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Brandon Conway Oct 2018
My countenance
made love with the harsh earth
she left me
and bloodied
with a couple days
plucked out of my memory
thank whoever is above
for the few buddies
that pulled me to the
corner with a flashlight
bag of cold ice
shoulder rubs
and words of advice
I got back in the ring
ready for to resume the fight
I learned that night that
you can't beat Gaia
but that you could endure
a few rounds.

Just kidding,
I was knocked out
during the first round.
Brandon Amberger Feb 2018
Well I'm glad you asked.
I'm your next monumental task.
Call me Rufus because I'm about to make your empire crumble.
From my earthquaking hook, it will make the crowds rumble.
Float like a butterfly, hit like Tyson.
I got the strength of the All American Bison.
That left they say is “the kiss of death” please,
you haven't seen a real American breed.
A combo of the world's greatest.
My team is the smartest and latest.
What could you have to possibly show?
I’ll hit you with the jab high and low.
You’re skills of movement and power are ****.
****, I can’t wait to make you cry and quit
Nandish Malhotra Jan 2018
As he stepped into the ring,
Everyone his name did sing.
They wanted him to win
The title, for the commoners.
The title in his last fight.

He was out of practice,
His reflexes had slacked.
Gloves, boxers, guard, did him justice
There was something which he lacked.
Lacked in his last fight.

Before he could hear his favorite song,
Followed by the nerve-racking gong.
He had a look around
To catch a familiar sight,
Have a look at her before his last fight.

He checked the stands,
Then glanced around the ropes
And before he had given all hopes
He heard a familiar sound
Right before the first round.
Go hubby go! Punch him left and right!
She screamed with all her might.
Putting a smile on his face,
And then he boxed like an ace.
Winning the title, just for her.
The title in his last fight.
In this poem I have tried to capture the role of a boxer's wife to lift his spirits before the boxing match.
Seanathon Jan 2018
What I do really is like boxing.

I throw out punches and mix with jabs.
Hitting the bag or person I see.

And if it comes back to me, at me?
I hit it again until it stays away.

Like boxing you see?
Most honestly.
Follow up
Debra Des Vignes Jan 2018
Sweat drops splatter like ****** flies and a heavy bag sways before my eyes, and I’m alive. Inside the boxing gym, grit motivates me. It tantalizes me. It helps me see, life. Now I’m remembering a scene, a warm glow across a snowy wasteland. Miles away from status, palm trees, and celebrity parties; the lifestyle wasn’t for me. In Los Angeles dawn comes early. Harshness bounces off windowsills, luxury fades, gold-colored walls are hollow, and, in the end, we’re all eating off plastic plates. I am hungry for something else, substance.

I’m now near that snowy mountainside in Idaho, a wasteland, fields. Living in a place stripped of pretense. It's where I grow and come into my own. I find it in boxing too. Aren't we all alone?
I recall feeling alive in other places: Crenshaw’s flea markets in Los Angeles and Oak Cliff, Dallas. Less quiet, but when you walk out of the mist, adrift, listen to the beat, two thumbs tap on a hard surface, streets talk, winds whimper, a chaotic jungle of concrete, my mind in ecstasy. I am in constant search of risk though it’s slippery. Like a lion hunting antelope, I’m hunting steak. Risk. Grit. Fate. In life, and in boxing, there is much at stake.

Isn’t risk a game or an escape?

Boredom will **** a soul, so will fear, if you let it. I’ve seen the best, I won’t mention the rest. I’ve also been stuck in mud, buried like the rest in my disillusioned bulletproof vest. Boxing has rescued me, resurrected me. For all I see is realness, and you're alone. A jab, blood, spit, fluorescent lights flicker, airless, stale sweat, heat – all against a backdrop of a clock beating hard against a soft chest. It tests one’s inner strength. The ring is my haven, but I am no injured raven. I’m best in a cavernous place, a countryside, sprawling fields, a stark, crisp white napkin touches me. There’s luxury but I'm bare-faced, hitting the gas, running on empty. With every mistake I get back in the ring.

In the ring I can look in a man's eyes and see his soul. I know whether he's flourished alone by the spark in his eyes. And I'm silently putting on wraps, bearing the weight of a punch. I stumble back. Then I rise.
Marcus Acheson Dec 2017
dreams help us to accept what happens in life
some dream of monsters or falling from great heights
I dream of not boxing

despite what you may think
I'm not violent
I'm kind
I'm just declined
the chance of my dream
I don't like teams
I like the extremes
teams let you down
but when you box
the only one that can let you down is you
and I don't lose
Marcus Acheson Dec 2017
Get in the ring
Wait for the ding
Cause when that bell rings
It ain’t time to sing
It’s time to fight
It don’t matter if he’s double your height
And his jab bites
You ain’t a knight you the king
throws a right hook
But you ain't a rook
This is textbook
Return with the cross
Cause you're the boss
you took round one
but you ain't done
you won't run
this is your moment
you ain't broken
you're just not well spoken

there's that bell ring
you better bring
the best that you can
cause you ain't the rest
this is the test
and if you're the best
then you bring home the belt
cause you won't melt

he's on the ropes
and he hopes
that you make a mistake
but this is a piece of cake

then he throws a combination
that would shock a nation

so know to take a loss
cause you ain't rocky
you were just too cocky
please let me know what you think
A ludicrous
man who
box and
angle with
whim wholly
heat dangle
his bantam
let towel
round his
ear with
such rumor
proclaim his
crown and
still fight
his trilogy
with Mexico
La Bourrera
Barrera is a surname in Romance languages including Spanich, Italian and Portuguese and the meaning is border, thank-you
Steve Nov 2017
Thoughts circle my mind
But the words don't come out.
There's a numbness inside
An illness I hide
Shadow boxers raining down blows
But the words don't come about

I'm taking a count
But the words don't come out
Solitude surrounded by babble
Goaded on by the rabble
Transfixed by the eyes of strangers
But the words never come out.

Saved by the bell
The worlds knocking me out
My head is spinning
Silence is winning
I'd like to tell them
But the words won't come out
A silent shout
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