This is not a poem, this is a story of a an 83 yr old man, that
got away with lying aboat his actual age, so he could box,
for the light weight Dallas County Iowa, championship.

"Howard is the name and these are my two knock out fists, Tuffy and Tougher and I'm here to sign up for the light heavy weight championship boxing title of Dallas County."

That was my official registration to the County boxing Commission.
They of course ask me my age and some other questions related to
my boxing experience, to which I lied very convincingly.

By the way, the way to lie convincingly is to literally believe yourself what you are lying about. I had spent hours telling myself the lies I told the Boxing Commission, so they had no doubt about what I told them about my boxing experience. I even had some fake newspaper articles about my boxing experiences that I printed on my home printing press. I'll tell more about this later in this story.

What motivated me to do this, was the current champion was the
Grandson of one of my high school classmates that I detested, because he was such a proud blow hard, about every athletically thing
he did, from being a baseball pitcher, a running back football player,
a wrestler and on and on he bragged about himself. One time when
I could not stomach his bragging and pompous way he walked, I confronted him to his face, actually his chin, as that was as close to
his face I stood. He was about 6' 4'' and I was slightly over 6'. I looked him in the eyes and told him I and everyone else in school was sick
and tired of his bragging about himself.

He then sneered a me, reached down and grabbed me by the callar of my shirt, and said. "Why you little dumb pipsqueak, you aint nothing but a hog raising farm boy!" and shoved me hard against
the hallway wall, so I smacked the back of my head against it, and was
knocked out for a few minutes, long enough for someone dumping a cup full of water on my face to bring me alert. Then ol blow hard
spread it around that I had attemped to hit him and he "just naturally" defended himself and gave me a little shove.

But back to the main part of this story, I had been working out in the city gym, working on my cardio, that's my breathing. I had been keeping up with my physical condition all of my life, so for an 83 yr old man  I am in good physical shape. I have been punching the heavy bag on daily basis and have had someone bouncing a heavy medicine ball on my stomach five minutes every day, so I have those three muscle stand outs on my stomach, that everybody ooos and aaas about.

I also sparred with young boys around 20 and 30 years old, convincing them I was just 28, by my foot work and bobbing and weaving and left-hand jabs. I still had a good head of hair, which I
had dyed a light black, which also convinced the boxing commission that I was 38, actually the year I was born, 1938

My boxing bout with the young grandson of this high school classmate that I detested, was supposed to be just a warm up match for him, in preparation for a title fight. He was the Dallas County Light Heavy Weight champion defending his title against some unbeaten
opponent. My goal was to knock him out and disqualify his title fight.

Oh yes, I neglected to mention my boxing manager, who was a young 62 year old retired boxer. He didn't grow up in
Dallas County, Iowa,  so he had no idea of my background age. He came from New York or New something.  I had him convinced that I was just 38 yrs old also. I grew up in a small town called Vermillion about 60 miles from Des Moines, where the fight was scheduled. Vermillion was a town with a population of around 2500 when I lived there. Most of the people who knew me are living under ground now, or in a old folks' home, so the secret of my age will not be revealed.
,
This grandson of the school mate I detested, is just like his Dad, a smart mouth, bragging, pompous, cocky Strutton showboat. He has no idea who I am but has already started boasting about what he is going to do t me.

"Hey, I'm only 27 yrs old and this old man I'm fighting is 38 yrs old. Somebody will have to help him through the ropes to get in the ring." "What's an old man like him still thinks he is a boxer?

"He ought to be sitting on his back porch, watching the rabbits and squirrels hop around."

"He claims to be 38 yrs old, I'll knock him out in 38 seconds in round 3."
   ,
He came to the gym when I was working out one morning to scout me out; I put on an act of being slow and winded.

He yelled at me from a few feet away, "Hey old man, my kid sister
has a faster jab then you. You sure you want to fight me?"

My manager walked up to him, and gave him a double arm shove
out the door, so hard he stumbled. "You big mouth punk, crawl
back in the skunk hole you came from."

                           The Big Fight

I was in the ring first and was warming up with little dance steps I had had learned in a dance studio, which I intended to use on him, BTW  his name was Virgil Throgmartin, but he took pride in calling himself, "V T"=Very Tuff.

He was taking his time coming to get into the ring, and when he did decide to enter, he did so with a bunch of short, skirted cheer leading girls dancing to loud music being played. When he approached the ring, two of the girls, squatted down on one knee and VT than made a big show of standing on each of their leg, and pushed himself off, tumbling over the ropes onto the ring apron.
amid 40,000 loud cheering fans.

"Enjoy it while you can VT, because in about 15 minutes, five three-minute rounds, yu're gonna have 40,000 stunned fans looking at you, sprawled halfway under the ring ropes, watching the referee
waving the fight over."
                                ROUND ONE
VT came quickly to the center of the ring with a stupid looking
grin on is face, hands down, swinging back and forth at his waist level.

I took a couple steps toward him, then through him a big surprise,
that stopped him in his tracks. I did a little two step tap dance, and in the few seconds it took him to recover from surprise, I took a quick step toward him and shot out a left jab, purposely hitting
his right eye. Over my years of boxing experience, I developed a
fast twist at the end of the jab. This little twist would tear the skin
producing a cut in the eyebrow, which it did to VT. I don't think he had ever been cut before by the way he wiped his eye, leaving his face unprotected, of which I took advantage, and smacked him with
another quick jab on his nose, drawing another spurt of blood.

VT wasn't expecting such an early barrage of attack and started back peddling. Once again, I put on my little tap dance,
to a 40,00 applauding, whistling crowd of men, women and teenagers. By now ol VT had no idea what to do with me. He took a quick look over at his corner for help. And when he did, I took a big step forward and planted to quick left jabs on each of his eyes.

I heard the fight announcer telling the radio listeners, he had never seen such a show boating boxer like Howard is putting
on. He has VT totally confused, not knowing what to do with
him. He came into this fight as a warmup for his upcoming defensive championship fight with The Rock, Rocky Argo and he is being bloodied and cut up, by what in the boxing sport is considered old, a man close to his 40's but is moving like a 25 or 26 year old. Folks I don't recall Howard in any past fights, but uh, hang on a moment Howard is moving around VT, bobbing, weaving and talking to him, I can't quite read his lips, but something about going down in uh, some round. Meanwhile VT continues to back pedal away from Howard, who is trying to cut him off....Oh! now Howard stops chasing him and motioned with his hands to come in and fight. There's the bell ending this third round.

There is some kind of commotion going on behind me.... someone wants to tell me something but is being detained by the police.
"Hey officers, let him talk to me. Folks, this is the craziest night I have ever experienced, let's see what this old man, I'm serious about Old, He must be  "Uh how old are you, sir?"

"I'm just a couple years younger than Howard. We grew up together in Vermillion, Iowa. I'm 81 years old and that old man in the ring, he was known as "Howie", is 83 years old and...."

"Hold on just jack rabbit minute! Are you telling me, that Howard,
  what did yu call him? Howie, that boxer in the ring, beating VT, the current light weight Dallas County champion, is 83 years old? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yep, dats whot Im sayng.We growed up t'gether, in da same school t'gether, wrestled and boxed t'gether, and I'm 81 years old and he was alays 2 yars older'n me, so I knows he is 83 yars old.

Folks., getting back to the fight, VT is circling to his right to get in position to throw is left hook and then is right overhand knockout punch. I think Howie is aware of what VT is trying and keeps circling to his left.


This is the  the round Howard bragged he would KO VT. VT is coming out in his usual swaggering way, Howard had him intimated in the first four rounds, with his little dancing jig and blooding his nose and eye. VT wasn't used to that kind of pressure, but his corner manager and some others that joined him, gave him a little pep talk, and so he has regained his confidence. As usual Howard, try's his little tap dance as he approaches VT, it's gotten a little much and no one is cheering it.

I failed to ask you, old man, your name"

"I was known as "The Rock in Vermillion my real name is Rocky Argo. You said dis is da round Howie is going to lower da boom on this young feller?"

