#boxing
In the ring, I throw punches
like I’m trying to knock the sadness out of me.
Every swing is a conversation with my fear,
every hit is me saying,
“You don’t get to win today.”
My gloves feel heavy,
not just with padding,
but with everything I don’t say out loud.
All my quiet thoughts live in my fists.
I move my feet like I’m running from my mind,
dodging memories instead of punches,
slipping past doubts the way I slip past jabs.
The bell rings,
and for a few minutes,
the world finally shuts up.
no overthinking.
no what-ifs.
just breath, sweat, and heartbeat.
In the ring, I’m not fragile.
I’m focused.
I’m sharp.
I’m fire pretending to be calm.
but when the gloves come off,
so does the armor.
And I’m just a girl again
with bruises you can’t see.
Boxing teaches me how to fight,
but I’m still learning
how to rest.
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 12:39 AM UTC
A roll of white athletic tape lies on a counter next to a tub of Vaseline. Red leather gloves hang from a metal hook.
Two bare light bulbs dangle through a missing ceiling tile but fail to brighten the windowless room. There is a dull shine to the cracked
vinyl cover of the trainer’s table where he sits quietly, opening and closing his immense hands balling them into fists. He begins to
throw slow punches. The room is warm, and the air is stale, and heat builds under his heavy sweatshirt. He stands and faces the
mirror that hangs by a string wrapped around a single nail. The silver backing is worn, the reflection haphazard. He is brought still
by his image. He moves closer, his face filling the round glass. He dabs a fingertip into the fleshy skin beneath each eye, then runs a
thumb along the scar imbedded in one eyebrow. The arched hairs are divided evenly between an upper and lower prominence. He
pushes his nose comically to one side, letting it snap back to settle quietly under the large bump on his nose. He stretches a smile, his
teeth clenched. The upper tier is full where some teeth are newer. There are two gaps in the lower row, and he bumps a finger
unevenly across them. A scowl for the mirror. He bounces softly on his toes. Shoulders duck and rise, the head bobs and weaves.
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 2:59 PM UTC
I awoke hoping for a golden day
I’m easily dazzled, I suppose.
But it’s cool and overcast in Paris.
They’re limiting the sunshine today
because of global warming.
How can global warming bring a thousand harms
if it can’t even cook a turkey?
I love this after-Christmas week.
The crowded activities and Hallmark card events are over
but we still have the sunny moods and infectious vibes
(with no classwork).
My parents flew in last night.
It’s a holiday miracle.
What’s better than running into your mother’s arms
for a, “Mom-MEEEEEEEEEE!” hug.
Joy is a land unto itself, dizzying and potent.
“Your hair,” she said, almost immediately
- confiscating my adulthood with ease.
I‘ve missed her interrogations
and itchy, absorbing interest.
Re-entering childhood can be emotionally wearing
I needed a skin of those shuttle tiles for reentry.
The funny thing is, I get to watch my momma smother
under Grandmère’s beam-fixture gaze.
It seems awfully bright in here - far below the overcast.
.
.
Songs for this:
Wouldn't It Be Nice by The Sirens
Conexão by Amber Mark
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 12:38 PM UTC
When does the
champ know that
he doesn’t have
It anymore?
Is it after that
first loss to a
*** he should
have knocked out in
the second round?
Is it when his body
doesn't do what
his mind tells it
to do?
His punches are
slow.
His legs are
weak.
He once was one
of the greatest.
Iron Mike, they
called him.
He loses to an
overhyped cute
boy with little skills,
and blonde curls.
It was brutal to watch.
He was king of
the jungle in those
early Brooklyn days.
Old lions don’t just
wander off and die
alone.
They get killed and
eaten by
younger lions.
After this charade,
I hope the champ
hangs up his
gloves for good.
Nov 20, 2024
Nov 20, 2024 at 1:27 PM UTC
In the silence before the bell rings clear,
A woman stands with no trace of fear.
Her fists are clenched, her gaze is tight,
She knows the battle won't end tonight.
The ropes may bind, but not her soul,
For every strike, she takes control.
In every round, a lesson’s found,
A warrior’s spirit, unbowed, unbound.
She dances with shadows, swift on her feet,
Turning each challenge into defeat.
Her gloves may bruise, but never break,
For in her heart, no room for fake.
