blows to muscle
let opposition swing
while i deflect with strong arms

let opposition swing
while i stay on the ropes

and wait…

for my day, my hour, my moment, my minute, my round

After Losing a Long, Well Fought Fight

after losing a long, well fought fight
the rain or our pain pelts the pith in our joints
the heat of our hurt melts the marrow
in our bones

the valleys of our battlefields
are covered with wreckage of dreams deferred
our steeds are worn
our banners torn
into the wind our masts blown
and our tears rage
like the charge of rolling rapids
raging in an upset river

arising, raising our once torn
now mended banners higher
we tread trails of trial
trails of test
trails of travail
trails of toil

nonetheless, the hardened footsteps
of our tempered feet tend not
towards long retreat

towards our battlefield
towards our commitment
towards our vision
toward our dream

towards the source of our sore
once the gates are open

we shall return