"Well that's what he told the fight reporters in the newspaper. But frankly, I have doubts that he can do it. Thus far all I've seen from your friend is a few left jabs. He hasn't used his right in the entire fight."

"Well you just keep your eyes on his right; what yor going to see is a flurry of left jabs, and out of nowhere his right and will suddenly show up and that will be the end of the fight."

Well folks there is just two minutes left in this round, if Howie is going to KO VT, he is going to have to get more aggressive than, OH! Howie just connected with a double left jab, and another one and he had VT weak legged from a barrage of jabs. He looks like he is about to go down OH WOW Howie hit him with a straight right hand punch right between his eyes and VT is on the canvas, trying to get up, the count is up to 5, 6,7 VT was up at the count of 8 but collapse. The referee is waving the fight over, and the Dallas County  light heavy weight champion has been knocked out by Howie Howard in the 5th round just as he predicted."

"Let's listen as the referee announces the winner of this fight."
"And the winner and NEW DALLAS COUNTY LIGHT HEAVY WEIGHT CHAMPION IS HOWEEEEEE HOWWWARD!!

Howie, the talk around the dressing room is that you are 83 years old. Now tell us your real age. I mean, a 83 yr old man can't do that little jig you did tonight and beat up a 27 yr old. So c'mon and let this crowd and thousands of radio listeners know your real age."

"I was born on the twelfth day of July 1938, if my math is correct that makes me eighty-three years old, and that's the absolute truth."

"Ok, so tell us how you have kept in such physical shape to be able to
dance and beat up a young 37 year old champion boxer as you did tonight?"

"Well, first of all, I have to give God all the glory f or entrusting me
with an extraordinary physique. I have honored God many times in many ways because of this extraordinary body, that I , or others could not have done with a normal body. The second thing I want to emphasize is when I was just eight years old, I was convicted that there was a hellfire, called The Lake of Fire, that unbelievers in Jesus Christ are cast. I was just a small child, but I knew in my heart that in God's sight I was a sinner for whom Jesus suffered and died on the Cross of Calvary, and if I just received Him as my sin-bearer and personal Savior, He would forgive me all my sins for the rest of my life. And I have done a lot of sinning in my 83 years of living, one of which has been a distain for VT's grampa, with whom I graduated from the Vermillian High School in 1957. He was the most egotistical, arrogant, vain and proud ****-of-the-walk person I ever knew, and VT was just like him. His grampa died about five years ago, but I have held a grudge in my heart for VT's grandpa all my life, I thought it would give me great satisfaction to ruin his opportunity to fight for the Iowa State Championship.  So I arranged with the Iowa Dallas County Fight Promoters to give VT a warm up fight for him to fight the current Iowa State light heavy weight champion. I studied VT's fights and trained for them these past three months, with the intention of doing what I did to him tonight."

"So what are ..."Excuse me, I'm not finished yet. I thought I would feel good about beating the snot out of VT, but you know what? I don't. I was really enjoying it when I was blooding VT up, as though I was kicking the arrogance out of his grampa. But now that I've destroyed VT's  chance to fight for the Iowa State Championship, I feel empty inside, and feel sorry for VT. To all of you who paid out good money to see this fight, I just want to leave you with this one thought "A grudge is too heavy a load for anyone to carry"
     From Jerry Howarth's Book of Stories

Paints of dark twilight hues,
Slathered across in blunt strokes.
Blend with deft hands,
Cajole gently with jabs and pokes.

Backdrop begging for a few others.
Longing to hold in infinite embrace.
Friends of earth and midnight sky.
Worthy of a doe-eyed lovers' gaze.

Cascading moonbeam...
Drenching all in silvery white.
Restless twinkling stars...
Singing their mismatched might.

Silhouetted landscape as horizon,
Darkened oils of plateaued ridges.
Finest brush could only manage,
To close the gap, I build bridges.

Nearing completion, this stint on canvas.
Nuances of dawn for what I've begun,
Usher the arrival of a brand new day.
All I need now is a few drops of sun.

This is not a poem, this is a story of a an 83 yr old man, that
got away with lying aboat his actual age, so he could box,
for the light weight Dallas County Iowa, championship.

"Howath is the name and these are my two knock out fists, Gerald
and Ron, and I'm here to sign up for the light heavy weight championship boxing title of Dallas County."

That was my official registration to the County boxing Commisson.
They of course ask me my age and some other questions related to
my boxing experience, to which I lied very convincingly.

By the way, the way to lie convincinly is to literally believe yourself what you are lying about. I had spent hours telling myself the lies I told the Boxing Commission, so they had no doubt about what I told them about my boxing experience. I even had some fake newspaper articles about my boxing experiences that I printed on my home printing press. I'll tell more about this later in this story.

What motivated me o do this, was the current chjampion was the
Grandson of one of my high school class mates that I detested, because h was such a proud blow hard, about every athletical thing
he did, from being a baseball pitcher, a running back football player,
a wrestler and on and on he bragged about himself. One time when
I could not somach his bragging and pompous ay he walked, I confonted him to his face, actually his chin, as that was as close to
his face I stood. He was aout 6' 4'' and I was slightly over 6'. I looked him in the eyes and told him I and every one else in school was sick
and tired of his bragging about himself.

He then sneared a me, reached down and gabbed me by the coller of my shirt, and said. "Why you little dumb pimpsqueet, you aint nothing but a hog raising farm boy!" and shoved me hard against
the hall way wall, so I smacked the back of  my head against it, and
knocked out for a few minutes, long enough for someone dumping a cup full of water on my face to bring me alert. Then ol blow hard
spread it around that I had attemped to hit him and he "just naturally" defended himself and gave me a little shove.

But back to the main part of this story, I had been working out in the city gym, workig on my cardio, thats my breathing. I had been keeping up with my physical condition all of my life, so for an 83 yr old man  I am in good physical shape. I have been punching the heavy bag on daily basis , and have had someone bouncing a heavy medicine ball on my stomach five minutes every day, so I have  those three muscle stand outs on my stomach, tht every body ooos and aaas about.

I also sparred with young boys around 20 and 30 years old, convincing them I was just 28, by my foot work and bobbing and weaving and left hand jabs. I still had a good head of hair, which I
had dyed a light black, which also convinced the boxing commission that I was 38, actually the year I was bornd, 1938

My boxing bout with the young grandson of this high school class mate that I detested, was suppoe to be just a warm up match for him, in preperation for a title fight. He was the Dallas County Light Heavy Weight champion defending his title against some unbeaten
opponant. My goal was to knock him out, and disqualify his title fight.

Oh yes, I neglected to mention my boxing manager, who was a young 62 year old retired boxer. He didn't grow up in
Dallas County, Iowa,  so he had no idea of my bckground age. He came from New York or New something.  I had him convinced that I was just 38 yrs old also. I grew up in a small town called Clive about 60 miles from Des Moines, were the fight was scheduld. Clive was a town with a population of around 2500 when I lived there. Most of the people who knew me are living under ground,
or in a old folks home, so the secret of my age will not be revealed.
,
This grandson of the school mate I detested, is just like his Dad, a smart mouth, bragging, pompous, cocky strutton show boat. He has no idea who I am, but has already started boasting about what he is going to do t me.

"Hey, I'm only 27 yrs old and this old man I'm fighting is 38 yrs old. Somebody will have to help him through the ropes to get in the ring." "What's an old man like him still thinks he is a boxer?

"He ought to be sitting on his back porch, watching the rabbits and squirrels hop around."

"He claims  to be 38 yrs old, I'll knock him out in 38 seconds in round 3."
   ,
He came to the gym when I was working out one morning to scout me out; I put on an act of being slow and winded.

He yelled at me from a few feet away, "Hey old man, my kid sister
has a faster jab then you. You sure you want to fight me?"

My manager walked up to him, and gave him a double arm shove
out the door, so hard he stumbled. "You big mouth punk, crawl
back in the skunk hole you came from."