Life throws punches, hard and fast,
But she’s built to endure, to last.
Through every fall, she rises tall,
A testament that we can have it all.
Each jab, a truth; each hook, a fight,
She battles in darkness to find the light.
In her eyes, a fire, in her heart, a song,
She teaches the world where we belong.
For in the ring, as in life, we see,
Strength is not in muscle, but in being free.
To stand, to fight, to never flee,
She’s a champion of life’s wild sea.
This is her lesson, her enduring creed,
To rise, to fight, to always lead.
In the ring, she finds her way,
And shows us all we can win the day.
Aug 21, 2024
Aug 21, 2024 at 9:13 PM UTC
The love of my father was boxing
seeing my father slicing
The wind with his bare hands
Shadow boxing by his lonesome
Like if he was fighting the wind
The wind was his sparring partner
the sounds of his fists cutting through the air
I saw the violence and art
my dear father moves slower
After many decades
his punches have lost its sound
and his movement
has lost rhythm of time
the wind has beaten him over the years
it has taken my father all he’s had to fight
His last fight
Even the wind has taken the last wind out of him
Jan 11, 2024
Jan 11, 2024 at 2:37 AM UTC
Bobbing and weaving,
Slipping and jabbing.
The fighting stance against a thousand opponents,
All of whom, look like me,
Is a stance I can only articulate,
In a mirror,
Shadow boxing that guy,
Strangely looking like me.
Pop-Pop BANG,
I throw punches at the air in front of me,
This bull can rage like Cinderella in a cage,
A square, roped cage,
Where life’s uppercuts put me in a daze.
The fighter in me,
One stubborn little *******
Iron-jawed and iron-clawed,
Always taking one to the gut,
I fall down and so ruthlessly get back up.
24 and 0,
I’m the undefeated world champion,
My opponent remains consistent,
But I’m not afraid,
I got this far,
You think I can’t go a few more rounds?
Oct 26, 2023
Oct 26, 2023 at 10:53 PM UTC
It creeps up 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 of you
The darkness.
I can feel it too.
It reaches up and 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒔 you
And pulls you
𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏
𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏
𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏
Some days it has me in a 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌
A headlock inside my 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅
Locked because I
𝑪𝒂𝒏’𝒕.
𝑮𝒆𝒕.
𝑶𝒖𝒕.
Some nights my mind 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔 at me
Like it’s 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒚
Like it’s 𝒑𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 me for something.
The 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 fly so fast they’re like 𝒋𝒂𝒃𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔
In the boxing ring.
I try to fight them.
Some nights I come out 𝒗𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔.
Not tonight.
I’m 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅, feeling each 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒘 like a million 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒔 on my 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕.
𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.
𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.
𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.
𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.
Why can’t I 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 how to 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆?
Jun 12, 2023
Jun 12, 2023 at 6:56 PM UTC
on the ropes: pummelled;
somehow, he stays on his feet:
the bell ends the round!
Aug 20, 2021
Aug 20, 2021 at 12:07 PM UTC
I'm an ex-prizefighter and my name is Glass Joe.
If you're wondering if I could win fights, the answer is no.
I got my *** kicked by a shrimp and his name is Little Mac.
I got knocked out in the first round when that boy attacked.
I'm called Glass Joe because my jaw is made of glass.
It was humiliating because anybody could kick my ***
People laugh at my losses and it's something I resent.
I happen to be Glass Joe Biden and I'm the President.
I run America but I sure can't take a punch.
If you hit me in my stomach, I'll lose my lunch.
I lied to everybody when I said that I came from France.
I got *** whippings in the ring, I never stood a chance.
Even old women could knock me out and I'm not a fighter anymore.
If Americans learn that I lost ninety-nine fights, I won't win in 2024.
Apr 30, 2021
Apr 30, 2021 at 8:25 AM UTC
When I first met you, I cried.
Looking upon your silhouette, I wondered.
Reading your articles, I wanted to know you.
Searching for hours, I would find you.
A traveling boxer, just breaking into fame.
A husband, a father.
She moved from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and was your demise in 1902.
I moved from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and I will remember you.
A decade younger than her, but I feel the responsibility heavy on my shoulders. The resemblance to me, uncanny
She took you to your grave and I will celebrate your life.
Why did it have to take this long?