                           The Big Fight

I was in the ring first, and was warming up wih litle dance steps I had had learned in a dance studio, which I intended to use on him, BTW  his name was Virgil Thornley, but he took pride in calling himself, "V T"=Very Tuff.

He was taking his time coming to get nto the ring,  and when he did decide to enter, he did so with a bunch of short skirted cheer leading girls dancing to loud music being played. When he approched the ring, two of the girls, squatted down on one knee and VT than made a big show of standing on each of their leg, and pushed himself off, tumbling over the ropes onto the ring apron.
amid 40,000 loud cheering fans.

"Enjoy it while you can VT, becaus in about 15 minutes, five three minute rounds, yu're gonna have 40,000 stunned fans looking at you, sprawled half way under the ring ropes, watchng the referee
waving the fight over."
                                ROUND ONE
JT came quickly to the center of the ring with a stupid looking
grin on is face, hands down, swinging back and forth at his waist level.

I took a couple steps towad him, then through him a big surprize,
that stopped him in his tracks. I did a little two step tap dance, and in the few seconds it took him to recover from surprize, I took a quick step toward him and shot out a left jab, purposly hitting
his right eye. Over my years of boxing experience, I developed a
fast twist at the end of the jab. This little twist would tear the skin
producing a cut in the eyebrow, which it did to VT. I don't think he had ever bee cut before by the way he wiped his eye, leaving his face unprotected, of which I took advantage, and smacked him with
another quick jab on his nose, drawing another spurt of blood.

VT wasn't expexcting such an early barrage of attack, and strted back peddling. Once again, I put on my little tap dance,
to a 40,00 applauding, whistling crowd of men, women and teen agers. By now ol VT had no idea what to do with me. He took a quick look over at his corner for help. And when he did I took a big step foward and planed to quick left jabs on each of his eyes.

I heard the fight annoncer telling the radio listners, he had never seen such a show boating boxer like  Howarth is putting
on. He has VT totally confused, not knowing what to do with
him. He came in to this fight as a warm up for his upcoming defensive championship fight with Scrapiron Peel and he is being bloodied and cut up, by what in the boxing sport is considered old, a man close to his 40's but is moving like a 25 or 26 year old. Folks I don't recall Howarth in any past fights, but uh, hang on a moment Howarth is moving around VT, bobbing, weaving and talking to him, I can't quite read his lips, but someting about going down in uh, some round. Meanwhile VT continues to back peddle away from Howath, who is trying to cut him off....Oh! now Howarth stops chasing him and motioned with his hands to come in and fight. There's the bell ending this third round.

There is some kind of commotion going on behind me.... some one wants to tell me something, but is being detained by the police.
Hey officers, let him talk to me. Folks, this is the crasiest night I have ever experienced, let's see what this old man, I'm serious about Old, He mst be  "Uh how old are you, sir?"

"I'm just a couple years younger than Howarth. We  grew up together in Perry, Iowa. I'm 81 years old and that old man in the ring, he was known as "Howie" is 83 years old and...."

"Hold on just jack rabbit minute! Are you telling me, that Howarth,
  what did you call him? Howie, that boxer in the ring,  beating VT, the current light weight Dallas County champion, is 83 years old? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yep, dats whot Im sayng.We growed up t'gether, in da same school t'gether, wrestled and boxed t'gether, and I'm 81 years old and he was alays 2 yars older'n me, so I knows he is 83 yars old.

Folks., getting back to the igh, VT is circuling to his right to get in position to throw is left hook and then is righ overhand knock ut puncht . I think Howie is aware of what VT is trying and keeps circing to his left.


This is the  the round Howarth bragged he would KO VT. VT is coming out in his usual swagering way, Howarth had him intimiated in the first four rounds, with his little dancing jig and blooding his nose and eye. VT wasn't use to that kind of pressure, but his corner manager and some others that joined him, gave him a little pep talk, and so he has regained his cofidence. As usual Howarth, trys his little tap dance aa he approaches VT, it's gotten a little much and no one is cheering it.

I failed to ask you, old man, your name"

"I was known as Scrapieon in Perry, my real ame isRichard Peel.
Yo said dis is da round Howie is going to lower da boom on this young feller?"

"Well that's what he told the fight reporters in the news paper. But frankly, I have doubts that he can do it. Thus far all I've seen from your friend is  a few left jabs. He hasn't used his right in the entire fight."

"Well you just keep your eyes on his right; what yor going to see is a flurry of left jabs, ad out of nowhere his right and will suddenly show up and that will be the end of the fight."

Well folks there is just three minites left i thos round, if Howie is going to KO VT, he is ging tp alf to get more agressie than, oh,Howie just connected with a double left jab, and another one and he had VT weak leggedfromma barrage of jabs. He looks like he is about to go down OH WOW Howie hit him with a straight right hand punch right between his eyes and VT is on the canvas, tryng too ge up, the count is up to 5, 6,7 VT was up at the cnt of 8 bt collapst. The referee is waving the figt over, and tne Dallas County  light heavy weight champion has been kocked out by Howie Howarth in the 5th round just as he predicted.

Flowers shot in the dark like hearts shot through with darts
Clotting blood in the voice box
Time moving slow as the clock tick tocks
And more bricks are laid
Between me and God

Children smearing on war-paint
Grandmas spitting against the devil's taint
Broken churches, corpse of the saint
Images listless and visually meaningless
In a long array of destructive days
As more bricks are laid
Between me and God

Overlarge toads bellow in the park
Green slimy beings croaking insults in the dark
What they're singing has meaning and the meaning is stark
Rhythmic insults haunting the night like the bark
Bark, bark of a wolf seeking prey
As more bricks are laid
Between me and God

A murderous man has a knife and he stabs
A touring killer with no remorse as he jabs,
Jabs, jabs whilst their blood coats the floor
Serial killer with an unquenchable need for more
Though the police are paid
The case runs cold
More bricks are laid
Between me and God

Chanting children there, with the devil's eyes
Urchins that smell fear, young weavers of lies
They encircle a dog and they throw it with stones
A cold-blooded giggle surrounds the dog's imploring moans
Little demons are made
And more bricks are laid
Between me and God

Are you friend or foe
Rattlesnake or doe
In the night or day
Do you fight or pray?
Curse or hymn
Hate or love
Does it differ?
As more bricks are laid
Between me and God.

Misconceptions
Fasley smiles
Psychoanalyzed  

Could it be my OCDish

Would they agree or disagree
Respectfully  - with no referee

Whatever matter  - It doesn’t

Let it be
I’m carefree
It’s the best defense
Not a draftee

A perfectionist I am
It stems from many forces
My moral sense
At any expense
Not remorses

Their sweet jabs
From the start
Yes
From day one

Like Mr. Shukar - they see
I'm the new prospect

My disposition in scrutiny
As I take in with fluency
No unity
Let it be

I’ll take it in my dome
Its my best cover
Not styrofoam
I'll take it whichever way it's thrown

Please...

Pass the twisted news along
I continue staying strong
Detail-oriented is my syndrome

Two forces collide
    Right
    Left
    Left Again.
    Gloved fists beat into bone and blood
    The stone will never move
    The ox will make the stone move
    Left hook
    Right hook
    two jabs.
    The ox beats the stone
    The ox hammers the stone
    The ox hurts the stone’s feelings
    Uppercut
    Right
    Right Again
    Left.
    The stone cracks
    The ox breaks its horn
    Jab
    Jab
    Right hook.
    The Boxer’s ribs are cracked
    The Boxer’s ribs are broken
    Left cross
    Right cross
    Uppercut.
    Fist connects to skull
    The Boxer’s world is black
    Then its white
    Now its back to normal
    Two jabs
    Left
    Left Again.
    The Boxer’s world is the ring
    The world begins at one post and ends at another
    Left
    Right
    Right Again
    Left
    Left Again.
    One eye is swollen shut
    The other blinded by blood
    Jab
    Jab
    Left hook
    Right cross
    Uppercut.
    The blood clears away
    Now the Boxer’s world is the ceiling
    And the lights
    Both real and imagined.
    The world goes black
    Then white.

I've been here for five days now
hearing stories of an abusive relationship
witnessing the mood changes and verbal jabs
I just want to sleep, mama
The palm trees have welcomed me
but it's not enough to keep me calm
they're still screaming and I'm a nervous wreck
His words pierce her throat and still she counters with straight hooks to his neck
I just hope it doesn't get out of hand, mama
I've been here for five days now
and I'm comin' home tomorrow
the sunshine state has been cloudy all week
I just want to see the sun, mama
The moon must be upset because the waves are fierce
the wind keeps blowing me back and there's a storm in the distance
I guess the sun didn't want to play today, mama
The arguments are getting to me now
in a flash the verbal jabs became physical
am I wrong for turning my cheeks and trying to go back to sleep
I close my eyes and try to vision the Palm trees
I've been here for five days now
pretending this relationship doesn't effect me
I can feel the jabs in my lungs, I try to go to sleep but I can't breathe
I'm afraid that if I leave she won't be able to breathe and i won't be able to sleep
but I've gotta come back home, mama
I might not return home alone, mama

The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.

"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with  full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.

Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.

At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.

"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.

Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.

Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.

The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.

On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.

To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.

But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.

In Kitale
A town in Kenya,
Lived an English man
His name was Lord Hitchcock
He owned over a thousand acres of land
He took for himself
During colonial times
He had hundredfold of workers
Hitchcock had very beautiful wife
She was called Queen Victoria,
They had two sons;
Hitchcock junior and William,
He had a passion for work
He always woke up at ****-crow
Only to retire back at chick roost
Natives of Kitale had respect for him,
They secretly envied huge udders
That his five thousand fresian cows had,
They also loved him,
For he killed the flying snake,
That had terrorized natives for years,
Hitchcock just pointed a long stick
At the flying snake,
The stick which looked like cooking wood,
Then smoke and thunder came out
Only to see the snake coming down
Tangling like a rope
And fell down in a thud!
It is when the natives gave him a new name
Mango wa nandemu; meaning the snake killer
Natives also had an issue with him;
He likes putting  mucus in his kerchief
And then put it back into his pockets
Instead of throwing it a way
Direct from the nose,
His nose were slender and long
They wonder why he could not used it
In proper thrusting away of the mucus,
Men folk on his farm were always day dreaming
Of any chance to have *** with Queen Victoria
As the women folk too fancied of William
Marrying their daughters,
His favourite worker was Onyango,
The Luo man from shores of the lake
He liked Onyango most
Even  he promoted him
To be a tractor driver
Other than cleaning the cowsheds,
The gossip was that maybe Hitchcock was full,
Or not circumcised like Onyango
Hence is passionate preference Onyango,
But no, they don’t knew,
The germ was in Onyango’s workmanship
Onyango worked like a donkey,
Onyango also had a beautiful daughter
Her name was Ilingling Atineo Nyarpondo,
But workers on the farm called her Atieno,
It is Hitchcock who broke her virginity
A secret which queen Victoria knows not,
Hitchcock just popped in at Onyango’s shack
One after noon, after Lunch
He found Onyango, Atieno and the mother,
He didn’t talk a lot,
He only ordered Onyango and his wife
To go out and hang around
For him to have Word with Atieno
Onyango walked out minus haste,
The wife followed suit, after cautioning Atieno
Not to disappoint the Lord; Hitchcock,
A minute never passed,
Before the Lord took Atieno into his arms
He carried her to Onyango’s bed
And effectively penetrated her,
Sweetness gripped both of them
Hitchcock on his ******
Began to  moan like an aphrodisiac animal;
Atienoo! Atienoo! Atienoo!
In turn Atieno also screamed
Like a caged monkey;
Lord! Lord! Lord!
We are on my father’s bed,
Onyango and His wife
Were out keeping sentry
Lest Victoria finds Hitchcock
In the act of deflowering the ******,
When he finished,
He called Onyango and the wife in
Then he warned them
To keep the mouths shut,
Or else he ejects them from the farm,
And indeed they kept mum,
Hence the friendship
Between Onyango and Hitchcock,


Hitchcock never like two of his workers,
Josef Sasita and Wavukho Masafu
He didn’t like Sasita because of one reason;
Sasita brought along his brother to work
His brother was called Kalenda
When Hitchcock was taking the master roll
He asked Kalenda to say his names
Of which Kalenda said his two names;
Kalenda Sasita,
Of which Hitchcock never understood
As these two names are a Kiswahili sentence
Meaning it is lunch time at end moth,
Hitchcock understood Kiswahili very well,
He thought Kalenda was implying for a pay
And Lunch Allowance
When he had only worked for three hours
It was not lunch time neither was it end month,
Hitchcock was overtaken by anger
He slapped Kalenda with all energy in his arms
Kalenda fainted and collapsed like a dead bird,
Sasita thought the lord had killed his brother
He began wailing, he boxed Hitchcock
More than five hundred jabs
in a couple of minutes,
Then Sasita got off on his heels,
Running away at a speed of a kite,
But unfortunately he was arrested
By a white police and brought back to Hitchcock,
Hitchcock flogged Sasita two hundred strokes,
And ordered Sasita to resume his work,

Hitchcock’s detest for Wavukho
is due to nothing else
Other ceaseless malingering,
Wavukho always takes
a minimum of an hour
Every time he visits the toilet,

So Onyango is the only guy on the firm,
A boon to which Ndiema, farm worker,
Is very jealousy of ,
Ndiema believed Onyango is using charms
Or love potions or Voodoo to lure the Whiteman,
Otherwise how can Whiteman love a black worker?
With such passion in the way Hitchcock loved Onyango,

One day Ndiema approached Onyango
He asked him the secrete behind his fortune
Onyango became sly and lied,
He told Ndiema that it was only magical charms
He was given by his late mother,
That made Hitchcock’s heart to swell with love
For him and his family,
Ndiema believed on the first hearing,
He became selfish and begged Onyango,
To give him the charms also,
So that he can also enjoy the Whiteman’s love
Onyango accepted to assist but at a fee,
A fee which took Ndiema salary of two months,
Then Onyango brought Ndiema a ***** of an Alligator,
He told Ndiema to put it in his underpants,
Every time he goes to work,
Ndiema complied,
That morning Ndiema woke very early,
He walked to his work station
Very happy and confident
Sure of enjoying the Whiteman’s love
Given the voodoo under his pants,

At ten in the morning Hitchcock called Ndiema
To join him in repairing the maize miller,
Ndiema was a hand boy, a toto,
Ndiema was to hold the engine
As Hitchcock tightened the nuts
But the engine was oily with grease,
Ndiema’s hands slipped every time
Hitchcock tried to tighten the nuts
Hitchcock got irritated,
Especially by the papyrus cowboy hat
Ndiema was wearing,
Hitchcock cautioned Ndiema to be serious
By tightly holding the engine,
But when Hitchcock began tightening
The engine again,
Ndiema’s hands slipped
And the engine moved away,
Hitchcock punctuated this with a nemesis;
He jabbed Ndiema with an art of Olympiad boxer,
It was one tremendous fist
The fist of the century,
When Ndiema wanted to cry
His five teeth jumped out
And when he said I am sorry my lord
He woffled; iywi mwu sovwi lodwi
Hitchcock clicked and walked away,
Ndiema walked home
With a humongous gap in his bucal cavity,
Ndiema reached home and went to bed
His wife, Chepsuwet was already aware
She only prepared porridge for him
As he had no teeth to munch solid food,

When Hitchcock reached home
He found his two sons in a strong fever,
They were panting like desert dogs,
He asked them what was wrong,
Both boys began shedding tears
In torrents like river Euphrates and Tigris
Flowing across the Garden of Eden,
What is the problem?
Hitchcock roared,
The big boy then featfully responded;
We were given sugar cane to chew,
We were given by Ndiema the farm worker,
It was yesterday in the evening,
That is why we are sick,
Ok,
Hitchcock nodded his head,
He took his whip, made of wires and rods
With a sting at the end,
He jumped on his horse
And shot off to Ndiema’s place
At the speed of forty five kilometers per hour,
He found Ndiema trying to swallow some porridge,
Come on Ndiema! Roared Hitchcock in full voltage
Of ire, anger, fury and mad petulance,
When Ndiema came out
Hitchcock pulled out his whip
He flogged Ndiema terribly
They were strokes and strokes
Strokes fell on Ndiema’s back
With a sharp sound like a thunderclap
Ndiema cried like a baby,
Begging for lord’s mercy
Chepsuwet looked on in fear,

When Hitchcock jumped on his horse
And went away clicking, frothing in anger
Like the waters of river Nile
Departing Lake Victoria to Egypt,
Ndiema was on the ground
Writhing in pains from the flogging,
He sobbed and sobbed,
And finally he mumbled;
Witchcraft don’t work against an Englishman,
His wife Chepsuwet did not understand.