Jul 15, 2020
Jul 15, 2020 at 1:35 AM UTC
Rages are red
My opponents black n' blue
The sound of the bell
Means it's time to be fed
And as you know
I never bite off
More than I can chew
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 4:48 PM UTC
Cassie Lane Gray, ever so slight of frame
Hit harder than a train, playing her martial games
Cassie ran eight miles a day, and she never strayed
Her routine was tough as iron, her boxing gloves were frayed
Her momma put her in ballet, but later on, she disobeyed
Strapping wraps to wrists, uppercut finisher each day
And when she said she wanted to box, her momma turned away
But she was gonna fight, with no one in her way
Cassie Lane Gray grew up poor in San Jose
Never had much to say, just wanted in the fray
Her ballet, in a way, made her opponents pay
As she moved with dancer's sway, they later would convey
Cassie's family prayed that she would portray
The sweet and simpering visage of a classy dame
But it wasn't in the cards, for Cassie Lane Gray
The "Bantam Weight Ballerina"
A strong young fighting woman
Was in the ring to stay
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 9:36 AM UTC
Ali's Song
by Michael R. Burch
for Muhammad Ali
They say that gold don't tarnish. It ain't so.
They say it has a wild, unearthly glow.
A man can be more beautiful, more wild.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
They hung their coin around my neck; they made
my name a bridle, "called a ***** a *****
They say their gold is pure. I say defiled.
I flung their slave's name to the river, child.
I flung their slave's name to the river, child.
Ain't got no quarrel with no Viet Cong
that never called me ****** did me wrong.
A man can't be lukewarm, 'cause God hates mild.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
They said, "Now here's your bullet and your gun,
and there's your cell: we're waiting, you choose one."
At first I groaned aloud, but then I smiled.
I gave their "future" to the river, child.
I gave their "future" to the river, child.
My face reflected up, dark bronze like gold,
a coin God stamped in His own image—BOLD.
My blood boiled like that river—strange and wild.
I died to hate in that dark river, child,
Come, be reborn in this bright river, child.
The poem above has been set to music in a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong.
You are free to copy the poem for noncommercial use, such as a school project, essay or report, or just because you like it and want to share, but please credit Michael R. Burch as the author.
NOTES: (1) Muhammad Ali said that he threw his Olympic gold medal into the Ohio River after experiencing racism in his hometown of Louisville, Kentucky. Confirming his account, the medal was recovered by Robert Bradbury and his wife Pattie in 2014 during the Annual Ohio River Sweep. The Ali family paid $200,000 to regain possession of the medal. Ali later made a joke about the incident that caused him to toss his medal into the river. He said that he took his medal into a white downtown restaurant and ordered a cheeseburger. The waitress told him, "We don't serve negroes." Ali replied, "I don't eat them either. Just bring me a cheeseburger!" (2) When drafted during the Vietnam War, Ali refused induction, reputedly saying: "I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a ****** (3) The notice mentioned in my poem is Ali's draft notice, which metaphorically gets tossed into the river along with his slave name. (4) The poem was originally published by the literary journal Black Medina. It has since been published by Other Voices International, Thanal Online, Freshet, Poems About and Poem List.
For Ali, Fighting Time
by Michael R. Burch
So now your speech is not as clear . . .
time took its toll each telling year . . .
and O how tragic that your art,
so brutal, broke your savage heart.
But we who cheered each blow that fell
within that ring of torrent hell
never dreamed to see you maimed,
bowed and bloodied, listless, tamed.
For you were not as other men
as we cheered and cursed you then;
no, you commanded dreams and time—
blackgold Adonis, bold, sublime.
And once your glory leapt like fire—
pure and potent. No desire
ever burned as fierce or bright.
Oh Ali, Ali . . . win this fight!
Me?
Whee!
(I stole this poem
From Muhammad Ali.)
—Michael R. Burch
The poem above was written in response to the Quora question: “Can you write a poem titled “Me”?
In My House
by Michael R. Burch
I was once the only caucasian in the software company I founded and managed. I had two fine young black programmers working for me, and they both had keys to my house. This poem looks back to the dark days of slavery and the Civil War it produced.
When you were in my house
you were not free—
in chains bound.
Manifest Destiny?
I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.
This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.
When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.
I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.
We were wrong.
This is my history.
I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.