Yeah, I've been going twenty-four rounds now.
About to go to round twenty-five.

Man, my body is beat to ****.
Had more black eyes than can count.
My body felt different in round thirteen.
Brain rattled in round nineteen.

My opponent, I swear, keeps changing.
He'll throw body blows, jabs, hooks.
He got in a few head butts when the ref
was not looking. Evil SOB.

He thinks he has me on the ropes huh;
He knocked me down quite a lot.
Was almost counted out a few times
and I could see my life flashing before me.

But he should know.
I dont quit.

Throw your worst at me.
Because if this is all you got;
it's only a matter of time
before I knock you out.

This isn't about titles
or about money.
This is about standing up.
Fighting for those who I've lost.

Fighting for those who you
have knocked out.
So go ahead...do your worst.
Hell, we can even fight in the dark.

Because even in darkness,
I will be the light. A light,
who will shine for those
who are afraid of you.

Ring the bell again,
lets go another round.
The gloves are off big guy,
you are going down.

.
                    Time,
                    space
           ­         and everything in between.

                    Heartaches,
                    tea­rs
                    and secrets that don't come clean.

                    Gambols,
                    laughter­
                    and smiles beaming keen.

                    Deep thoughts,
                    aloneness
                    and the dark places we've been.

                    Handholding,
                    carel­ess hugs
                    and ready shoulders to lean.

                    Reckless stabs,
                    impulsive jabs
                    and caustic words we don't mean.

                    Contentment,
                    count­ing blessings
                    and hope we can glean.

                    You,
                    me
        ­            and everything in between.

.

I arrived at the church at 5:30.
It took me a bit to find the place

  there were only a couple half-inflated baloons
  to mark the occasion.
  Those, and a small sign with an arrow, which led
  
      down some stairs and into a cafeteria.  An
      older lady greeted me.  She had a calm smile
      on her face.  The kind that comes with age, that
      says that you've been there, done that.

"Are you here to give?"

           Of course.  Why else would I be here?

  "Yeah"

She leads me to a table that has a number of tall dividers
set up on it to prevent people from peeking at someone
else's personal life.  Like I care if you've had syphilis in
the last year...well I might if it weren't all men in here.

I start filling out the form.
No, I don't have an STD
No, I haven't spent a time totaling more than 5 years in the UK before 1996
No, I don't use drugs
No, I haven't had a fever in the last 24 hours
No
  No
    No
  No
No

I do admit that I have been out of the country recently.

I hand my sheet to another lady.  "Where did you travel to?"

    "Japan, mostly Tokyo and a few places just outside"

    "Carol, could you check Japan on the list?"

She turns to me.  "I'm almost certain that's OK, but I have to check".  Another contented smile.

I sit down to be interviewed, we go over the questions once more.

    "Alright, I just need a small sample before we begin"

She takes the sample with a small contraption that
fits over my finger and jabs a small hole.  She runs
a quick test with the blood, letting a droplet fall
in a test tube filled with a blue liquid.  

The droplet sinks to the bottom.  She checks a box.

Apparently we're good to go.

  I'm given an empty blood bag and a number of rubber-banded vials
and pointed towards a circle of beds in the middle of the room.

I walk up and a portly gentleman takes my bag and asks me
which arm I'd like it in.

"Right"

I pause.  

I want to be able to check my phone while I'm doing this.

"Actually, let's do left"

He gives a grin.  "Here, hold both your arms out"

I comply.  I immediately notice that my right arm
has a very accessible vein.  We're doing the right arm.

Oh well.

   "Let's go with the Right"

I smile and sit on the plastic seat

He swabs my arm with that wonderful orange/yellow dye
and gives me a stress-ball to squeeze, to help the process go
quicker.  He comes back with the needle.

I look away as I feel the uncomfortable breach of my skin.
It's a small pinch followed by a dull sensation, my body
telling me "That isn't supposed to be there, get it out".

         I hate needles.

I feel a light sweat break and my breathing quickens
ever so slightly.  It's ok because the hard part is over
I squeeze the stress ball every few seconds and I chat
with the man.

His name is Nick, and he's been doing this for a few years.  
He used to work in a restaurant, and then he worked for a
flooring company.  
He remarks
    on the fake grouting that the floor in this room has.  

You  can tell that he loves his job, that he's satisfied with life.

He comments on the t-shirt that I will receive for doing this

(because who would do it if they didn't get a t-shirt, right?)

He says it looks like a blueberry snowcone and tells me a
rather entertaining story from his youth about blueberry
snowcones.  

I pipe in with my memories of the Tropical Sno  shop we had
when I was a kid.  

The bag is filled, the needle is removed.  A bandaid is placed,
and then my arm is wrapped with a smily-face bandage.

I give him a left-hand shake and go sit at the refreshments table

I drink a Pepsi.  I hate trail mix.

After about 10min or so, I get in my car and drive home.
I put on the blueberry snow-cone colored t-shirt and sit
down to read a book.  I think about the people working
at the blood drive, and I think about how happy they
seemed.

I wonder to myself what the difference is between someone
who gives blood and someone who gives time.  I have friends
that travel the world for the Peace Corps, living in third world
countries with no running water, no niceties.  I think of friends
who could sit in blistering heat, helping to build a house for
someone they don't even know.  I think of myself, who thinks
that donating money to the Leukemia foundation and donating
blood to the Red Cross is somehow equivalent to donating sweat
and an able body.

I should really do more
maybe then I'll earn that smile
that those folks wear so proudly

All my life...
There has never been a shortage
Of people to tear me down.

I have never been without
Someone to throw the words that cut,
And leave me bleeding
Without a nurse to tend the wounds
Or the means to heal them.

It wasn't often that I went without
Hearing something to remind me
Of how little I was worth.

I was told that I was no good at this,
And shouldn't pursue that.
That, "if I were you, I would skip the audition."
And that I wasn't allowed to do certain things,
Because,
"You're not good at it. Get over it."
Still a ******, I was called a *****,
And was only bought clothes bigger
Than what I needed,
Because someone would rather
Convince me to hate my body,
Than change their own.

I was told that if I didn't do
Certain things,
That no man would want me.
And that he would go look elsewhere.

Though I had hands laid on me,
And not in love,
It was the words that held the most
Power.

The words that followed me.
That haunted me.
That poked at me and taunted me,
Making it impossible to ignore them.
The words that eventually,
Despite my greatest efforts,
Began to ring true to me.

And the mission whose missiles
Were these very words
Became a success,
Making me feel unlovable to the
Highest extent,
Packing me with baggage
That no one should ever bear.

The pain was indescribable.
The recovery, impossible.
The hope that I might prove it all wrong,
Harder to keep alive than
A butterfly who had already had its wings
Ripped from its body.

I had never wanted so much
For a kind heart,
A brief, flickering light
To draw me in
And keep me warm...

To nurse the cuts that always bled,
No matter how I wrapped them.
To offer gentle words
And a gentle touch.
Things that I ached for
Like food and water.