We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.
Published by Black Medina
Poet to poet
by Michael R. Burch
This poem imagines a discussion between Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who spoke so poetically about his dream of equality, and a poet who speaks in parentheses.
I have a dream
(pebbles in a sparkling sand)
of wondrous things.
I see children
(variations of the same man)
playing together.
Black and yellow, red and white,
(stone and flesh, a host of colors)
together at last.
I see a time
(each small child another's cousin)
when freedom shall ring.
I hear a song
(sweeter than the sea sings)
of many voices.
I hear a jubilation
(respect and love are the gifts we must bring)
shaking the land.
I have a message,
(sea shells echo, the melody rings)
the message of God.
I have a dream
(all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone)
of many things.
I live in hope
(all children are merely small fragments of One)
that this dream shall come true.
I have a dream . . .
(but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?)
Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too!
Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true.
(i can feel it begin)
Lovers and dreamers are poets too.
(poets are lovers and dreamers too)
I, Too, Have a Dream
by Michael R. Burch writing as “The Child Poets of Gaza”
I, too, have a dream ...
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
knowing I did nothing
to deserve their enmity.
I, too, have a dream ...
My Nightmare ...
by Michael R. Burch writing as “The Child Poets of Gaza”
I had a dream of Jesus!
Mama, his eyes were so kind!
But behind him I saw a billion Christians
hissing "You're nothing!," so blind.
Less Heroic Couplets: Miss Bliss
by Michael R. Burch
Domestic “bliss”?
Best to swing and miss!
Less Heroic Couplets: Then and Now
by Michael R. Burch
BEFORE: Thanks to Brexit, our lives will be plush! ...
AFTER: Crap, we’re going broke! What the hell is the rush?
Less Heroic Couplets: Dear Pleader
by Michael R. Burch
Is our Dear Pleader, as he claims, heroic?
I prefer my presidents a bit more stoic.
Less Heroic Couplets: Less than Impressed
by Michael R. Burch
for T. M., regarding certain dispensers of lukewarm air
Their volume’s impressive, it’s true ...
but somehow it all seems “much ado.”
Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry I
by Michael R. Burch
Poetry is the heart’s caged rhythm,
the soul’s frantic tappings at the panes of mortality.
Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry II
by Michael R. Burch
Poetry is the trapped soul’s frantic tappings
at the panes of mortality.
Less Heroic Couplets: Seesaw
by Michael R. Burch
A poem is the mind teetering between fact and fiction,
momentarily elevated.
Less Heroic Couplets: Passions
by Michael R. Burch
Passions are the heart’s qualms,
the soul’s squalls, the brain’s storms.
Keywords/Tags: Muhammad Ali, boxing, violence, The Greatest, race, racism, racist, discrimination, black, slave name, Vietnam War, Olympics, gold medal, God, Muslim, Islam, Islamic, tribute, mrbali, mrbrace, mrbsport, mrbsports, mrbsong
Mar 7, 2020
Mar 7, 2020 at 5:17 AM UTC
I lay on the ground ****** and bruised.
Momentarily dazed and confused.
Looking up at my opponent, that which we call Life.
Standing over me, filled with heartache and strife.
Trying to hold me down, foot upon my chest.
Taunting me to stand again, to manifest.
To reassess my situation, the choices that have to lead to this moment.
I lay battered and broken, silently moaning things left unspoken, wistfully hoping for another opportunity.
The possibility to show my determination and ability to overcome such adversity.
My opponent steps away smiling, encouraging me to get to my feet.
Yelling that my time is not over; telling me I have much to complete.
I look up to see Hope in my corner, that which fills me with light.
To stand again determined and continue to fight.
Knowing good and well I will fall again in this brawl.
That I will have to crawl, struggle, and give it my all.
For this opponent, Life, he ain't easy.
Though he smiles, he is crazy, quite unfair, at times ******
I must remember the things I am fighting for.
Love, friendship, happiness, the things I adore.
Hindsight is 20/20, regret is meaningless, time cannot be reversed.
I look forward, smile back and yell ,"I am right here. do your worst!"
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 8:47 AM UTC
My countenance
made love with the harsh earth
she left me
bruised
confused
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.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
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
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 9:41 PM UTC
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.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 10:51 PM UTC
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.
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC
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
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 11:30 AM UTC