I struggled to hold on to the hope
That there was someone
Who might tell me differently.
That I was no *****,
But beautiful
And deserving of love.
That I was no terror to behold,
Or bane to their existence,
But someone that made it a little
Brighter.
That I was no problem to be solved,
But a person, a being with value
To be held
And loved
And looked after.
Someone who held purpose
And whose heart deserved
Healing
And someone to hold it,
Someone to look after it.
Someone to hold and
Look after me.

I strained to hold onto the possibility
That I could make someone happy,
Instead of only inspire their hateful words.
That I might hold some merit to someone,
And be a welcome part of their lives.

But then I realized...

No one would want all of that.

No one looks to nurse wounds
And fade scars.
No one aims to prove false
The insults and jabs and discouragement
Thrown at you.
No one wants to wait patiently
For the trust to grow while the
pain subsides.
No one wants to bear the patience
Of dealing with a broken person
Who every now and then,
Cracks a little bit.
People want shiny, new, and undented.
Not something that has been shattered
And clumsily pieced back together,
Never looking quite as pretty or worthwhile
As the perfectly intact,
Looking like it might break all over again.

I worked to fix myself,
Always trying to make better
Something I couldn't even identify.

I worked to become perfect,
To gloss myself over
And fill in the cracks,
Hoping to look like that
Lovely, intact counterpart
That I would never be.

I felt as though I waited
For something to happen
That never could be,
And for someone to come along
That would never show.
Like a constant replay
Of a jilting at the altar,
I waited for something
I dreamt about so often
I had nearly convinced myself
It was real.

I realized I could never undo
What had been done.
I could never take back
What had been said.
Because these actions
And these words
Were not my own.
And making up for someone else's
Mistakes
Is about as successful as taking
Medicine
To cure someone else's illness.

I could never fix it,
But I must always
Bear the results.

I deemed myself,
Again,
Unlovable.

I began to wonder
If this had been the purpose
Of those words all along.

To create someone unlovable
Because the speaker could not
Find love themselves.

Surely,
Only a monster would do such a thing.

But monsters are real.

And this one wasn't hiding under my bed.

Here.
Have this.
It's a key.
But not just any key.
Maybe it's a little rusty, a little old, a little worn.
But it's yours.
And maybe sometimes if you hold it, it jabs into your hand,
But it's yours.
And maybe one day you'll lose that little key,
and you won't know where it went.
But don't worry.
This key is yours.
This key will always be yours.
Because this key, this small, old, rusty key,
is the key to my heart.

Never have I been the best at hiding how I feel.  There is no peaceful game.  My face reveals the truth.  Never to be doubted.  Nothing left to wonder.  Still, I reign it in.  I stifle my reality in an attempt to keep you close.  So tender-hearted beneath that thickening shell.  The shell I penetrated somehow.  Once you found me in your heart, you pushed with all your might.  Trying to get me out.  I cannot be budged. Yet, I am not free to love you.  You refuse to let me be yours in theory or practice.  You love me, but not by choice.  Fear of the possibility of pain keeps you at bay.  Yet saving yourself from pain has deemed my own inconsequential.  For running from me pulls out my heart.  

Pushing me away
What's best, or just what's easy
Burns holes in my soul

Not one to take the easy way out.  Suffering to love you.  There is no expectation of love requited.  There is nothing but a dream, part memory part wishful thinking.  Hot needles still poke at me, slowly breaking me down.  Weakening my very being with the sharp jabs of stinging words or careless action, or worse...absolute inaction.  I have learned to stop expecting the "Morning Sunshine" or "'Night Darlin'" that used to brighten each day.  Those thoughtless things, the tiny nothing things that let me know I was on your mind.  So far from nothing those nothings were.  Days and nights seem incomplete in their absence.  Weaning to make your days bearable makes mine unendurable, empty, and melancholy has come to underlie all things.  

Joy of love melts ice
Heat smothered by a tear cloud
Threadbare soul survives

Challenges faced sideways leave blind spots. Choices made by indecision.  Letting mistakes be made, watching as they choose wrong. I see the truth and know what I know.  Everything is aligned for my own misfortune.  For as a bystander, I lay no claims.  Anything I do will hasten the inevitable.  So I let the weaning drip down to nothing.  Reluctantly I watch as you disappear with my heart in hand.  I stood firm as you ran away in place.  You turned to me, you needed me, you loved me.  As the clouds dissipate and the sun creeps over the horizon, With the blue sky I turn to mist. Slowly fading to the past.  A ghost of could've been, used to be, and never was

**Surrender takes time
                        Reluctantly relinquished
                                               I will fight no more

Hide and go Seek Yourself Out


Destiny's a fickle date; you can dance and dance and dance all night,
tip toe tap tap tap your feet and waltz jagged lines until your soles bleed,
dance one direction then off in another trailing ****** footprints,
evidence of where you've been - a hint at where you'll go,
it's never so simple though, is it?

Maybe your date never wanted to go to the ball,
maybe you took her out on a picnic,
rolling green hills and a sunset,
"oh oh oh no" though, "no no no" she says,
Destiny, Destiny - she throws you for a loop,
Hooks, jabs, cancer, unemployment, all thrown the same way by she that crazy ***** Destiny,
but that's OK you roll with the proverbial punches,
duck, bob and weave your way through life to make it to your end goal of bedding Destiny!

or did you?

You could do it all right and still not get her, not meet expectations,
a long night with lustful, kissless lips longing for Destiny.

Nothing is certain.

Nothing is certain but that the night will end,
and when it does where will you be?
Will it be where you wanted to be?
Does it matter?

Of course not; because wherever you will be you will be with your Destiny.

I was terrified of water more than I feared death,
From the youngest age,
Looking back I guess this makes since,
I was the first to climb a tall ladder,
I was the first to climb over fences,
Talk to strangers,
I had no fear of death,
It had no bound on me,
Still I was afraid of water,
One day I woke up in my little green bed,
And decided I wanted to swim,
Before my fear would make me watch as the other children did,
So what's a toddler that can barely walk to do?
Give up? no no!
I had my mind set on it,
So I stumbled right down to the end of the dock,
One little leg lifted,
Followed by another,
I was in the water,
I almost drown that day,
But death did not prevail then,
I was not allowed on the deep end for years and years after other kids,
I grew up watching,
Dreaming,
Hoping,
That one day I would swim,
My father was too busy to teach me,
My mother was too sick to swim herself,
Relatives were far away,
So I grew up in kiddie pools,
It was boring,
So very boring,
Still years later,
Even the sight of a kiddie pool bores me,
I did not give up,
Although it was drilled into my head that the deep end is dangerous,
And so is swimming alone,
And so is not wearing a life vest,
And so is walking alone by water,
And that drowning was bad,
Very very bad,
It was drilled into my head that it should be my biggest fear,
And so it did,
But still,
Me being me I did not give up,
I would grab onto the edge of the sides of my little kiddie pool,
And paddle paddle my little feet,
I could stay afloat for a few seconds,
It took me years,
Years,
To learn how to swim,
No one taught me how,
I just tried and tried,
It still took me years to not be afraid of drowning,
That still haunts me,
But I'm still not afraid of tall ladders,
Or climbing over fences,
Or talking to strangers,
I love to swim,
I loved to swim even before I could swim,
I realized something recently,
The criticism from my family,
The jabs from my friends,
All about how I couldn't swim,
Made me want to swim even more,
And I did!
They never admitted that they were wrong,
My grandma thought I was slow I'm sure,
Now I've proved her wrong and all the others,
Yet still,
They expect me to fail,
I'll just keep remembering,
How they meant to tear me down,
But instead build me up,
That is the story of how I learned to swim.

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?

I sit on a droopy windowsill and gaze out
at the stars above me in the stately sky of coal.
I let the smoke fill me, pollute my corrupted lungs,
‘til it plugs me, completely consumes my sticky soul,
and midnight sorrow blanket hugs the heart in my hole.

I sit and I consider the sky
with its million-and-one jewels
that adorn the vast carpet of night
and its one, lone cloud that slowly drools
fat, drippy drops of deep fed'ral blues.

The ashy, burnt taste is still in my throat;
it lingers- a dull, cloying candy cane.
The muted flavour chokes and jabs and pecks
persistently, in the back of my brain
and leaves a steel blue/gray trailing stain.

Vague memories of fourth-grade English lessons
take me with a deep sigh to forgotten thoughts
of Roger McGough and unrequited love-
dazed recollections of school poetry taught
in obscure slate-blue classrooms, littered with blots.

It seems feeling unreturned affection
isn't quite as great as I’d thought after all.
I must've been wrong, all those hazed years ago,
when I yearned to feel unrequited love’s fall,
convinced it would be a wondrous, dazzling ball

Instead, I'm just ******* in the pale-ing sky
that seems to be growing into lighter hues-
the navy’s turned to electric, to powder,
matching the sapphire in my soul of glue.
I'm suppose I'm feeling somewhat, slightly blue.

.

Isn't it ironic, lovely ones,
How so many pretty faces
Can hide a demon's soul?

How the same eyes which bat their lashes
In flirty beckoning,
Offer a window into wickedness,
An entrance to an evil place,
That harbors evil things....

How the same lips which speak such pretty words,
And lovely falsities,
In pleasant company
Drip poison behind the safety of closed doors,
Without the courage to speak so
In the outer realm...

How the same mind which seems so wise
Can foster such horrid operations,
An assembly line of treachery
Which twists and warps that
Which really is
Into what is isn't,
For its own selfish, devilish purposes...

Isn't it odd how the world's
Cruel jokes
Have remained so timeless,
Doomed, like history,
To be repeated,
Over and over again?

"Do not judge a book by its cover," they say.

And isn't it funny how this phrase
Aims to promise some unknown good
Behind that cover,
But never entertains the possibility
Of evil behind it,
Instead?

Yet it still holds true.

It is far more dangerous
To trust a pretty face not supported
By pretty words and actions,
To have faith in a glittery exterior
Without pondering the worms
Which breed underneath,
Than it is to doubt
A far less attractive cover,
Beaten, threadbare, its title worn off
By the winds of the world,
May guard a mine of diamonds within.

How foolish of us all
To take at face value
That which we see, hear, and touch.

How irresponsible
To abandon the idea and support of proof,
And let our judgment laze around,
About as useful as if it we hadn't had it at all.

I find it hard to pity those moths
Which do not examine the light
Before letting themselves fly into it.
When the static crackles,
And the glimmer flickers,
And the wings are burnt and injured,
It is too late for a second thought, then.

And as a bystander,
I cannot reach out and pull them from it.
I can call out my warnings,
My cautionary tales,
And even my proof that the light,
In all its beauty,
Harbors a special kind of evil
That they clearly cannot see,
But I must let them learn.

As much as it hurts.


I truly believe that what we put out
Into the world
Will come back to us.
Perhaps not today,
Or tomorrow,
Or anywhere
In the forseeable future ahead.
But it will return.

And though my human nature
Demands I bring order to the wicked,
Expose their evils for the world
To shudder at,
And cower away from,
It is not my job.

These forces which surround us
Bear that burden.

I, a small and staggering presence
Among billions,
Can only perform what I know it right,
And good,
And kind,
And hope that my fellow man,
Instead of drooling at the sight
Of fool's gold,
Will find a true beauty in this instead,
And choose to abandon all that deceives.


On a day which has no date,
No time,
No existence until it is ready,
Justice will come to the evil ones,
And those foolish enough to follow them.

How gloriously the wicked will fall,
Their cries ringing in ears
Which heard their sneers and cruel remarks,
Underhanded jabs and petty,
Childish words,
So many times.

Ears which will hear the music
Of that which was sown,
Being reaped
In the rays of a glorious sun.

Those untrained minds,
Which sought the disappointments
Of easy friendships
And sparkling facades,
Will fall, as well,
Regretting their decision to
Believe in the unreal,
And abandon their sense.

And I, at the end of it all,
May stand with fewer than I started with.

But, with those solid few,
Apart from the unstable masses,
I will still stand stronger
And better than I was,
And with minds like mine,
Rooted in goodness, kindness,
And grateful for the difficult journey
Which brought forth the lesson that
Examining a person's cover
Is well worth discovering what lies beneath.

Beware.

It was a moment so chilling when I realized I had feelings for you again.
Yes, again.
This rotation of endless "agains" has kept me up day and night in anger,
love, lust,  but most of all, confusion.
This relation we have is driven by ****** jabs and hurtful comments
designed to inflict the most pain on each other.
This "again" that I feel will fade into nothing more than another hatred for you.
But just like every other time, soon we will both start gazing at each other from across the room
and quickly looking away as though the other hadn't seen our eyes on their face;
We will begin once again lose the offensive spews
and our small conversations will evolve into tense talks with blushed cheeks and hot ears;
Yet somehow, I cannot get enough of this cycle of "agains".
It is addictive like your personality.
It is an obsession like your ability to make me crazy.
I am crazy for you,
but at the same time I fear that this ***** craze with wear off
and we will be left with nothing but silence.
Could this be true admiration for one another? Is this chemical?
Or is this passionate relationship powered on by our teenage hormones and sexually-frustrated bodies?
Just tell me what you want.
If you are happy, I will be content.
I guess, if you look at our situation from afar,
you could say we're in love. I’d disagree.
This is nothing but an infatuation between two people both sharing one common thing:
somebody who they can imitate passionate love with again and again.
I crave your physical touch and your boyish humor.
I need your attention most of all.
You need it too; you need me more than I need you.
How you wish to brush your lips against mine and feel my body and hold my hand and be mine. Nonetheless I wish for that too. Badly.
Nightly I torture myself over what to think, what to want.
But every time this happens, I push you away.
And the cycle of "agains" return, only to ruin us inside even more.

Ten years ago if you would've stopped me
on the street and said that I'd be stuck
at a dead end job, divorcing my husband of fifteen years,
and dividing three kids between two houses and twenty miles,
I would've spat in your face with laughter.

We never intend to have our life's plans crumble
before us, watching our spouses change into different
people and our children pick themselves apart
because all the words their parents say are fights
disguised in jabs and cracks at each other:
the time
they don't have,
the money
they don't have, the love
they
don't
have.

And in ten years, two people can fall apart the way
a river branches into separate streams, continuously flowing away
from their source, navigating bends and crossing the silted mud of life together
until they split up.

And everything we take for granted,
those necessities of life, are broken
down into their basic elements. Water is merely
hydrogen and oxygen. A marriage is but
two people
who can be divided,
simplified, classified, jarred up, studied,
separated.

Two streams diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not see this coming.

It just happens that way.
Life just happens
that way.

When it gets dark
And the storm is too strong
The winds won't stop blowing
And the water gets too deep

You can tread water
But only for so long
Before your legs give out
And your head sinks beneath the waves

Your only hope
Is that someone will come along
And throw out a lifesaver
To pull you from the waters

And they say:
"You can't be friends with someone
whom you love
who doesn't love you."

And it hurts
Because the waves are strong
And the lifesaver is tight around your lungs
And the rim of the boat jabs into your stomach

But you do it anyway
You get in
You save yourself
You live

I let go, Jack
And left you behind
But it's not selfish
Because you let go first.

A pretty new dress
My pretty blue dress
I laugh, she smiles
I tease, she plays

“Let’s wrestle” she says
And jumps onto me
I scream, I struggle
Relentless, she seems

Wrists pinned above my head
My waste suppressed to the ground
I wriggle out, I push her off
She throws me down

No, no please no
As I climb away
I strive for distance
I battle for safety

My best friend reaches for a pencil
As she collapses over me, and jabs it inside
Her hand grabs for my dress, my pretty blue dress
And yanks it, burning my skin with its new thread

Crying out, I hit her
She laughs, she smiles
I scream for help, calling to her father
With no response

Breaking free, I lunge for the door
Only to trip, falling to the floor
Straddled, she laughs
She’s winning this match

My buttons tear, uncovering my *******
My camera in her hand
“Let’s show your boyfriend”
She toys

Suffocating under her obesity
I haven’t the air to scream
Tears leak from my eyes
Lips quiver in shame

Bored, she bounces, she thrusts
Nearly cracking my hips
My ribs crunch, my guts ache
And I gasp for air

My best friend grabs a marker
She writes on my face
As she bounces
She writes on my face

Asthma consumes me
As I struggle for consciousness
My mind fuzzes, and vision darkens
I think to myself, “This is how I end”

I never wore my blue dress again
I never told of what she did
I never spoke to her again
I never
I never
I never
My best friend.

One phonecall? Alert the public
Who would you call in a stance of conundrum in case the sky's falling down?
Desperate measures in desperate times
I carry an emergency kit with extra ink for my rhymes
And a band aid for my lips to cover up the disease they diagnosed me with;
Of Spitting up filthy ****
Labeling ill kids,
With conditions made up like myths
Deluded? Please.
Excuses are sad pleas to ensure the public's attention skips the obvious.
So I'd rather lock myself away,
And use my notebook to convey my love;
For the person I'd dedicate one last phone call to.
Lock myself away like Anne frank in the attic and write so much fire it produces sparks
the static is electric; the rush through my veins has me lost,
In the cosmic abyss of my thoughts
While I'm lit... I concoct schemes to conquer mics
If you dissect my insides with jabs, I'll retaliate with clever forensics;
Cut myself open for the world to see,
That all I'd bleed is metaphors in overdose...
Infinite similes are the catalyst to my rhythmic metamorphosis

Preamble at the showdown the fighters eye to eye
Droning pulse of discourse from the referee is dry,
Bouncing back to my corner the butterflies take charge
For the other guy’s a monster, like a Doberman at large.

Bell resounds alarmingly, I shuffle forth to meet
A combination thrown with steel…it whacks me off my feet.
Seeing stars I resurrect to lurch about the ring
To try to keep some distance from the monster’s punching sting.

Roaring crowd are baying now they call to take me out
The Doberman is grinning for he reckons it’s a route,
The flashing light confusing, the noise a steady din
As the monster comes in quickly to achieve expected win.

Throwing jabs to keep him back, retreating to the rope
I cover up with everything to give myself some hope
He pounds with his salvos they hammer hard and fast
His breathing rasping in my ears I pray to God I last.

Saved by the bell and cold water, such disgrace
The crowd are loudly booing, I’ve not put leather on his face,
A wash of resolution hotly surges from within
So I **** the mouth guard back and rush on out to tackle him.

Defensive expectations had him open up his chin
So I feinted with a left and launched a mighty right with spin,
Boring in with fury and a combination score
I hit him with an uppercut which traversed from the floor.

Miraculously the eyeballs rolled and disappeared from sight
I threw another flurry…but had no one to fight
Flat out on the deck he lay, the Doberman was out
As I bounced around like Rocky to the punters frenzied shout.

Camera flashes blinded as the raving crowd went wild.
It defied all expectations, I was the sacrificial child.
Bets were laid that I would fall within a round or two
The screaming din reflected that all bets were in the poo.

The countdown took forever and I swear I watched each stroke
And kept one eye on the fallen, should he rise he’d go for broke,
My amazement with two wobbly knees and heaving lungs of fire
When my leaden glove was held aloft to victory entire.

Winners come and winners go but this I’ll not forget
When fortune favoured sweetly…and I collected on the bet!


Marshalg
My thanks to Shane Cameron…a real fighter.
14 April 2013 (Pukehana Paradise)

© 2013 Marshal Gebbie

His rasping grumbles define hunger, louder than my stomach
      complains about the seven hours since breakfast,
Grunts replace the pry of a commanding tongue, eager to devour, or a feathery graze past the
      hook in my collarbone, a tender nip at the crescent of flesh that
      peeks below my white plastic earring.
Gutturals guide our transition from a stained mattress to a rickety desk where
Frenetic eyes validate the arch of my back.
Wild thrusts push us perpendicular.

Undoubtedly, my howls alert the neighbors.
If not, then the neglected crashes of my plummeting clutter or the unfaltering thud of my head
        pounding the half closed window can attest:
We mean business.

The tired floor creaks ‘nd cranks as erratic lunges hasten.
(grasping his shoulders tighter than a lone, wrinkled hand grips the pepper spray in her bag)
I brace that swelling itch, my hips shudder as it consumes, throbs, and then
Electrifies to axons from dendrites.
And he doesn’t miss a beat— more jabs **** my liver.

Winter seems to pull us together, doesn't it, love? Its as if the times things seem to want to pull us apart we get stronger.

Last winter, I gave you my heart, and you haven't left since. This year it seems my cautionary head, always so untrusting of itself and others, has decided of one certain thing: it wants to spend forever with you.

Its funny to me, how I never go all googlie-eyed as my high school friends always told me it would be. They would ooh and ah over some boy, and I'd always roll my eyes. I always thought such cooing was silly. Their bitter response was often that I didn't understand, and once I really loved someone I'd feel the same.

But now here I sit, more certain than anything that I love you more than anyone else. And you know what I'm doing? I'm not cooing, I'm not boasting of your infinite wonder. I'm not getting at all googlied-eyed.

I'm sitting here shaking my head, laughing to myself, as if to say "****."

****, I did not know it would be like this. That you would be like this. That there could be rhythm and method to an unpredictable, spontaneous, messy relationship. That I would feel more connected and in sync with you than I feel adoration or reverence. You're not some hunky guy in third period, you're basically just the best tumor I've ever gotten attached to my hip. A tumor that I'm better off keeping.You make me better. And I, you.

They were right, I don't understand. But not because I don't how to love, its because that's not how I love. I love in nose kisses and **** grabs, in steamy texts and playful jabs at your brilliance. And yes, by god, you are brilliant. But I don't worship you. I just wish to be able to fall asleep to your face and stand by your side.

And those googlie-eyes are in no way how you love either. You don't rub my feet and call me princess. You kiss me hard and tickle my neck, read my writing and break me down when I'm irrational. But you do love me, still. You love me in the way that you try to understand and not be so stubborn. You love me in the way that you sing to me when I'm moody. And my favorite way you love me is the hand across the table when I'm fighting the tears I never want to let fall down my face.

Love isn't just about adoration and attraction and compatibility. Yes, we are attracted to each other, admire each other, and are compatible enough. But I guess our best asset is how stubborn we are to keep on loving each other that gets us through. And I think that's my favorite way we love each other entirely.

Maybe love works different for other people, and I'm fine with that. But these winters just seem to show me that we're different. We both know we've always been different. You're the lonely genius and I'm the unstable creative. But I help make you less lonely, and you help make me more stable.

And now I find it hard to picture a day without you.


So winter distance may keep us apart, but I think I've learned by now its going to take a lot more than a little distance to tear us apart. Or maybe its just the stubborn in me saying so.

Regardless, I hope the stubborn in you thinks so too.

Stuck in a time long since passed. Heart emptied hopeless. Faces blur along with the days. Nights linger incessantly, haunting all that ever was.  Dreams tease happy.  Sun kills dreams. Time makes scars. Distance allows the fallacy to continue.  The lies turn daily mantra.  The mantra into perceived reality. Reality into dreams, the dreams into nightmares.  Sun cannot **** nightmares.

Hollow glass hearts bleed
Puddle will evaporate
To exist no more

Joy-filled memories leach all hope for future joy.  Heart crushed to powder. Powdered hearts cannot bleed.  Dead hearts cannot feel. Memories, overflow with the shadow of love's embrace. Pain jabs the senses like lightning.  Still, the heart has ceased to exist.  Calluses fill the space that scars cannot.  False emotion permeates the truth.  Future acquaintances see beauty behind dead eyes.  As they close in, icy breath freezes long enough to drain their heart to beat some life into the one lost. Walking away with minimal pulse as their heart is hollowed and bleeding.  Soon too, that puddle with cease to exist.  

**Life's casualties
Joy begets pain begets joy
Hope dies most quickly